Everything Free Eating

Grocery Shopping 2011

2011-01-07T16:28:00.003-05:00

Thanks to Michaela Dunn Leaper for Facebooking this! Thanks to Darya Pino for saying so succinctly what we've all been saying for years!

2010-12-13T15:16:00.001-05:00

Pat-a-Cake

2010-04-30T09:37:00.003-04:00

One of the joys of parenthood is being able to compare the cute things that they say and do. And with three of them, I live in a target rich environment. I try to keep track of these little stories. If not for my own amusement, I figure they'll provide pocket money for me in the future. There's money to be made in extortion, after all...

Recently, I had Bug and Princess in the car with me while Dog was at Drama practice. We'd had several days of torrential rain and we had to pick up Tool Guy from work, since the rain was preventing him from riding The Bike. Getting into the car, there was a slight squabble over who was going to sit on which side. Sigh. Some days I miss my Soccer Mom Van. Fortunately, this was quickly soothed over as we began to be on the lookout for the spontaneous freshets and rivulets appearing down the hillsides. At one curve, Bug burst out into an impressed roar--we're working on volume modulation with this one--at the gusher that was cascading out of a hillside culvert. Princess was quite crestfallen that she wasn't sitting at such an angle as to be able to see this impressive wonder of nature. Bug sanctimoniously informed her that this was precisely the reason why he'd wanted to sit on this particular side of the car. After an extended period of silence, she primly replied, "That can't be true, Bug...you had no way of knowing that we were going to see that!" She'll be a match for any telemarketer, that's for sure.

The Hostess caught up with me in Nitty Gritty Cooking Class the other day to compare notes on tortillas. Her family thinks the bean flour tortillas rock, too. She started chuckling when she told me that she had to share One of Those stories with me...a tortilla story.

The plan for the evening meal was tortillas. The family had returned home from a strenuous hike and Mrs. Hostess felt the need to lie down before beginning to get dinner ready. The tortilla dough was prepped up and ready to be made up. Her youngest son, a six year old who looks like Johnny Whitaker but for the curls and has all of the energy of Tom Sawyer, volunteered to help roll the tortilla dough into balls while Mrs. Hostess rested for a half an hour. Seemed like a reasonable request, so she agreed and went to lie down. From time to time, Johnny would come in and regale her with his efforts, which included a rather credible penguin. He nodded when she reminded him that these would be flattened shortly and went back to his endeavors.

She tells how the family gathered around the table after she'd made up the tortillas and began to dig in with relish, tortillas being a popular menu item. Biting in, however, the consensus was that these tortillas were somehow just not quite as yummy as past tortillas. Rather tough, in fact. Trying to pin down the variable, the new tortilla press was the first suspect. Was there some indefinable contribution that hand rolling them possessed that a press did not? She was beginning to regret the investment.

Then her father piped up with a previously unsuspected and uncontrolled--the word having multiple meanings here--variable. It seems that Johnny had been quite enthusiastic in his dinner preparation efforts. The separating the dough into balls hadn't quite scratched his artistic efforts sufficiently and neither had penguins. While everyone else was otherwise engaged, Grandpa lounged on the couch, observing these machinations...apparently with no little amusement and absolutely no intervention. Johnny, it seems, waxed quite creative and discovered that dough not only made penguins, but entire arm-casts as well. The additional squick factor being that he had a still healing war wound from an argument lost with a bicycle a few days prior. The older siblings were horrified, while Mrs. Hostess and another sibling dissolved into tears of helpless laughter. Which horrified the older siblings further, since Johnny would undoubtedly interpret this as endorsement and reach for new heights of food malfeasance.

Mr. Hostess asked Johnny if he had, at any time, dropped the dough. He gravely confirmed the additional transgression, but qualified it with the assurance that an older sister had recently swept the floors, making this okay. Heh.

Those of us standing in the kitchen while Mrs. Hostess spun out this tale were equally entertained by this story. Johnny, meandering through to gym class, found himself ambushed by entering in on the tale end of the telling. Mrs. Hostess turned to him and asked if he wanted to add his own details. With an expression somewhere between annoyance and disgust, he retreated down the hall, pursued by peals of maternal merriment as we moms in the kitchen collapsed into gales of helpless giggles. Really, you can dress us up...

I decided to harness this enthusiasm for playing with clay that I find in my own offspring. Modeling clay will often assuage this primal drive, since they don't care for the texture of homemade gf play dough and I don't care for the price of hypo-allergenic commercial ones. Recently, we were discussing as a family what foods we missed most in this Everything Free journey. With all the options still open to us, I'm 99.9% content. The only thing that I miss is pretzels. The commercial replacements are tolerable, but replete with soy and/or corn. So I decided to try my hand...and Hobbit hands...at sourdough pretzels.

Sourdough Pretzels

The first few attempts at this revealed that this is going to be a work in progress. Lots of variables in this one: rise time, boiling time, baking time, and, not the least, thickness which is extremely variable, particularly when drafting "help."

2 cups sourdough starter
1 1/2 cups potato starch flour
1 tsp. guar gum
2 T olive oil
1 tsp. salt
1/4 cup flax meal (opt.)
Granular or kosher salt for sprinkling

Using a dough hook, mix/knead all of the ingredients until a solid dough. It will be rather tacky, so olive oil on the hands while rolling these into shapes is helpful. Pull off a hunk and gently roll out into dough "pencils." Thicker shapes will be chewier and thinner will be crispier. On lightly greased baking sheets, allow the pretzels to rise for a few hours. They will begin to dry out and stiffen, which will allow for easier handling during the next steps.

In a large pot or dutch oven, bring a couple of quarts of water to boil. Using an egg turner, gently remove the pretzels from the sheets and drop into boiling water, a few at a time. Allow to boil for 30-60 seconds and fish out with a strainer. Return to greased baking sheets and sprinkle with salt, if desired.

Bake for 30-45 minutes at 350*, depending on desired texture.

I'm learning, as I delegate more to the Hobbits, that I have to surrender some standards and expectations--at least momentarily!--to allow them to develop their own skills and senses of accomplishment. Even if it means tortilla arm-casts...

Salad Days

2010-04-16T07:51:00.000-04:00

All signs of blizzard long past, my plant friends are returning to visit again. Princess and I have meandered hand-in-hand around the yard and the neighborhood, looking for them. I don't think I've ever been so grateful for a springtime.

After two consecutive years of gardening disaster, I and my pantry are quite ready for a bumper year, thankyouverymuch. I continue to refine my favorites for planting. Still playing with Siberian strains of tomatoes to see if their yields and growing season will give me a leg up on the varieties from Southern hemispheres. Which doesn't mean I'm not hedging my bets. There's room for the handy-dandy hybrids that are tried and true. And delicious. There are plenty of arugula and deer tongue lettuce representing this year. I never got around to saving seeds when everything bolted last fall. Then I never got around to tilling, something that I'm trying to break myself of anyway. I'm enjoying the blessings of my neglect. Also I've decided to yield place to anything that volunteers. Even volunteer dandelion.

With spring in the air, herbal studies have taken on a new earnestness. During the wintertime, we were using the fruits of the summer and applying what we've learned, but with the expression of new yields, we have an opportunity to try new things and grow new things that we regretted not having explored the previous year. The first herbal studies group focused on dandelions and the first wild greens of spring. The group leader tasked everyone with bringing a dandelion dish to the class. She asked me what I had planned on bringing. "Um...kimbop?" It's my favorite pot luck dish and never fails to please. I never have left-overs. I meditated for a minute or two, then recollected that my kimbop tutor had always included spinach in her particular recipe. Hmmm...spinach...dandelion. Yep. That'll sub. I'll bet I'm the first person ever to make dandelion kimbop. Close your eyes, SMK.

We talked about dandelion and the terrific stuff it does for the liver, the lymphatic system, and as a diuretic. This is a fortunate serendipity, since Tool Guy has had some unhappy swelling in one of his feet that hasn't explained itself to his doctor, despite extensive testing. Can't think of many gardeners who celebrate having dandelion popping up in their greenhouses, but I'm one of them. It seems that chickweed, my latest favorite herb for lung support, also sparkles as a diuretic.

Ditto on sweet violets.

Sheep sorrel is another mild diuretic.
And guess what all grows in my yard? I never cease to be amazed at the reckless and extravagant abundance that is to be found just outside my door. See how much I have to be thankful for?

I have another ubiquitous friend invading my faltering asparagus bed which I've identified as garlic mustard. It's considered an invasive and noxious weed, which I've come to interpret as meaning, "We don't have a clue how to use it and the deer won't eat it." But in fresh salad, it has a terrific mild garlicky taste--without the garlic drawbacks. I've found references to the root being a horseradish substitute, something that bears future exploration...

Fresh is almost always best, so we're plunging into the salad days of spring. In order to make these oddities more acceptable to Philistinian palates, a salad dressing is required. Something light, yet compatible with the somewhat bitter and sharp flavors of the unusual greens. A while back, a foodie friend had made an off-hand comment about using orange juice in salad dressing and this sounded like just the salad to try it on.

Orange and Olive Oil Dressing

1/2 cup orange juice, best freshly juiced
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 tsp. Real Salt
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. maple syrup
1/2 tsp. dried dill
3 grinds of whole peppercorn

Run all ingredients through a thorough blend in food processor or blender. Best served at room temperature. Not only does this make a wonderful salad dressing, but also serves as a terrific sauce over fish.

Intrepidly, I took to the yard with basket and scissors in hand. I'm sure I cut quite the figure. I've come to imagine that my neighbors have either given up trying to figure out what I'm doing or avail themselves of a front row and provide themselves with a tasty snack to sustain them during the morning's entertainment. When Tool Guy came home, I pointed out the separate containers of washed and chilled greens for his delight and delectation. He was duly impressed. He turned to my mother and said, "Most families throw their lawn clippings on the compost pile. We eat them." See what I mean? Philistine. But he's going to eat his words. Every. Single. One. With salad dressing.

Tell Me A Story...

2010-04-02T12:00:00.006-04:00

Nothing like the first fragrances of spring to inspire the creative juices. The fresh breezes and warm sunshine have everyone clamoring for water gun fights. Kill joy that I am, I'm making them wait until the breezes are a little less, um, fresh for that to happen. I am Mother, hear me kill...joy.

Along with spring breezes comes spring cleaning. Yeah. More kill joy stuff. That water fight is starting to sound better all of the time. But when one lives with Hobbits in a Hobbit-sized hole, one must be stringent in the discipline of one's use of space. And so begins the biennial task of cleaning, dejunking, and reorganizing and reuse of space. Not to be confused with the daily task of cleaning, dejunking, and reogranizing and reuse of space. I'm considering hiring St. George for this task. You know the guy. The dragon-slayer? All I'm saying is that I hold myself indemnified regarding what's in my basement...

This spring, in the midst of the 27 Fling Boogie, Dog unearthed a blank bound book. His eyes gleamed. I know that feeling. The call of the blank pages. The crisp edges of a professionally bound book. Oh, the possibilities...

He petitioned for custody and was awarded sole care of the treasure. I haven't been able to pry him out of its pages ever since. Much to the annoyance of Tool Guy, who is dragging Dog through the final laps of the final book in that dreaded, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad curriculum that they chose. Can't say I blame him. I'd take a blank book over that any day and twice on Sunday.

He's doing a surprisingly good job at dialog and plot flow. The chapters are a bit brief, but the story is rather credible. For science fiction. Every day or so, we get to hear the newest twist of the harrowing tales of the anti-hero who still hasn't figured out what he needs to do in order to stop the spiral of catastrophe as it spins recklessly out of control. I'm a little piqued, however, since he scorned my title suggestion: The Perils of Pauline. Philistine.

Bug was similarly inspired and has launched into his own adventure series. He almost got bogged down in spelling and mechanical technicalities, but I encouraged him to ignore such trivia and let his imagination run wild. And run wild it has. It was endearing to hear him describing his story and apologize for the brevity of his chapters, but amended his statement by assuring the listener that they would get longer, since he had some ideas for reworking them.

Good job we subscribed to unlimited long-distance because the grandparents aren't to be neglected in the sharing of these flights of fancy in a style entirely new. In daily installment. None of this Dickensonian wait for the next week's issue to hit the press! We live in the communication age, right? Grandmere et Grandpere are, of course, duly appreciative and encouraging. (I think Bill Cosby had it right, though; these are old people who are getting ready to die. They're polishing their halos.) I probably need to slip them some chocolate.

For my own part, I'm turning my creative bents toward playing with buckwheat some more. I decided to try a dish that I first sampled in my herbal apprenticeship. It's a simple kasha recipe. When I asked for the recipe, the chef replied that it was the one that came on the box. Weeeeell, I'm the one who buys such things in twenty-five pound bags. Quelle dommage. I decided to play with it and figured that anything worth cooking was worth sprouting before cooking. So I did.

Sprouting is very simple. Soak groats for about an hour or so. Empty groats into colander and rinse thoroughly, allowing to drain. I usually leave the groats in the colander until sprouted, rinsing four to five times a day. As I said, they tend to be very viscous, so they need to be completely rinsed every time. They'll be ready in 2-3 days. The amount of sprouts this recipe calls for is about 1 1/3 cups raw groats.

Buckwheat Kasha

2 cups sprouted buckwheat groats
2-2 1/2 cups water or broth
1/2 tsp. salt (or less if using salted broth)
1/2 cup diced shitake mushrooms
1 T olive oil

In cast iron skillet, dry roast groats until brown. In heavy sauce pan, bring broth or water/salt to a boil and add oil and groats. Simmer on low for 10 minutes or until water is absorbed. Cover and allow to steam for another 10 minutes or so.

As a newly-minted seven year-old, Princess is not to be left behind in all of this composition. She's dragged out a few notebooks and began copying a book. Then she began working on an original piece herself. It's rather amusing--though I'm not sure she means it to be so--and largely involves a boy and girl on adventures in which the dialogue is characterized not by "he said/she said," but the two of them "shouting" to each other. I imagine this is to lend excitement and suspense to the tale. Amazing what dramatic tension one can conjure from detecting the owner of a wayward kite. Oh, to be seven again...

Her best works, though, are the stories she tells me when I'm brushing out her very, very long hair. It's never been cut and is almost down to her knees now. That's right; I'm raising Crystal Gayle. So everyday, we brush out her old braid and plait a new one. There's always a surly collection of knots in one particular spot. Tender-headed, she has dubbed this snarl "Mr. Big Knot." As I brush her hair, she tells me about the exploits and derring-do of Mr. and Mrs. Big Knot. As I work my way down to the lower reaches of her hair that aren't so stubborn, we only encounter the less aggressive knots that are easier to defeat. She has deemed these Mr. Big Knot's "minions." Minions. I ask you.

Drowning in juvenilia. It's time for Tool Guy and Bug to build us some more book cases...

Here Comes the Sun

2010-03-19T19:50:00.007-04:00

No groundhog on the menu this week. He's been given a reprieve. The sun came out. We were supposed to have a dissection class, but one of the participant's family had a bout with some bug and wouldn't be able to make it. With all of the golden glow lighting up the landscape, the remaining participants made sympathetic noises, told the stricken how sorry we were for their illness, and, of course, we would not even imagine proceeding with the next portion of our studies until everyone was fit for duty. It was a huge sacrifice. But that's what you do for friends, right?

The snow is gone and our propane delivery person managed to slog his way through the soggy tundra to fill our tanks. It does the heart good to see such dedicated personnel, doesn't it? And who says that good help is hard to find these days? It was amazing to see how quickly the extensive footage of snow disappeared, leaving the layer of detritus that its weight brought down. The sides of the road are invisible under the fractured boughs along the berm. It's been so warm, in fact, that the friend of mine, whose sons make maple syrup, has been praying for colder nights. It seems the recipe for good sap flow is warm, sunny days and nippy nights. The weather does seem unseasonably mild, particularly after the ferocious snow storm.

While it is unusual for it to be this warm at this time of year, I couldn't resist the call to go out and play in the mud. St. Paddy's Day has become my traditional Starts Day, so I schlepped down to the cellar and pulled out my trays and markers, beginning my gardening journal for the year. I soaked my seeds, wadded up in saturated paper towel bundles, softening them up for the planting. Some wise gardening soul shared that her favorite trick to optimize her efforts is to do this and actually sprout the seeds. This way she only plants what seeds have demonstrated viability, so as not to waste time or space on a seed that won't be doing anything. Sounds like a plan.

This took an amazingly short period of time make pots, fill trays, and whip through all of my starts. The Hobbits dipped their fingers into the project and helped, so we were done in short order. And still there was more sun. And 70*... No way was I staying inside.

This is the year that I'm going to begin my herb garden, which shall be an entirely separate entity from my vegetable garden. I realized last year that if I start "tucking in" this herb and that herb, I would pretty soon have no room left for vegetables. Herb gardening, it seems, is much like any other gardening. You start out thinking that you are doing the garden, but after a short span of time, the garden is doing you. Herbs are no exception. So I figured that I needed to make space for the horseradish, the comfrey, the sage, the rugosa, the echinachea, the gumweed, the lomatium, the goldenseal, the, the, the...okay, all the other stuff that I feel that I just have to have in order to find fulfillment in the universe. Bottom line: no room with the tomatoes. Yeah, and I only have 36 of those started. For a 20 x 10 greenhouse. I know, I know...good luck with that plan.

After I paced it off, laid down marker rocks, and spread the bag of lime over the fallow ground, the sun was still shining. No way was I going to go indoors. Facebook and all of my lists would just have to wait. Besides, I need my Vitamin D. The compost pile called to me. It has been sitting there for at least two years, since I've been in a snit over my garden failure of year before last. Not to be confused with last year's garden failure. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment. Third time pays for all.

So I rounded up one trashcan, two big buckets, and three Hobbits to haul wagon loads of this mature, black compost up a hill and begin layering it over the newly lain lime. I grabbed my shovel and stabbed into the loamy pile. And felt the reverberations up my arms and into my spine. And muttered imprecations at the rock that had found its way into my compost pile. This is not a totally unanticipated occurrence. I have to dig rocks out of the yard every spring that sprout up as liberally as the plantain. I moved over a foot or two and stabbed again. Another imprecation. Another rock. By the third stab, I was beginning to sense a pattern here and scraped off a thin layer of compost to discover that the pile was frozen. I did some mental math and realized that I'd never assayed the outside portion of gardening this early in the year. Mature compost piles freeze. Who knew? Hey, I'm from Louisiana, remember?

Undaunted, I turned to Dog and sent him after the pick axe. Yeah. You heard that right. Pick axe. Hey, the sun was still shining and time's a-wastin'. He came back in short order and we all resumed work. I taught them the lyrics to "You Load Sixteen Tons" while I hewed away at the compost pile, filled the buckets which they used to fill the trashcan, and we all muscled up the hill for the dump. It only took us two days to move a compost pile the size of a VW. No doubt we provided ample entertainment to our neighbors as we carried slabs of frozen compost--the freeze was only a layer on the top--to the garden site and played at discus tosses. The Olympics may be over, but the spirit lives on.

As winter is winding down, I find that I'm still in love with the warming herbs. Hey, these 70* days aren't going to last. There's got to be at least one or two more snowfalls and several hard frosts before the shouting. Since I laid in a generous supply of what I needed to make chai tea, the smells reminded me of an old favorite Chinese food recipe: five spice stir-fry. I had an antique bottle of the five spice powder haunting the back of my cupboard. When I say antique, I'm not referring to the bottle, but to the spices. God only knows how old this bottle was, but I think we moved here with it. Nine years ago. Don't look at me like that. It's all I can do to keep the clothes closets rotated for each appropriate season. But with a fresh supply of The Real Thing spices ready to hand, I decided to take the idea of Five Spice Powder and make something like a Five Spice Infusion. So here's what I did.

Five Spice Beef Stir-fry

Five spice infusion:

2 star anise pods
2 cinnamon sticks
12 whole cloves
1 tsp. whole fennel
1 tsp. whole peppercorns
1 quart of water

Early in the day or the day before, pour water into heavy sauce pan and bring to a boil. Add all of the spices and lower heat to a slow simmer. Cover, allowing to simmer for about 20 minutes before removing from heat. Leave covered and allow to infuse for 2-4 hours. Strain out spices and reserve infusion to make sauce just before serving.

Stir Fry:

1 pound beef steak, thin sliced - I usually freeze the steak and then partially thaw, running the meat through the slicing blade on my mandolin. This is usually marinated overnight in a solution of wheat-free tamari sauce and water.
1 bunch green onions, sliced
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
4 whole carrots, bias sliced
1 cup broccoli, separated into small pieces
3 celery stalks, bias sliced
1 cup mushrooms, sliced
Lard or coconut oil for stir-frying
1-2 T Sesame oil for flavoring
3-4 T Wheat-free tamari for sauce
2-3 T tapioca starch

In a wok over high heat, melt lard or coconut oil (approximately 1-2 tablespoons) and add onions, garlic, and carrots. Stir fry carrots for 3-5 minutes before adding chopped broccoli. Stir fry another 3-5 minutes before adding celery slices. After about three minutes or when vegetables are cooked to taste, remove the entire contents of the wok to another container. (While these ingredients are cooking, drain marinating meat in a colander.) In the wok, melt another tablespoon or so of oil and add mushrooms with a dollop of wheat-free tamari sauce. Stir fry mushrooms until cooked and add the wok contents to the already cooked vegetables. Pour a couple of tablespoons of sesame oil into the cooked ingredients and stir. Add more oil to the wok and stir fry the drained beef strips until cooked to preference. Drain the cooked meat, discarding the liquid, and return all of the cooked ingredients to the wok.

In a heavy sauce pan, pour five spice infusion, less one cup, and wheat-free tamari sauce and bring to a boil. In the reserved one cup of five spice infusion (which should not be warm--cold is good, actually), stir in tapioca starch until dissolved. Add the infusion and dissolved tapioca starch to the boiling pot and stir continually until the sauce has thickened and the milky appearance has become more translucent. Pour sauce over stir-fry and stir until all of the pieces are completely coated.

Serve hot over steamed rice.

Our sunny days have disappeared in a deluge of flood warnings. I remain unperturbed, however. I got my peas in the ground in the greenhouse. Which is an improvement on last year, when I missed the pea planting opportunity altogether. While I was at it, I decided to put down some broccoli and cucumbers, too. Hey, let's garden dangerously. If they don't make it, I still have time to start some more, right? Meanwhile, I've started a new compost pile, since the old one has now surrendered its space and is gone. I'm feeling all kinds of virtuous about getting it done so early.

Marilyn Monroe was wrong. Pickaxes are a girl's best friend.

The Great White North

2010-03-05T10:40:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine says she's going hunting. She's cleaning her rifle. She's loaded for...groundhog. Yeah. That's right. Groundhog. Particularly the one who lives in the climate-controlled environment enjoying all of the amenities of life while the rest of us are slogging out the dregs of winter. Keep your head down, Phil. That's all I'm sayin'.

I can't say that our week began with the most auspicious preparations. A power outage the previous week had revealed that our generator, serviced over the summer, wasn't actually as ready as we had hoped. Fortunately, it had only been of a short duration and since we'd had no other outages this winter, there probably wasn't anything to be concerned over. The utility company had been ruthless in their pruning efforts this past summer, as the misshapen and mutilated trees lining the local rural roads could attest. Trees intrepid enough to grow within the easement parameters were hacked, hewn, and even hawed to almost shrub-like proportions. Yep. The power people were set. Right? Riiiight. And so we hoped that their readiness would compensate for our own rather shakiness in that department. I mean, you try finding service for a generator this time of year. Pick a number and stand in line.

I spent the first of the week in a flurry of activity, because before the end of Tuesday afternoon, there were goosefeather snowflakes wafting their way down to settle on the solidified masses of previous snowfalls. We had planned a winter outing that morning, but I canceled so that way I wouldn't have to pick up Tool Guy from work. I had no intentions of making anymore uphill hikes in heavy snowfall to collect him. Been there, done that, bought the sweatshirt. And, indeed, when Tool Guy came home, stomping in out of the snow, he affirmed that, like the Princess on the Glass Hill, it was possible to come down, but impossible to go up. Then the power went out. With a futzy generator. Greeeeeeat. Just great. Fortunately, dinner was five minutes away from hitting the table and so we had a warm meal for dinner. Given how the week would go, this was being thankful for large favors.

The Hobbits were all troupers. Nay, they were excited. They always celebrate occasions that are marked by lighting the hurricane lamp that has followed us from Louisiana. Something romantic and adventurous about the soft, warm glow. And smoking wick. Yeah, I'm still working on the knack of trimming it properly. Where's Jane Austen when you need her? Nonetheless, we circled around the table after dinner and resumed work on lessons and reading. Everyone was feeling quite Little House on the Prairie-ish. We had to flip a coin to see who had the honor of blowing out the lamp. Yeah. I know. Gotta get these kids out more often.

When I woke up at 4 am and the staring red light on our smoke detector wasn't glaring down at me, I knew that we were in for more than just an inconvenience. I looked out the window and saw the relentlessly gentle parade of flakes continue to come down. Buckle your seatbelts, passengers...

In the morning, Tool Guy decided that it was worthwhile to argue further with the generator and he was able to persuade it to be of his way of thinking. Happy day! Heat. Hot showers. Sanitary sanitation opportunities. Hot food. Cold refrigerators. A man who can coax a generator to start is a man of inestimable charm. Think I'll keep him around a while. I immediately filled up several storage buckets full of water in case his persuasive powers didn't hold. I've decided that among the canning activities in which I will indulge this summer, not the least of these shall include canning water. Yep. That's right. Water. If I'm going to have extra jars taking up space down in the basement, the least they can do is haul their weight by keeping us stocked with water in the future event that the choke on our generator decides to resume its recalcitrance. Besides, I want to be able to flush, okay?

Did I mention that I had a co-op order to coordinate during this week? Yeah. No stress there. Because even with power from the generator, when cable is down, cable is down. Needless to say, when, thirty-six hours later, the power came back on, I flew into action. I spent the morning catching up on phone calls, ordering, email, as well as grinding flour, setting up bread, and anticipating whatever else we might need. The forecast was predicting another front of snow. As it turned out, I had exactly twelve hours to get everything that I needed done done and then, like clockwork, the power went down again. Tool Guy turned to me and inquired about the prospects of relocating South. I asked him if that meant that I wouldn't be able to go grocery shopping in the morning. Nope. My week certainly wasn't going according to plan.

It's nice to know that there are some things that can come together even in sticky spots. We might have been low on coffee and cream--which might be characterized as a state of emergency in its own right--but we had plenty of everything else, despite an inability to get to the grocery store. Our storage shelves had a sufficiency of whatever we needed to get us through the tight places. Even bread baking went on as usual. Speaking of which, I've been playing around with making my bread egg-free. A few people asked me if it was possible. And I'll be honest...I'd never considered it, throwing as many eggs as was rational at the bread recipe in a desperate bid to have it succeed the first time. Which it did. And, for one who claims to cook dangerously, I had never worked up the nerve to leave them out and have it potentially flop. But when our egg supply disappeared, I had a greater incentive to see if it was possible. Guess what? It is. So for those who asked, here's the egg-free bread. My baking pans hold about four cups of dough, so the recipe is sized accordingly. Your needs may vary.

Everything (Including Egg) Free Sourdough Bread

These days, I'm making my starter with a blend that looks roughly like this:

1/3 cup adzuki bean flour
1 cup buckwheat flour
1 cup red quinoa flour
1 cup millet flour
2/3 cup rice flour

I measure heaping cups of these, because I want there to be a little starter left over to help feed the next generation. As I've mentioned before, teff or fenugreek makes a great lactobacilli magnet if your starter needs to be perked up or restarted.

4 cups sourdough starter
1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup flax seed meal (opt.)
1/4 cup tapioca starch
1/4 cup potato starch
1 tsp. salt
3 tsp. guar gum

Mix ingredients together, bringing up to high speed once the batter and dry ingredients are incorporated. "Knead" for about five minutes. The consistency needs to be something between toothpaste and cake batter, so add water or a couple of tablespoons of flour as necessary to achieve this. Pour batter into pans lined with baking parchment. I've gotten quite addicted to the ability to pop the bread pans into the refrigerator and let them rise until I feel like baking them. To prevent a skin from forming on the surface of the breads, I lay a sheet of plastic wrap or baking parchment over the top before storing in the fridge and then peel off when I'm ready to put them in the oven. Bake at 350* for approximately 1.5 hours or until done. When baked, pop out of pan and onto cooling rack, waiting until completely cooled to cut.

The Hobbits have pronounced this to be my best bread ever. Yeah, I know. You've unearthed my secret. I keep them on such a short leash that anything new I do feels like an improvement. I have to say that I'm pretty fond of it, too, though. Prolly 'cause I keep myself on the same short leash. At any rate, when I let it rise sufficiently--and therein lies the art of it...how much is high enough without the bread collapsing--I get this towering loaf of bread that doesn't need the lift from eggs to make it lofty. For the egg-free folk, enjoy!

Bread in hand, we were well-provided for. In spite of twenty-four hours without government snow removal and an inability to achieve the roads to go anywhere, our widow's cruse of gasoline held out--with a bit of judicious rationing--until the power came back on almost forty-eight hours later. Which was two days before some of our other neighbors regained grid connectivity, Lord love 'em.

Secure provisions are reassuring when you have snow encroaching on your window sashes. Or the handrail on your entry stairs. This isn't for the faint of heart. The propane delivery person announced himself "too old for this" and refused to return until there was a cleared path to the backyard. Yeah...that's gonna happen... My die-hard neighbor, who has relationships with his walk-behind snowblowers that looks like other men's relationships with their classic cars, threw in the scarf and hired a back-hoe to clear his driveways.

The blizzard of 2010 will be something that the Hobbits will talk about when they are our age. They'll tell about the "roughing it" and the igloos they constructed--Princess has quite an architectural bent--and the tunnels they burrowed through the yard. When I was her age, we had two inches of snow and, in Louisiana, it left the same kind of impression as the footage does now.

Meanwhile, as I'm digging out from under, I'm also digging around for groundhog recipes.

They're gluten-free, right?

De Ja Vu

2010-02-05T10:11:00.011-05:00

This is always the most difficult time of year. The hackneyed complaints about cabin fever set in and the Hobbits are invariably bouncing off of the walls, but trenchant in their resistance to take the energy outside. By now, the romance of the fresh fallen snow has been stomped into pockmarks across the yard and so has the exhilaration of sledding. Even Bug's forays into converting his saucer sled into a snowboard has lost its shine.

And homeschooling. Picture me with a hag-ridden expression and ragged wisps of hair tufting a gleaming scalp. This is the time of year where the curriculum has lost its shine and everyone wants the year To Be Done. Tool Guy and Dog started the year with high hopes. They had collaborated on the purchase of a "school in a box" kind of curriculum and had, apparently, polled the masses with a product satisfaction survey, receiving very positive feedback. They must have found the very one consumer who liked the wooden material, since everyone that I asked actually shuddered at the mere mention of the books. Literally. I reasoned with the guys that it was not for naught that I found unopened boxes of this curriculum on the exchange table, free for the taking. Collecting dust. Sun-faded. But nobody listens. So Dog and Tool Guy are slogging their way through the remainder of the material, with Tool Guy dragging comprehension from Dog, piece by piece. They flirted with chucking the whole package and switching to more lively material, but decided that slogging was less work than catching up. Live and learn.

Bug is also bogging down. Before I whinge, I have to hand it to Bug that he has made enormous strides. I was listening to him during family time, reading from the teenage NIV with such ease and facility that I couldn't believe this was the same child who was stumbling over the easy readers just a year ago. But math? (See? It's even a four-letter word.) Not that math at his level is particularly hard, but it is when Someone (insert meaningful, pointed glance at a certain furry-footed shortling) is resisting the discipline of memorizing the times tables. Yeah, we've done the whole grouping/counting bears/multiplication-is-just-fast-addition theoretical exercises and he gets it. But there's nothing that replaces the actual instant recall and facile command of the multiplication tables. I'd given him a variety of tools with which to master the facts and left him to it. It wasn't met with cries of delight. By the time we got to this mid-point, it became clear that we weren't going further until he muscled his way through the memorization exercise. I had to get draconian, but he got there. It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Princess mostly flies through her stuff. Oh, she puts on airs and pretends that this is difficult. After all, she has the wailing and gnashing of teeth around her and we are nothing if not creatures of imitation, but the reality is that this stuff is a cakewalk for her. She makes me look good, but I didn't have anything to do with this. My first grader has set a goal for herself that she will read through the Magic Tree House series and she's been doing it at the rate of a book every day or so. Her main complaint at this point is the slowness of the library system to produce next book in the series--"Because, Mom, it's frustrating to not read them in order!" This loses a lot when you can't see the earnest expression and the accompanying gestures. I try not to smile too openly.

School matters aren't truly a vexation for Princess, but in recent months I've begun noticing some unhappy symptoms of a different nature. Quite a sinking feeling, since Princess has been my "golden child"--the one with whom I did Everything Right. Home birth. Breastfed. Gluten/casein free since before birth. Growing up with bone broth, fermented foods, and everything free. Everything augured well for her to sail through childhood without any digestive hitches. I only anticipated dealing with teenage mutinies when this dietary stuff started making them feel too different. Alas, no.

A few months ago, I noticed that she'd become much more emotionally fragile. Irrational. Then the Shoe Problem popped up. Shoes that had been perfectly acceptable--nay!--favorites suddenly became intolerable. At first, I thought she'd just outgrown those, but when I replaced them with the next size up, the problem persisted. And when I insisted on her accepting the shoes anyway, the frustration was displaced to the velcro. I personally have now developed a rash reaction to the sound of velcro ripping. I think there's probably even an IgE rast for it. This is due to the long and daily sessions of fastening and unfastening and refastening the velcro repeatedly on the shoes to get the tension Just Right. And when one shoe was Just Right, the other shoe's tension had to be the same exact Just Right as the other. Or the process had to be repeated again. And again. Did I mention repeatedly? And socks. Don't get me started on seams on socks that must be aligned with the ley lines in England at the same time as the Nazca lines of Peru. Just. Don't.

At this point I began having flashbacks to when Dog was a toddler. The sun was too bright. And none of the clothes felt right. All manner of sensory disagreements. It's amazing how easy it is to forget these things. Well, probably not forget. Rather say that it is easy to shove those memories to the back of the closet. Life has become too normal for us. These days, when Dog asks why he can't wear sweats to church, it is more about the teenage stuff than it is about sensory integration issues. Reluctantly, I faced the presentation of these dynamics with the digestive upsets she was experiencing and accepted that there's some food stuff going on with her. Sigh.

Before diving hog wild into testing, I've decided to do some judicious pruning to see if we can address this first with a bit of deduction. Beans was the most recent addition to the diet and although the boys are showing absolutely no problems to the daily inclusion of this in their food, it was the first suspect for Princess' reactions. This was discouraging to her, though she took it in good grace. She's well used to discussions about pulling food, though this is one of the few times it actually applied to her. While I continue to make a bean bread multi-grain blend for the boys, I'm making a bean-free version for her along with theirs. She's particularly mourning the absence of toasted garbanzo beans. I started wracking my brains for a comparable snack for her to enjoy. Something like honey-roasted nuts for the nut-free.

Buckwheat is my current new Favorite Thing. I'm exploring the different things that I can do with it. It's a dominant flavor in my current bread combo. It's got a viscosity to it that makes me think of gluten, even though its gluten-free, name notwithstanding, so I'm watching to see if it improves the texture of the bread as well as adding more nutrients. There are tons of papers out there where other people in lab situations are playing with the viscous potential of buckwheat. Why should they have all the fun? I've started playing with sprouting it, too. Sprouts up nicely and quickly, though that viscous thing is evident in the first day or so of sprouting, requiring particular attention in thorough rinsing. The nice thing about sprouting, aside from the obvious advantages of sprouting in and of itself, is that the sprouting eliminates that stickiness from the process when one goes about toasting the grains.

The Nitty Gritty Cooking class was playing with caramel corn using honey and butter, so duly inspired, I decided to extend the application to buckwheat. Princess loved the resulting crunchy, nutty-tasting snack. Kinda made me think of the old maids in those stale boxes of sticky treats that we mostly ripped open for the prize inside rather than the treat itself.

Cracker Jills (Caramel Buckwheat)

4 cups sprouted buckwheat
2 T ghee or coconut oil
1/2 cup honey

Toast in oven at 350* until nicely browned and no longer damp, stirring from time to time to allow for even toasting. In a heavy saucepan over a low temperature, melt ghee and honey, stirring to mix as thoroughly as possible. Pour over buckwheat and stir to completely coat. In tray or cookie sheet covered with a silicone mat or baking parchment, spread the buckwheat out as thinly and evenly as possible. Return to oven and toast for 10-20 minutes. As it cools, the crunch will emerge. This is one snack that was greeted with cries of delight. It makes a great finger food snack or a nifty breakfast cereal.

No magic bullets for Princess yet. Ramping up the bone broth and the coconut milk kefir and all things fermented. She's taking enzymes with meals, which seems to be helping. I'm giving bentonite clay a toss, too.

And I'm knitting again. Socks. The kind with no seams at the toes.

Living Well Is The Best

2010-01-22T08:07:00.007-05:00

What's that expression? "Living well is the best revenge?" My spin on it is "living healthy is the best reward." I'll be honest, though, that it has taken a long time for us to reach the reward stage. Remember? I'm the unprofitable servant...I've only done what is required of me. I'll admit that most of this journey has been spent running from a stick of sufficient magnitude to make the effort worthwhile rather than the enticement of a theoretical carrot. I admire people who have the self-discipline to persevere and discipline themselves on that idea of a pay-off in the far-flung future. Shamefacedly, I admit that I'm not one of those. Stick, me. Big stick. Big, big stick.

Our journey was supposed to be only one of four to six months, but has extended to eight years now and still counting. We have a couple stubborn outlying foods that still evade our grasp, but we're getting there. These extended years, though, have afforded me the opportunity to begin to enjoy the carrot phase of the journey while still grappling with the stick aspects.

Tool Guy is the a shining example of what "clean living" will do. His weight was ballooning, as is typical with the men in his family, until he decided to low carb a dozen years ago. In was an inadvertent diagnosis because the carbs he found most dispensable was bread. After we stumbled into our familial gluten intolerance diagnosis, we were able to connect the dots and realize why he responded so well to a low carb diet. Since going gluten free, he has resumed carb consumption without any particular attention or regulation to his diet. And excepting when sugar allures, he is able to maintain a stable weight that isn't far from his low carb ideal. And those annoying eczematic rashes on his feet have mysteriously disappeared, never to return. Without any medical assistance. Ditto on those troublesome ear infections that responded only to aggressive irrigation with Betadyne solution. But those improvements took a long time to surface.

Some improvements don't take so long to manifest themselves. Tool Guy's dad, Pop, visited with us over the holidays. He arrived from sunny Florida, announcing that felt as if he'd aged ten years in the last few months and he moved as if, indeed, he had. The airlines, while very tardy in their scheduling, were at least very prompt in providing a much-needed wheelchair to portage him from terminal to terminal in a timely fashion. Bless his heart, his ditty bag bulged with thirteen different medications. No, not thirteen pills to take daily. Thirteen different medications that required multiple doses a day. Blerg.

During his visit, he reconciled himself to eating what we eat with a minimum of greasy-spoon diner runs. During one conversation, he asked me what was good for arthritis. As it happened, I had some black cherry concentrate in the pantry, since the Hobbits like it to flavor their smoothies, and it became part of his daily routine to have a tablespoon in a cup of water. Within only a few days, he demonstrated how he was able to flex his fingers, effortlessly and painlessly.

Consequently, I started poking around to find what other things might help reduce arthritic inflammation and make him more comfortable. There were a few truncated references to Chinese Star Anise seed pods and bells started going off.

Tool Guy had recently gifted me with a french press coffee maker that I haven't been using to make coffee. I've been using it to make herbal teas, since the press is equally lovely for straining out the herbals as it is for coffee grounds. And the Hobbit favorite is Chai Tea. They used to have to put up with the bagged chai from the grocery store until I was given a recipe for The Real Thing. Definitely met with cries of delight and the more I read on the constituent herbs, the more healthy it is appearing. In addition to reputed benefits for arthritis, Star Anise is the food source for Tamiflu. Cinnamon is in good reputation for diabetics and high blood pressure. Ginger, as I learned this past summer, has a wealth of goodies, just waiting to burst upon us. And the bonus? It tastes good. And isn't it great to be able to juggle things around so that they are safe for us, good for us, and dance on the tastebuds?

I pinched as many pennies as I could to get all of these ingredients in bulk and as fresh as possible. It was well worth the sacrifice. After tweaking the recipe to suit highly specific Hobbit tastes--Hey, I personally happen to like a heavy cinnamon overtone, but, whatever--they have been clamoring for it on a regular basis. I imagine that this will be just as popular during the summer season as it has been during the cold and flu season.

Chai Tea, adapted from a recipe by Aleese Cody, Help's On the Way

1 quart water
1 cinnamon stick
1 tsp dried ginger root
1 star anise pod
10 whole peppercorns
1/4 tsp. decorticated cardamom
1/4 tsp. whole coriander
1/4 tsp. whole cloves
1/2 whole vanilla bean or 1 dropperful of vanilla extract
1 tea bag

Combine ingredients except for tea and bring to a simmer for about 20 minutes. Cover and allow to steep for another 20 minutes, dropping the tea bag in during the last 5 minutes of the steep. Strain out spices and serve. Flavoring options favored by Hobbits include stevia and coconut milk. A tsp. of cocoa powder was trialed, but didn't pass the taste test. Your mileage may vary.

When Pop left, he was able to bend completely down and pick up anything that he may drop on the floor. And put on his own socks without a struggle. Something that was extremely difficult for him when he first arrived. On the return flight home, after two weeks in the extreme colds that New England is so generous with, he spurned the use of the wheel-chair, striding to his terminals alongside Tool Guy, who accompanied him to see him off. He plans on scaring up some black cherry concentrate.

Eating everything free isn't just about avoiding allergens, it's about eating well, enjoying the food, enjoying life. Living well. Pop has discovered that living free has freed him up from the bondage of the pharmaceutical. He left, down to only two medications. His blood pressure, his doctor tells him, is the lowest it has been in many, many years. Without medication. How's that for everything free? Let your food be your medicine and your medicine your food.

Living well is the best...revenge?...reward? Whatever. Living well is simply the best.

Old Man Winter

2010-01-08T08:48:00.015-05:00

Winter has taken its time getting here. We barely had snow for Christmas. The blizzard that socked the seaboard sniffed at our feet and ran south to christen everyone in that direction. But when Old Man Winter decided to arrive, he did it with quite the flourish. We had a week of howling...and I am not using a hyperbolic metaphor when I say "howling"...winds to make things "interesting" for us. Blasts of 30 mph winds sustained themselves for over a week. Everyone was comparing notes on how many times the winds woke them in the night. Tool Guy and I were comparing notes on what new location in the house was exhibiting drafts and we were regretting not being more extensive with our weatherstripping of this past summer. I shared a bed with Princess over the holidays because we had surrendered the master bedroom to guests for the month of December. During our "sleepovers," my feet would hang over the end of her mattress and act as lure for any stray draft that may have wandered in. I think I got frost bite. It was definite incentive for me to finish those black socks that I began in February of last year.

The coup de grace was when I went up into the attic to start returning the Christmas decorations to their storage places. And noticed that there was more visibility and sunlight...um...sunlight? in our attic. The high, sustained winds had trashed the attic fan and the hood was completely gone. Oh. That was the fragments of something that we had noticed out in the yard, but everyone was too wimpy to brace the winds and go find out what it was. Bug's theory was that it was a crashed flying saucer. Well. Almost. It might not explain the alien abductions, but it definitely explained the mysterious drafts that the house had begun to manifest. No need for a ghost buster here.

True to form, this discovery happened on...yep...a weekend. You knew that, right? We consoled ourselves that the 22" hole in our roof didn't coincide with any rain in the forecast. One of the consolations of 12* weather. One of the few. Tool Guy covered the hole from the interior with a spare sheet of plexi-glass and we ferreted around for someone willing to mush out to our remote waste of frozen Shire tundra and climb on our roof to fix this. One insurance adjuster and three visits later, we are the proud possessors of a low-profile (I'm beginning to appreciate the value of this characteristic) attic vent. And it is snowing.

The weather definitely has Tool Guy down. As a child of the Chicagoland, he has none of my romantic notions regarding snowfall. While I saw only two snowfalls of any moment in the bayous of Louisiana, he slogged through masses of this every year in his suburbian neighborhood--"lake effect," you know--and the childhood memories of such aren't of the cherished sort. Ours was not the generation of parents who drove children to the bus stop and sat, expanding their carbon footprint with a running motor to warm the car, until the bus stop arrived and the children dashed from warm car to warm bus to warm school. Nope. Ours was the one that said, "Bundle up, it's cold out there!" as we walked out the door, solitarily, to take on the quarter mile walk and the twenty minute wait at the stop. It was frigid enough in the swamps of the South. Bus stop huddles in this weather would certainly warp my view of New England winters. As it is, I'm free to enjoy my pink-hazed romance with the piles and billows that grace us without the jaundice of too much reality interfering. Heh.

This year, particularly, Tool Guy is grousing about the snow. He wants his motorcycle. The junkie and his crack. What can I say? He heatedly justifies this fervid attachment by expounding on how therapeutic riding is for his back. (You see what they do? Desperate justifications...) I nod. He continues to describe the relief. I nod. He waxes eloquent on the sense of well-being sustained riding provides. I nod. He gives up in disgust, muttering how I just don't understand. I nod. Poor guy. He is, however, hobbling around like a stiff old man, just a mite older than he actually is. So I took pity on him.

Mrs. Hostess (of Nitty-Gritty Cooking fame) is enjoying dabbling along with me into all things herbal. She came home from a visit out to Ohio this past summer with a salve that she declared the best thing since sliced bread...everything free bread even. She explained to me how she'd injured herself during the visit and had discovered this salve provided by an Amish farmer. Application of this salve had resolved the injury in an amazingly short period of time. The ingredients? Comfrey and chickweed. Et voila. Herbs that are readily on hand here.

We started our oil extraction immediately and when the leaves began to fall, we were ready to make the salve. We had planned that this would be our first venture into making a salve, myself heretofore being too lazy to make any of the herbal oils I've done in the past into an actual salve, but we decided that we'd try it together and planned a "salve party" at some point. However, A Series of Unfortunate Events conspired to prevent our party and the autumn wasted away before we got to it. And a few weeks after the bike's entry into hibernation, Tool Guy had commenced hobbling. Time to commence with the salve.

I'm beginning to understand the maddening vagaries of the herbalists whom I've been soliciting for wisdom. When one is accustomed to specific measurements, it sounds very elusive to hear things like "stuff a bunch into a jar." It grates on our Western sensibilities. But there it is.

I--forgive me--stuffed a bunch of comfrey leaf and chickweed in relatively equal amounts (how's that for specificity, eh?) into a quart jar and covered with olive oil. The plant matter need to be completely covered with oil, packed densely enough to have a substantial amount of herb in the oil, but not so tight as to prevent the circulation of the oil through the plant matter. A favorite trick of mine is to vacuum seal the jar with my Food Saver. As the vacuum seal is taking effect, the air bubbles rise from out of the leaves and oil and the leaves, particularly when fresh, will visibly darken. Goody!

Leave this jar in a handy, reachsome place, but out of the sun, for 4-6 weeks. When you walk by, shake it. Alcohol tinctures work on this same principle, but they are easier to shake. Shaking an oil extract is more like playing with a lava lamp and you have to give it a bit more of your time and attention than a tincture. If you have Hobbits running around who would be fascinated with the process and not so fascinated as to want to open the jar, you may want to recruit them. This has inspired not a few in-depth conversations that expanded into actual instructional sessions. Bug and Princess particularly have become adept at identifying plants and their uses from such spontaneous conversations.

An herbalist mentor of mine says that when making an extract or tincture this way, 80% of the virtue of the plant has been imparted to the liquid or "menstrum" after only two weeks. The remaining two to four weeks will net you the last 20% of what the plant has to offer. This is useful to know when one is in a hurry for the final product.

To decant the preparation, pour into a cheesecloth lined strainer. After the excess oil has run through, bundle up the herbs into the cheesecloth and squeeze aggressively. I'm actually drooling over a machine that will press this for me, but the price renders it a hopeless romance. Sigh. Ah, well. The strained oil is then the essence of your medicine.

Aches and Pains Salve

Beeswax
Herbal Oil
Rosemary Essential Oil (opt) or Benzoin Tincture (opt) for preservation
Fragrance oils, if desired
Salve jars, prepared and ready ahead of time

Measure out the desired amount of herbal oil. The ratio of beeswax to oil is approximately 1 T to 1 C, more or less depending on how soft you want your salve to be for usage. I tended toward a stiffer salve; your preferences may vary. In a double boiler, I melted the wax. I'm not sure if I regret using my double boiler. It melted wonderfully well without the requisite hovering that characterized the salve session in my herbal classes, but it did leave wax residue in the ring around the waist of the pot that required a not insubstantial amount of elbow grease to remove.

Oh, and a word on wax. In an effusion of enthusiasm, I bought a fragrant chunk of beeswax and romanced it for quite some time before I breached the wrapping. I was quite in love with this brick. Until I needed to melt it. Wax, despite its ductile reputation in candles, is actually a very hard substance and requires aggressive...hm..."downsizing" to expedite the melting process. Unromantic hacking away at the boulder was necessary--and a bit risky--if not to say messy. For the more discriminating salve-maker, wax beads are available that render this a less muscular and more genteel activity. And they melt faster. 'Nuff said.

While the wax was melting, I gently heated the medicinal oil so that I would be able to mix the two without the wax immediately setting up upon contact with the cooler oil. Turning off all heat, I combined the two and added about 10 drops of Rosemary EO. Any fragrance oils would be added at this point. Rosemary is a relatively popular food additive and when you see "natural preservatives" on food labels, you can bank on it that it is probably rosemary. The herbalist I studied with recommends a few drops of Benzoin tincture for the purpose (which I didn't have on hand) and another herbalist recommends a capsule of Vitamin E oil. I opted not to use this since most Vitamin E caps are based on wheat or soy. Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion this salve wouldn't last long enough to go rancid, so I decided to experiment with the Rosemary EO.

Stirring the ingredients together before the whole can congeal, pour them into the waiting salve jars, being careful about drips and spills. Allow to cool--a dimple will form in the surface of the salve--and then cover. Label with ingredients and date and store in a cool, dry place.

I waited until Tool Guy began to worry about the status of his back. "One bend away from it going out," was how he phrased it and I presented him with my finished product. That night, he anointed his back and went to bed in his favorite spot. The next morning, the hobble was noticeably absent and he didn't feel as if he were on the brink of the precipice anymore.

Yeah, it ain't his bike. But it beats codeine.

Come, Ye Thankful People

2009-11-27T13:25:00.008-05:00

It's the tradition of the season to enumerate the things we are thankful for and look back reflectively over the year. And Breatharian, we have so much to be thankful for. The garden wasn't what I had hoped for, but we had abundance in other areas. The fields and friends provided us with the herbs and medicines that we would need for this sickly season. There's been enough of what I foraged and put by to meet our needs, as well as share. While we were sick, there was elderberry and elecampane and ginger and such enough to take care of everyone. Even Tool Guy submitted to my ministrations, though he was much more...erm..."vocal" about the taste of the tinctures than the Hobbits. Inured and acquiescent to the things I demand of them, they merely produce delicate shudders, chase it with something yummy, and then get on with their day. When the cough started to settle into his lungs and remind him of The Plague, he asked me to start lining him up for the noxious nostrums with which I badger the Hobbits. He affirms that angelica is probably the nastiest medicament that has ever crossed his lips, albeit the most effective. The coughing is almost gone. The Flu Fairy came and went and we are recovered, unscathed by the visit. Much to be thankful for.

This year was the year I dedicated myself to the pursuit of herbs. An opportunity for formalized instruction and experience opened up a floodgate of information and exploration. I've never known seven months to fly by so quickly. My 25th wedding anniversary gift. Thankful for the apprenticeship. And the twenty-five years.

The Hobbits thrive and mature and astonish us with the amazing things they think of and say. As I scroll back through previous years, the years we spent in The Abyss, it comes home to me how normal our life has become, even if perhaps other people don't look in on us and see normality there. Only when there are stray infractions do we have to deal with extended sturm and drang dramas over the way a pair of socks fit--or don't. Or the way a pair of shoes fit--or don't. Or any other instance in where the planet seems inappropriately aligned with the universe. Things we used to deal with daily, even hourly. There's very little that I wouldn't do to achieve this level of serenity. So very much to be thankful for.

Bug continues to explore his enthusiasm for art. His current focus is on perspective drawing. He was barely satisfied with the sixteen books that I schlepped home from the library on the subject. The librarian and I agreed that our family needs a dedicated shelf on the reserve stacks. Princess has become an avid reader, which adds to the groaning weight on those stacks. We're getting ready to invent a bogus family member or five so that we can add more cards to our collection. Twelve holds and fifty books per card times five for three weeks at a time is hardly enough for a house full of bibliophiles. I remember a day when I worried about Bug ever being able to read fluently, let alone for enjoyment. I remember the anxious trips to the speech therapist and the inch-by-inch grasp of phonics. Now he reads as voraciously as the rest of us. Dog and I are plowing through the list of required reading for his Literature class this year and it raises the opportunities for some interesting discussions. Ever so thankful for these blessings.

There are pickles in the fridge because a friend shared the abundance of her garden, which flourished in a state of benign neglect this summer. She also shared the abundance of some pear trees within her stewardship. Since we still have a bounty of canned pears in our basement which still come up to visit us in the form of pear butter muffins, I decided to do something different with these. Mom and I were talking about how the Hobbits had enjoyed the cherry pie I'd made, when she suggested an idea from my grandmother, who made these as a great treat for the family.

Fry Pie

Gluten-free pie crust
Approximately 4 cups pears, peeled, cored, and sliced
1/2 cup water
4 T maple syrup, vegetable glycerin, or sweetener of choice
2 t cinnamon
3 T tapioca starch
1 lb lard or palm shortening

In heavy sauce pan, cook pears with cinnamon and sweeteners until soft. Dissolve tapioca starch into water and pour over cooked pears, heating until tapioca starch is thoroughly cooked and is opaque and thickened. Allow to cool. (The crust tends to be harder to handle and disintegrate when filling is warm.) Assemble pie crust ingredients. With a ball slightly smaller than a fist, roll out crust between two sheets of wax paper to about the size of a small plate. Removing the top sheet of paper, place a dollop of pear filling (1-2 T) in the center and fold the bottom sheet of wax paper over in order to close the crust. Pulling away the bottom sheet from half of the crust, bring the edges of the top and bottom crust together and gently roll up until edges come into contact with the filling. Gently flute edges with fingers or fork.

Heat lard or shortening sufficiently for deep frying. Picking up the pie still in the sheet, roll it onto a spatula large enough to support it. Very. Carefully. To. Avoid. Splashing. Roll the pie on the spatula into the heated oil. Fry for three minutes or until crust is brown. Remove from oil and allow to drain for a minute before placing in plate. Can be sprinkled with powdered sugar or maple sugar while still warm.

The Hobbits were ever so grateful for these! Even Dog, who swears he doesn't care for pears and originally didn't want to eat any. It was fortunate that I'd made "extra" because after he caught the tendrils of steam rising from the plate, he decided they might be worth trying. By the way, "worth trying" = instantaneous evaporation. Bug and Princess inhaled theirs. They might have tasted it somewhere in the process, but I'm not sure. Heh.

Doing without foods certainly makes one thankful for their return. This year, we reintroduced walnuts and--except for Princess--all manner of beans successfully. I think that in all of these Breatharian years, the thing that I've gained that is so precious, but so unexpected, is an attitude of thanksgiving. Struggling through this journey has changed me in ways that I never anticipated and even now cannot fully articulate. But as I sit and ponder it, the most compelling emotion I feel is gratitude. Gratitude for relentless generosity, support, for mercy, and for grace. As much as it has harrowed and winnowed me, I'm thankful to have gone through it all and wouldn't have missed it for the world.

I'm thankful.

La Grippe or "Postcards From the Hankie's Edge"

2009-11-13T13:38:00.014-05:00

It had to happen, right? It is, after all, an epidemic. We now consider ourselves officially epidemicked. Princess led the way, as is appropriate for royalty. It was heralded with a barking cough, quickly followed by a fever of 104.6. Bug, always a camp follower, wasn't far behind. Dog remained the stubborn outlier for a while, but eventually succumbed to peer pressure and decided to follow suit.

Once again, I'm hanging out our "plague" sign and quarantining us. The kitchen has gone into overdrive, making cough syrup, elderberry syrup, bone broth, and other such stuffs to soothe, satisfy, and otherwise stimulate the unwell. I'm pillaging my stores of elderberry, barberry, rosehips and assorted herbal matter. Tool Guy continually sniffs the air when he comes home, not sure if he is smelling dinner or medicine. The neighbors wonder at my frequent trips to the white pines in the yard as I jump for ever-higher branches, to strip off needles. What do I live for, but to be entertainment, no? Tool Guy is making sly comments about Marie Laveau and gris-gris. Philistine.

It is exceedingly hard to doctor by proxy and most of my dosing the Hobbits has been based on reading and the feedback they give me, both symptomatically and descriptively. Princess has gotten impatient with my queries about exactly where the irritation inspiring that cough is coming from. "I don't know how to explain it to you," she stated truculently. Sigh. I'm sure that this will be fuel for therapy down the road someday.

Happy day. I get to try all of this out on myself. The Flu Fairy came to visit yet again and I've been blessed. I haven't been ill-prepared, but I'm not best-prepared either; there were quite a few other things I'd wanted to have ready before coming to this. Still I've got enough tricks in my repertoire to at least do something besides lay there in a stupor.

So here's what I've found that works:

Elderberry is definitely wonderful. Something about the glistening liquid jewel tones pouring from the bottle is as reassuring as the thick sweet taste that coats the throat going down.

Andrographis continues to shine as an immune support. Gotta be right there in the cabinet next to the echinachea and astragalus.

Elecampane tincture helps to keep the congestion from building. Toward the end of our confinement, I dipped into the angelica that was maturing, to help ease the coughs. I think this one is going to be a staple in my cabinet, too.

Clary Sage and Red Thyme essential oils are definitely useful in damping down night time coughs.

Ginger continues to shine as my new favorite herb. Just prior to the onset of La Grippe, I decanted the herbs that I'd been researching while Dog was sick as a dog and had begun maturing. Ginger tincture was among the lot and, blessedly, I'd put up quite a lot of it, which freed me to use it without regard for supply.

I found that I wanted ginger tincture at my bedside so that when I woke up coughing in the night, a couple of droppers (approximately 30 ml) eased things sufficiently for me to return to sleep. This, paired with the essential oils, allowed me a reasonably restful night. Princess is right, though. It does burn all the way down. Heh.

And all of this has accelerated another bout of experimentation. My herbal mentor quoted Rosemary Gladstar as telling a story about going overseas to study with an herbal guru. The first two weeks of the study required absolute silence after which she would be allowed to ask one question. She spent the two weeks wondering what she would ask. What popped out of her mouth isn't what she had anticipated, but I'm glad it was the question she asked: "What is your favorite thing for lungs?" The answer? Juice up ginger, bury it for three months and let it ferment.

While the herbal class discussed this remedy, I began to envision what this project would look like. I immediately decided that an unglazed earthenware vessel was the container of choice. Why bury something unless it was to share the biota of the soil with the ferment? Like traditional kimchi. The Herbalist suggested that if I were going to do this, try one in a glass jar and one in the earthenware and see if the resulting ferments were appreciably different. Sounds like a plan.

Juicing ginger is a bit more of a muscular activity than juicing, say, grapes, but pretty soon, I was watching a chartreuse river flow from the mouth of the juicer into the jar. I divvied the yield up between the glass jar and the pottery. Given that ferments produce expanding gasses, I endeavored to keep the glass jar's lid as loose as possible to prevent subterranean explosions. I contemplated sealing the pottery with bee's wax, but opted out.

I dug up a likely spot in our woods--"likely" being any place that is more earth than rock--and buried the experiments. I put a rock marker on the spot, knowing that ginko might not help me remember the place on my own. The neighbors probably thought I was burying a pet. Oh, the things that they don't know...

Next postcard in three months.

Nitty-Gritty Cooking

2009-10-30T11:02:00.000-04:00

Have I mentioned how much I love our homeschooling group? It's pretty impressive. A carefully balanced blend of the academic, enrichment, practical, and social. In years past, I'll admit that we were more attracted to the social aspect of it. As the Hobbits have aged, I'm appreciating the academic and enrichment. Dog is in a format writing class that assists me with another pair of eyes to critique his burgeoning writing skills. And as a child who has always loved an audience, Drama is quite acceptable to him. Bug is exploring his creative bents under the tutelage of a local professional artist. It's rather exciting to watch this part of him unfurl and his self-confidence blossom. His struggling reading skills have been rocketed ahead by the patient assistance of Party Planner's phonics class. Princess has similarly benefited from this class, even though it was a couple of years ahead of her age level when she first began last year. With a bit of scaffolding, she participated and is now an independent reader. At six. The other day, she looked at a brown bottle on the table and asked me what a "supplement fact" was. See why I love these people?

Geeks of a feather. One of the moms decided that Home Ec classes teaching "a box of this and a can of that" just weren't cutting it. Not good nutrition and not good economics. When our class planning session met, she announced that, pending interest, she planned on teaching a "Nitty-Gritty Cooking Class" with the idea that the students would learn basic recipes that a home manager would be able to produce from memory as a staple dish in the diet. Her syllabus was logical, comprehensive, formed a good foundation for these young men and women in the class. Dog mourned his inability to participate in the class, since, of course, it would be rife with wheat flour and other contact reactives.

Over the weeks, we've watched simple and delicious--if the damp, curling aromas that drifted past our noses were any indication--recipes roll out of the kitchen. She even organized this to such a degree that the products of the class each week will, at the end of the afternoon and after the completion of the organized activities, go on a communal table where we loosely congregate to socialize. See? We do manage to socialize our children...and ourselves, as well. Each serving is $1 and almost nothing has been left over.

This past week, I twitted her that I "had aught against her." As buying club coordinator, upon request, I purchase organic junk food for a snack box from which people can purchase such healthy things as zbars and Barb's cheese puffs, washed down with Spritzers. Since the advent of her class, the disappearance of these tepid offerings have come to a screeching halt. Heh. We homeschoolers are raising no fools.

With the entrance of cold weather--cha', it's already snowed here in the Shire--soups, stews, and casseroules are more on our minds. Last week's Nitty Gritty Cooking class was potato soup. That was my mother-in-love's favorite. I happened to be free that hour and watched as the teenagers peeled and chopped potatoes, onions, et al while the Hostess discoursed on the advantages of scratch food--such as the flexibility to make it your way each time--the importance of tasting as you go, and how changing the timing of adding ingredients will change the nuances of the dish. I whipped out a napkin--the only piece of paper I had to hand--and began jotting down all of the ingredients the class was tossing in. They listened as she and I discussed between us the merits, advantages, and disadvantages of various fats and flours that could be juggled to create the roux. My napkin became quite a crowded scribble of ideas.

At the end of the afternoon, the five quart brimming pot hit the table with the stack of bowls and spoons beside the contribution basket. In less than five minutes the pot was empty. I kid you not. Eat your heart out, Barb.

The next day was shopping day and I came home with forty pounds of potatoes. When I cleared a path through the kitchen to start chopping, Dog pulled up a knife and cutting board and began assisting. The Klondikes were buttery soft. We chatted while chopping, discussing flour options for the roux. I was leaning toward millet, but gf flours tend toward grainy textures. Tapioca makes pretty good sauces, but tends toward too much viscosity. My eyes landed on my potato starch container. Potato soup. Potato starch. Score.

This is what Dog and I came up with. More or less.

Everything Free Potato Soup

6 medium sized potatoes, diced
1 bunch of green onions, sliced
1 quart bone broth
1 bay leaf (opt)
1 sheet of kombu (opt...I'm always looking for ways to guerrilla in seaweed!)
4 T ghee or favorite oil
1/2 cup potato starch flour
1/2 cup coconut milk

In soup pot, simmer onions, bay leaf, and kombu while chopping potatoes and making roux. To make the roux, melt ghee or pour oil into cast iron skillet on medium low heat. Add potato starch flour and stir. This is going to be a "blonde roux," so cook it for about 12 minutes or so, stirring continually. Dog particularly enjoyed this part, which was fine with me, since making roux isn't my favorite kitchen project. After the bay and kombu has been well hydrated and has shared their goodness with the broth, cook potatoes until almost done. Add roux and coconut milk to soup and stir until fully incorporated, but not so much that the potatoes lose their integrity. Turn off heat and allow ambient temperature to finish cooking potatoes.

All of the Hobbits agreed that this was one spectacular batch of soup. Tool Guy pronounced it better than the chicken soup. And better than his mom's potato soup. High praise, indeed! Bug was a bit cool in his evaluation, but politely ate it. We're working on the "eat what's in front of you without complaint" thing. He's getting there. Princess couldn't eat enough, though, coming back for thirds and fourths. She told me later, "You never have to ask if I want potato soup." That works.

Dog is now particularly partial to this soup, having had a large hand in not only cooking it, but in creating it. When we were finished, I looked at him and announced, "Well. You just had your Nitty-Gritty Cooking Class!" He grinned. After we did the taste test, he said to me, "I think this one is better than Mrs. Hostess' soup." Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he assured me that he wouldn't repeat that within her hearing. Heh. It is fortunate that he feels this way about the soup, since this is, perforce, our road.

I repeated his ingenuous comment to her, knowing it would make her laugh. It did.

More On Cooking Dangerously

2009-10-16T11:35:00.008-04:00

Iron sharpens iron...

One of the things about internet networking is that it allows geeks of a feather to flock together. When I talk about the stuff that interests me and what I'm doing to most people, I can see their eyes start to glaze over. Not too many people want to discuss starches, acrylamides, and microbiota. I try to restrain myself. Really. I try. I don't always succeed. Bless their hearts. Which is why I like clatching with other people who like to talk about what fermenting does for food.

Okay, I'll admit I'm getting lazy about food these days. I've got a groove. The Hobbits are stable, for the most part. I'm a little dicey on how Princess is doing of late, but time will tell. I've got a repertoire of What Works for us, I don't have to think about it, and I've even got the Hobbits doing more of their own cooking. It's not unknown for Bug to make breakfast for everyone and they all know how to reheat things. But once in a while something will snag my attention, like it did earlier this month.

See, the thing is that french fries have been a bit of a guilty indulgence around here. I still haven't shed the whole "fried is bad" dogma. Plus when the Hobbits had to go grain-free, it was the one snack that saved my sanity. Even when they were sugar-free and low glycemic, I made them fries. They didn't seem to react, still healed up, and it was the Very One thing that they had access to that other kids would drool over. I would feel guilty twinges from time to time, but squashed them by comparisons to the quality of the rest of their diet. Besides, it was only once or twice a week.

This past summer, things stepped up a notch socially. Dog is in that tweener age and is yearning to do tweener stuff. Give me strength. It's like trying to take a sip from a fire hydrant. I'm drowning in reminders of why we cocooned ourselves during their most sensitive years. Everything centers around food. Every activity has a snack. Or candy. Blerg. Yeah, I've got my repertoire. Yummy Earth rocks. And they make gummy bears now, too, bless them. And Endangered Species Dark Chocolate Bug Bites. What Hobbit doesn't clamor for these at every opportunity? I've got my cookie recipes and there are even a few commercial things that have come on the market that are within our grasp. But how much sugar does a Hobbit need? In fact, Dog actually communicated to me that the cookies just weren't cutting it and he preferred the pricier Boomi Bars. Of course he would.

So I drifted back to the fries and, since a mother has to harbor guilt over something, I felt guilty over all of the acrylamides that I was packing in the snack boxes at each outing. Until now. It pays to have equally geeky food friends who contemplate such issues themselves and post about them on email lists. It seems that someone out there has done a study on fermenting french fries. Yep. Read that right. Fermented fries. Who'da thunk? I found I was up for another bout of Cooking Dangerously.

Fermented Fries

Since these will need time to ferment, you'll need to plan a 2-3 day lead before you need to fry these up. I make my fries on Wednesday, so I start on Sunday or Monday.

Using the 1 mm blade on the food processor, slice potatoes. After slicing the first time, stack the slices up like cards in a deck and reinsert them on their sides into the processor sleeve. Run through again. After slicing, rinse under running cold water until the water is completely clear.

A couple of batches has revealed to me that I prefer to use covered containers for fermenting. I did one covered and one not covered and the uncovered one acquired an unpleasant smell. In lieu of a harsch crock, gallon glass jars with saucers over the top work nicely. My prior procedure was to soak the potatoes in water in the fridge. The fermenting procedure is wonderfully liberating to my cold storage space. In a salt solution of 2 T Real Salt per gallon water, I submerge the potatoes in water, cover and leave for 2-3 days, until I'm ready to use them. How easy is that?

When ready to fry, pour off salt solution, rinse thoroughly and allow to drain completely. I use a large dutch oven over the blowtorch burner on my stove. Tool Guy is partial to the Fry Daddy. What can I say? Boys and their toys. Over the years, I've used a few kinds of oil, but the most satisfying has been Spectrum palm shortening or just plain lard. Actually, the lard is the best. Hey, everyone agrees that McDonald's fries haven't been the same since they changed the oil, right? I heat the oil until a raw fry dropped in immediately bubbles to the surface. Then I add fries until just above the oil and leave to fry, stirring about half way through the fry cycle to loosen them. On my stove, it usually takes 15-20 minutes for a batch this size to sufficiently brown. I scoop them out with a basket strainer, drain, and dump them to cool on paper towels.

Being an advocate of guerrilla nutrition, I mentioned nothing of my experiment to the Hobbits. I couldn't taste a difference in the finished product. They weren't sour. They munched and crunched just as they had with my regular soaked fries. Hey, if it quacks, it's a duck, right? I didn't want to plant the idea that these might be different. These fries disappeared with the same rapidity as usual. In fact, Dog enjoyed the opportunity of sharing some with an envious friend.

There ya have it. French fries. The new health food.

His Bark is Worse

2009-10-02T07:57:00.039-04:00

Coughing appears to have become a seasonal sport. Dog has applied for Olympic consideration in the activity. Bug, as younger siblings are wont to do, has shown a reluctance to be left behind and has joined in the bark-fest. As I was dialing our doctor's number, I looked at the date on the inhaler in my hand and realized that it was exactly a year ago that we'd been in this exact same fix, looking for the exact same solution. Clearly this isn't going to be a one-off situation. When I asked our doctor what to do to avoid these respiratory infections, he glanced at Dog's chart and shrugged, "He has seasonal allergies, doesn't he?" as if that explained and dismissed it all in one fell swoop.

I realized that once again I was reading the menu at McDonald's and hoping to find Chinese food there. I walked out of the office with a handful of prescriptions--that included steroids this time--and a deeper resolve to find a way to avoid doing this again every year. I was bemoaning to Tool Guy that I appear to be constitutionally incapable of being satisfied with mainstream solutions, but upon reflection, I concluded that I wasn't necessarily a wild-eyed, radical, jerk-knee reactor. Regular dosing of antihistamines such as diphenhydramine and cromolyn sodium have reduced the difficulty, but not eliminated it and didn't help us avoid the ultimate infection anyway. Even loratadine was momentarily helpful, but eventually disappointing.

Limbering up my Google-fu, I dove into the internet to gather a consensus of what would be effective treatments for this kind of infection and what would prevent it from occurring in the first place. My first big gun suggestion came from someone who was asthma-free for the first time in years. She'd taken andrographis upon a CAM doctor's recommendation of it as an alternative to echinachea for colds and found that she was so asthma-free that she's not needed to use any of her conventional asthma medications this year. Turns out that andrographis is much more than just an option for ameliorating colds:

Scientific Name: Andrographis paniculata (Burm.f) Nees
Family: Acanthaceae
Other Common Name: Andrographis, Chuan Xin Lian, Kalmegh (Bengali, Hindi), King of Bitters.
Andrographis, is a shrub that is found throughout India and other Asian countries. It is sometimes referred to as “Indian echinacea”.
Andrographis contains, as its primary chemical constituents, diterpenoid lactones (andrographolides), paniculides, farnesols and flavonoids
Andrographis was used historically in the Indian flu epidemic in 1919, during which it was credited with reversing the spread of the disease.

Impressive, no? I made it my business to get my hands on some. It's going to be a "must have" herb for my garden in the spring, I can tell you. And not only is it good for respiratory stuff, as a bitter, it's good for digestive things, too.

At this point, I knew that my windfall of elderberry was not for nothing and poked around for applications. Kami McBride offered an obliging recipe. I tweaked it for the items that I had on hand, namely elderberry, pine needles, and rose hips. My neighbor had happened to notice me low-crawling around my yard and the neighborhood for plant matter and approached me with an offer: "Would you be interested in rose hips?" he asked. Would I! Here I'd thought that he had a persimmon bush that bristled with all of those little orange fruits. Nope. Rose hips. Does it get any better than that? The white pine in my back yard didn't mind yielding a few of their needles and I had just stocked up on a large jar of local honey. (Yes, Virginia, there do exist beekeepers who don't feed their hives with high fructose corn syrup!) The rest of Kami's ingredients I just ignored and set about making up the syrup.

Elderberry Syrup

6 cups water
3 tablespoons elderberry
2 tablespoons pine needles (Okay, I'm not gonna lie to you. I grabbed a handful off of the tree and threw it in because I'm too lazy to snip up a bunch of pine needles and measure them out by the spoonful, all right?)
2 tablespoons of rose hips (Ditto on the rose hips. A handful.)
2 tablespoons of raw honey, added to the syrup after it is cooled. (Don't want to lose all of the raw honey goodness, right?)

In a stainless steel or glass saucepan, add all ingredients, except the honey and simmer for fifteen minutes. Turn off heat and cover, letting the ingredients infuse for a few hours. Later, strain out plant matter and return liquid to saucepan. On simmer burner or with a diffuser, allow liquid to simmer without boiling until the amount is reduced to half. Let cool and add honey. Two tablespoons, three times a day.

My next big gun herbal idea was ginger. Ginger, upon closer examination, yields some very promising potential for lung support. "Ginger also decreases the activity of plate-activating factor (PAF), a clotting agent that creates the clot that can result in heart attack of stroke. Ginger's ability to reduce PAF activity also makes the herb effective against allergies and asthma." There was a bag at the local HFS waiting for me to pick up from the previous vegetable co-op order and I kept forgetting to go and get it. What can I say? I've been forgetting to take my gingko. I had earmarked these for pickling for kimbop, but this was more timely.

Ginger Syrup

1 ounce fresh ginger, sliced
1 pint water

Similarly to Kami's instructions, I put the ginger into boiling water and simmered for about 20 minutes. Turning off the heat, I then covered the pot and let it steep overnight, since roots and bark are sturdier plant materials than berries. After steeping, I strained out the root and reduced the liquid by half, adding raw honey when cooled. Two tablespoons, three times a day or when they started coughing.

Fenugreek and anise seeds came up frequently in searches as effective against coughs. As those were also readily on hand, I added them to my arsenal, preparing them in the same ratios as the ginger. Seeds are more delicate than roots or leaves and so are not simmered, but merely steeped for 20 minutes before straining out. Decoct the liquid as usual and add honey when cooled.

If honey is off the menu, these can be sweetened for the palate with whatever is acceptable, whether glycerin or stevia or the like. Syrups such as these will last a week in the fridge with honey. An alcohol, such as vodka or brandy, will preserve it longer. If freezing is necessary, separate it into smaller amounts so that these can be thawed in more usable batches.

Anise and fenugreek didn't disturb the Hobbit tranquility much, but the elderberry syrup didn't match commercial varieties for comestibility in their opinion. Quelle domage. They took it anyway. Heh. Ginger was decidedly no contender for favorite status, since it "burned all the way down." Hmmm...must be that PAF activity thing. Nonetheless, coughs are almost gone and breathing is decidedly improved. Even Doctor McDonald would be happy with that outcome.

I Sent You a Patrol Car, a Boat, and a Helicopter

2009-09-18T15:10:00.000-04:00

The Summer That Wasn't is losing even that specious hold it barely possessed on the season and leaves begin to slip from the trees. These leaves were already beginning to turn their coats at the end of July. Makes you wonder what kind of winter it will be.

Tool Guy has been planning a road trip for a few weeks now. His mother is feeling poorly and he'd like to jaunt down to see her. Logistically, it works better if he goes alone. Prior to now, the single vehicle family factor has been a hurdle. Since he got his new set of wheels, which he calls "ambrosia for the back," he has begun to imagine that he could do this on his Harley. Not a few machinations have been in the works to finesse this possibility into a plan. Biking buddies have offered and then rescinded. Planning routes, plotting possibilities, preparing the bike.

I decided to send a care package to my mother-in-love, Claudia, along with him. In my herbal apprenticeship, one of our projects was assembling herbal eye-pillows. The combination that The Herbalist had collated was dried roses, lavender (calming), sassafras bark (earthiness), rosemary (remembrance), and mugwort (sweetens dreams) that we harvested, weighted down with rice or flax seeds. She brought out a selection of shimmery silks and I settled on the pink one. Princess pink. Guess who sleeps with that one? And reports that her frequent nightmares have gone! As we sat, stitching up the fabric envelopes, one of the other apprentices shared that during her chemo recovery, she had been gifted with a similar sort of pillow and it was the most comforting thing she possessed. On days when she was totally wasted by the treatments, she said she would curl up on the couch around this pillow. Sounded like something for Claudia.

Herbal Eye Pillow

2 T dried lavender
2 T dried roses
1 T dried rosemary
1/2 t sassafras bark
2 stem's of mugwort, dried, destemmed, and crushed
1 cup white rice

Pick a tactilely satisfying fabric cut into rectangle per personal measurements: Measure the distance from one temple to the other. This will be the length. Measure from the bridge of the nose to just above the browridge. This will be the width. Mark these measurements on a piece of fabric, doubled over and cut out. With right sides, together, stitch the open sides, leaving an end open for filling.

Mix together the herbals and pour into the open end. A canning funnel is particularly useful in this application, especially if you're mass-producing these. Close the end, tucking the raw edges under and stitch closed. Sweet dreams! I decided that my sister-in-love needed one, too.

A co-worker approached Tool Guy with an offer to use a spare car. He felt a bit nervous about the idea of Tool Guy tooling across the country on a bike by himself, Harley and all notwithstanding. Tool Guy was appreciative of the offer, but declined. He was a bit nervous about the whole road-trip-bike prospect, but determined. Mostly just keeping an eye on the weather.

Well, he was a bit nervous about the weather, too. Rainy as it has been, he wasn't elated at the prospect of three days on the road in the rain. The forecast has been less than auspicious. Growing up in Louisiana, there's more rain than sunshine and hurricanes and floods are as humdrum there as earthquakes are in Los Angeles. Ho-hum. I remember that old joke I'd heard growing up:

After a frenetic week of hysterical meteorological predictions for a Category Three hurricane, the first of the dreaded raindrops began. The police sent out patrol cars stop house by house and encourage people to leave. One good old boy greeted the officer with sanguine optimism. "Mais, no. Ah grew up here. Mah daddy grew up here. His daddy grew up here. Dah Lord's gonna take care o' me. I done ax Him." Nothing the officer could say would dissuade him.

As torrential rains fell, the bayous began to rise and lap at the steps of people's homes. Police patrols in boats went around collecting the previously reluctant and assisting them to shelter. Once again, the insistent good old boy maintained that he was going to stay put and that God was going to save him.

The water levels grew higher and higher, so before long, the persistent hold-out had taken to his roof to wait. At this point, a rescue helicopter came around, throwing down a rope ladder and bull-horning to him to climb up. He shook his head and insisted that God would save him, thank you very much.

Sadly, the man succumbed to the forces of nature and found himself in Heaven. He gazed reproachfully at God and ask why He had not saved him. God levelly returned his gaze and said, "I sent a patrol car, a boat, and a helicopter. What more did you want?"

A week before the trip, Tool Guy was chatting and sharing his plans for his trip with our pastor. The next day, he got a phone call from the pastor, who indicated that he'd not felt at peace with the idea of Tool Guy harleying across country and knew of a car that would be available to use if he was interested.

Not for nothing have we been married twenty-five years, because when Tool Guy called me to report this development, we had an immediate brain-share. We each shouted out the punch line of the aforementioned joke together and laughed. "I'm not waiting for the helicopter," he said. "I'm taking the car."

Halfway through his trip, Tool Guy called home on his spanking new Tracfone. When he got into Georgia, the sky opened up and it rained bullets. Nope. Not waiting for that helicopter.

When Your Hand Finds to Do Hard Things

2009-09-04T15:25:00.012-04:00

It hasn't been a gardening year, but it certainly has been a foraging year. I'm learning that when something is available in abundance, lay some by, because next year may not be so extravagant. Last year, it was impossible to see the horizon for the poles of mullein obtruding themselves upon the vista. I dehydrated leaves and gathered the flowers, until I felt absolutely obsessive. This year, there has been only sporatic, lonely plants claiming the occasional attention in the occasional meadow. I'm not despairing, though, knowing I'm covered on that front because of last year's surplus.

One of this year's foraging finds was blackberries. What a blast from my past! As I was pouring the fruits of our collective labors into the baking dish, the aroma of hot blackberries dragged me back into my childhood and I started to recount...again...to the Hobbits about what blackberry pickings were like where I grew up.

I come from a make-it-do family. My grandparents survived the Depression on a farm in the South and, even afterwards, a farm isn't a place of affluence. My own childhood was hedged by strict economy and sweat equity. A foraging friend and I were discussing hunting (which my Dad did annually) and fishing and the potential for local game in these areas. It reminded me of summer Louisiana afternoons, when we would load up into our Buick Century, with buckets, nets, and, um, scrap chicken parts. How's that for an idyllic summer interlude? Ah, but wait. Not far down the road, the Intercoastal Canal brought tides inland and even the roadside ditches were home to countless blue crab. When I was Princess' age, I was adept at dangling a chicken neck on a string to entice a crab's attention, only to swoop it up with the net. Many a dish of crab etouffee over many a summer. Gourmet cuisine on a shoestring. Literally.

Blackberry foraging was another summer outing. My hometown was host to a then-defunct military base, that, at the time, had left miles of runway to crumble, surrounding by miles of waste fields. Fields quickly overrun with blackberry brambles. Being public property, the blackberries were finders-keepers to any intrepid individual who was willing to wade out and collect them. I have memories of enamel canning bath pots and every imaginable container from our kitchen collected into the back of that Century, while we piled in with long sleeves and pants, ready to bring home that black gold and not stopping until every monstrous container overflowed. We reckoned the stickers...and the week-long recovery from chiggers...to be a small price to pay for a year's supply of blackberries, canned or frozen.

This year, a dear friend, constitutionally unable to keep such an embarrassment of riches to herself, called me up to make a date to show me where she had found an incredible score of blackberries...which was also where she "thought" there were some elderberry bushes. She was right on both counts. We spent the next two months tag-teaming on tripping out to the field and collecting whatever was ripe of both types of berries.

This was a new experience for the Hobbits. They've become somewhat accustomed to my vagaries...my tendency to come to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road, because I spotted some stand of plants that I've just developed an affinity for, the fact that I now always carry a backpack with two field guides, a pair of snips, gardening gloves, and a jeweler's loupe (for more exacting plant identification, doncha know?), and my total addiction to the smell of freshly harvested mugwort. But most of my passions don't require much in the way of physical discomfort for them. So when my friend and I waded into the briar patch to reach the more shy and recalcitrant of the berries, all three of them were rather disaffected with the process. The Hobbits are used to suffering of a sort, but it's more of mental endurance than a physical one. My friend encouraged them that it was good to do hard things. Dog had a harder time considering that the blackberries were worth the purchase price, but Bug threw himself into the task...if not into the brambles themselves.

Sourdough "Bisquick" Cobbler...like Mom used to make...well, almost. _{(Thanks for the inspiration, Mom, and not just with the recipe, either!)}

Berry Filling:

3/4 cup water
2 T tapioca starch
1 quart berries
3/8 cup (6 T) maple syrup
2 T vegetable glycerin (if you want to bump up the sweet without bumping up the sugar)

Dissolve tapioca in water. In large saucepan, bring to a boil and cook until thickened. Add berries and sweeteners, then heat through. Pour into 10x10 baking dish.

Cobbler:

1 cup sourdough starter
1 cup dehydrated potato flakes
2 T tapioca starch
2 T potato starch
1/2 t salt
1 t guar gum
1 T maple syrup
1/2 t baking soda
1 T vinegar
1 egg
2 T oil
Enough coconut milk for all of the liquid ingredients to equal 1 cup

Measure out liquids into a bowl, add starter, then mix. Add remaining ingredients, except for the baking soda and vinegar and stir. Allow to sit while the oven is preheating to 425* to give the potato flakes time to rehydrate. When oven is heated, mix in baking soda and vinegar, and pour over the blackberry mixture. Place in oven and bake for 25-30 minutes or until crust is brown and crispy.

After their first firey baptism into foraging til it hurts, the Hobbits took to the task with equanimity. Some days were rainy and we got wet. Some days were sunny and we were hot and thirsty. (Hint: This year, the rainy, wet days were more numerous than the hot and thirsty days!) We always got scratched. Good thing that last year was a bumper year for plantain, because this year hasn't been, but we've got enough salve to see us through another season and still managed to sooth the welts left by the briars. We didn't get any chiggers. I'm going to give the credit for that to my rockin' bug spray that I cobbled together from essential oils. At least, that was one less hard thing that we had to do while we foraged with our might...

Whatsover Your Hand Finds to Do

2009-08-21T00:03:00.020-04:00

Anyone got tomatoes? Yeah? Lucky dogs. This stretch of the Shire didn't fare well for tomatoes this year. Between the cool--did I say "cool"...nay, I meant to say "cold"--temperatures all spring and summer, the rain and early late blight, not much is pinking up. Sigh. You know that you haven't had much in the way of sunshine when even your squash and cucumbers aren't plotting world domination. But, hey, mark it on your calendars...I harvested my first cuke today! There's so much rain that there's mold growing on the metal items out in the yard. See why I call this the Pacific North East? All summer I planned to do the "wardrobe flip" thing where I clamber up to the attic and schlepp all of the warm weather clothes down and toss the winter stuff up there until we need it again. Didn't happen until August and almost didn't happen at all. I guess this has been a "summer optional" year?

Tool Guy is equally frustrated. He bought a Harley Davidson Sportster "to go back and forth to work." If your Tool Guy comes home with this persuasive argument, run. Run like the wind. He does have the advantage in the argument that the extra "running around" he is doing is cheaper on gas. That has the virtue of being the truth. Fortunate for him. The frustration point is that in the eight years that we've lived here, this is the absolute wettest summer we've had. So he doesn't get to ride as often as he would wish. Pauvre petit cha'... So on the near-mythical sunny day, he's generally to be found at the leading edge of a blur, leaving behind nothing but the rumble.

I'm learning some valuable gardening lessons this year. I had planned for a "snap-back" year. Last year, I inadvertently sabotaged my garden. Then my greenhouse collapsed. I expected that I'd be able to sail into this spring and replenish my empty tomato sauce jars. Tool Guy even trekked up to the greenhouse manufacturer to pick up the replacement for me. I rubbed my hands together with glee and planned for great things.

Alas, cheri, it was not meant to be. The cauliflower never sprouted. The broccoli took two tries before the starts came up. Ditto on most of the tomatoes. Only one of my pepper plants came up. The beans and cucumbers took three tries before they came up. I bent my head lower and persisted.

We did get the greenhouse up and my starts did survive. But that's about all. I think I'm going to manage to harvest enough from each kind of vegetable that I planted to have seeds to plant next year. I unbent and visited the local farmer's market where I acquired twenty pounds of tomatoes. The newly minted jars of ketchup are cooling in my basement now. An expected blessing arrived in the form of a phone call from a friend inviting me to share in the bounty of her garden. Cucumbers and beans galore! For the three days following our thankful swoop through her garden, Bug hovered over the ripening pickle jars on the table, persistently asking if they were ready to eat. When I decanted those pickles, gratitude added an extra bit of flavor to the relish.

She also called me to share--recklessly generous friend that she is--the location of an untapped berry range. And buried in the midst of the blackberry brambles peeked several persistent elderberry bushes. We tag teamed during the weeks of the ripening berries. This was the Hobbits first excursion in berrying and it was quite the lesson in persistence, endurance, fortitude, and delayed gratification. But they were troupers and endured the belated sunshine that finally decided to make August feel like August. Not having a garden to demand our time and energy, we were freed to forage and immerse ourselves in this unexpected boon. "Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with your might."*

Neither my friend nor I having dealt with storing berries before, we discussed possible plans of attack. Syrup preparations appear to have a storage life of about six months and there was much more bounty than six months of the worst colds and flues would require. The next idea was to dry them. In the absence of detailed directions on line, I launched into a new episode of Dehydrating Dangerously. While I juggled racks in the oven, the impatient clusters that my overstuffed oven could not accommodate hung heavy like grapes from my pot rack, waiting their turns. I set the oven to 115* and made sure that there were trays under the dehydrating racks. Normally, I'm not that scrupulous, but elderberries will shrivel down to the dimensions of a flea. And with all this work, I begrudge any flea that escapes this circus!

And, of course, berries aren't about to be so obliging as to all dry at equal rates and equal degrees. Of course. And I harbor a horrifying vision of investing all of this work into drying all of this abundance, only later to find it riddled with pockets of mold because of an undetected imperfectly-dried berry. (I'm also hedging my bets by storing them in very small batches, paired up with silica packets.)

Sorting through the dried berries fingerful by careful fingerful for the semi-dried is much like panning for gold and equally tedious. I'd recommend an audio book for this process, but the quality of the sound plunking on the bottom of the china bowl became a part of the diagnostic process. A plink is dry, but a plunk goes back into the oven.

So this process does give the mind wide scope for finding subjects of meditation. When doing this, come prepared to think. One of the things I mediated on is that $16 a pound average rate for dried elderberries isn't really as dear as it first seems. Heh. It does, however, provide fodder for discussion with Hobbits about the concept of "sweat equity." I remember Sally Jesse Raphael, when she only had a radio program, sharing her evaluation process: what do you have more of? Time or money? Mostly the answer has been "time," though I have come to the conclusion that, these days, it may be running neck and neck. Still, the idea that I'm putting up food and medicine that I can reach back to even as far out as a few years from now gives me the motivation to press on and bury my hands deeply and enthusiastically in whatsoever they find to do. Even the unexpected. On second thought, particularly the unexpected.

*_{Ecclesiastes 9:10}

...Back Again

2009-08-07T15:22:00.007-04:00

The vacations of my childhood always began in the mystical, pre-dawn hours of the morning. To this day, setting out on the road before sunrise lends a nascent thrill to even the must mundane chore. This has rubbed off onto the Hobbits. Bug, my dawdler, will even put some steam into his morning routine if he thinks that doing so will get us on the road before the sky begins to lighten.

I remember rolling out of bed very shortly after pulling up the covers to sleep. It wasn't that we had such a tight schedule to meet that we would leave so early, but that my parents--my mother in particular--couldn't sleep for the excitement of the outing. This sort of thing seems to be generationally contagious. We had no difficulty wrangling everyone--a task I frequently refer to as "herding cats"--into their seat and we were off.

Too Guy was our cruise director, having planned this entire outing. I nestled into my pillows and promptly went back to sleep, the familiar profiles of this neck of the Shire having exhausted its charms for me. The Hobbits dove into some backseat vidoes, breaking a long, parentally-imposed media fast. No "are we there yets?" here. Heh.

Everyone was suitably impressed when we drove up to our accommodations. The Hobbits swarmed the playscape while I donned decontam gear and tackled the kitchenette. The toaster was the first prisoner of war to be confined to the upper reaches of the cabinetry and I sandblasted the counter top. I washed all of the remaining contents of the cabinets and hung up the Certificate of Inspection. We were in business. A quick pot of pasta and a bottle top opener and...et voila...dinner is served!

Is there any vacation attraction that can rival the lure of a swimming pool? All of Bar Harbor spread before us--or at least a nice chunk of shoreline--and these Philistines want to swim in the pool. What can I tell you? I try. I really do. While they were distracted by the possibilities of cannonballs, Tool Guy played lifeguard and shooed me away to indulge in some "me" time. I slunk away to the Jack Russell Steakhouse, beckoning me from across the street. They never missed me.

Dining out alone can be like slow dancing by yourself: a bit awkward and self-concious. So I brought my own dinner companion. A book. I presented myself to the hostess, anticipating "a booth, in the back, in the corner, in the dark." What I got was the garret at the top of the stairs. All to myself. Is there any felicity in the world equal to this? I admired the original woodwork, the eyebrow windows, authentic glazing and interior plaster work finished in a singular shade of glistening orange. Funky, but it worked.

Not much on the menu was gluten free, but hey, does one come to Bar Harbor for aught other reason than to eat lobster? So I ordered fries as an appetizer--and didn't ask what they were fried in--followed by grilled asparagus and lobster with butter. And solitude. Sheer bliss.

Back at the room, Tool Guy and I tag teamed. While he went to the Jack Russell and duplicated my order, much to the amusement of Adam, our server, I took the Hobbits on an expedition to scale the not-insubstantial shoreline rocks. We scrambled over monstrous boulders, foraged for mussel shells and vacated crab exo-skeletons, and examined the bladderwrack that ebb tide had exposed. Too cool.

The next two days were crammed with a sailing cruise, window shopping, and hiking in Acadia National Park. The Hobbits tumbled into bed, sun-pinked and satiated. At night, when the fog would roll in, we would briefly rouse at the low tones of an incoming fog horn. Yep. We're in Maine.

My farewell dinner at the Jack Russell felt as if it needed a crowning finish. The only gluten free item for dessert was creme brulee. Mmmmm. Don't mind if I do. The first bite infused me with the inspiration for my next the inspiration for my next expedition into Cooking Dangerously.

Casein Free Creme Brulee

8 egg yolks
1 cup thick coconut milk/coconut cream
3 tsp. maple sugar sugar
2 T vanilla extract
Maple sugar for sprinkling

Heat sugar and coconut milk/cream to boiling in heavy sauce pan. Add vanilla extract to eggs and gently incorporate. When the coconut cream is boiling, pour a small amount into the eggs to "temper" them, stirring continually. When the eggs have mixed with the coconut milk/cream, pour the rest of the hot milk into the mixture. Now pour into ramekins or molds and place in a chaffing dish or, for those on a Lobelia Baggins budget, a cake pan. Since my life is lacking in the politer refinements of polished society such as ramekins, I opted to use silicone muffin forms as the container in which to make the creme brulee. Fill the dish or pan with boiling water to about halfway up the mold/ramekin. Place the entire assembly into a 325* oven and bake for 15-20 minutes or until center is almost set. When cooked, remove to a clear surface and sprinkle maple sugar over the tops. Return to the oven, now set on broil at 500*. Keeping a close eye for carmelizing--in my kitchen that would be called "smoking"--let broil for 5-7 minutes or until desired degree of lava has been achieved. Brace yourself for the oooooohs and aaaaaaahs.

As a vacation, it was, as all vacations are, too short. The Hobbits brought home from sand from Ogunquit's beach; I refrained from doing any foraging in Acadia, a feat that I want recognition for. The wild roses were extraordinarily tempting. (Does anyone know of a commercial source for these?) Lots of memories. Princess declared it to be her best vacation. Fortunate, that, especially being her only one.

Here's to the next one!

There and...

2009-07-24T12:29:00.029-04:00

Tool Guy and I used to have itchy feet. We moved all of the time and when there was nothing else pressing, between moves, we hopped into the Plymouth Fury we'd christened "Polly" and explored the back roads. Indiana certainly has plenty of those. We'd head off on vacations that included mountain biking in Colorado and white water rafting in North Carolina. "Paddle or die."

Post-Hobbit, the scenery has been less varied. Just after settling in the Shire, we popped up to see what the rave over Maine was about and dipped our toes into what Ogunquit had to offer...which, in October, was rather modest, but it was a nice outing. After the food pyramid collapsed on us and Princess sent notice that she'd be inviting herself into our family, we stuck much closer to home. Actually, I crawled down the Hobbit hole and slammed the door behind me, Bilbo/Peter Jackson-fashion, shrieking, "No, thank you! We don't want any more visitors, well-wishers, or distant family relations!" Contemplating the prospect of traveling under our limitations made my mind slam shut with similar force. Doubtless there are folks who have mastered such limitations and traveled successfully, but I must admit that the knack of it has heretofore escaped me.

So instead of birthday parties, Tool Guy planned individual outings for each of the Hobbits on their birthday...things that would appeal to their unique personalities and interests. Dog took a plane ride--and piloted it for a while, he will be quick to inform you--and a cruise on an oceanographic vessel where the visitors assisted in collecting data. Bug took a historic train ride, a quick cruise around the bay on a sloop, and a visit to a coal mine. We're trying to get Princess to expand her interests outside of Build-a-Bear, but so far, her passion for animals is theoretical. In real life, they terrify her. We're working on it. Each birthday, the celebrated pair would head out the door to the intended expedition, armed with food stuffs such as chicken strips and shoestring fries, which have been favorites in our kitchen for longer than I would have imagined possible, and would dive into the day with relish.

As the Hobbits have gotten older and our food choices expanded, we began to contemplate the possibility of more distant horizons. This year, Tool Guy decided to lump all of the birthday outings into one vacation. A small one, but an official vacation nonetheless. I began to imagine that this might just be do-able. Proximity and prospect made Maine again an appealing choice. A room with a kitchen made it a possible one. After he'd made the reservations, I began my meditations.

Jerky was the obvious choice for travel food, but Hobbits do not live by jerky alone and need other food stuff to "fill in the corners." I considered our options, how to transport, how to prepare, and what was portable and possible. For months before our trip, I kept a weather eye out for sales on beef, snatching up the good buys on roasts and other cuts that would slice nicely, dividing them up into handy portions and freezing. I also started ramping up my supply of kombucha down in the basement. About a month before departure date, I began the marinading and dehydrating process. Knowing that the flavor goes a bit stale after a week or so even if the meat itself is still good, I decided to vacuum seal the finished jerky into mason jars and freeze them until the departure date. This worked out rather satisfactorily. I planned that this would be the bulk of our road food coming back home. For traveling out, I decided fry up the ever-faithful chicken strips and have a handy loaf of bread with Hormel Natural roast beef, the only lunch meat that I've found corn-free. (The roast beef is the only Hormel Natural that is corn-free.) Slowly, I started constructing a plan to cover my bases.

Tool Guy was of a mind that we should go shopping after arrival and make up meals in the room. It initially sounded reasonable, but as I meditated, I became increasingly uncomfortable with that plan. Too many uncontrolled variables. And, yeah, I'm a control freak. That sound you hear is my mind, once again, slamming shut. His perspective was that he didn't want to make any "extra work" for me. Heh. Naive lad. I opted for Plan B, which was to pick foods that would be can-able and reheat them upon arrival. No worries about ingredients, temperature and portability there. It isn't optimal food, but at least it is food food and can sustain us in a tight spot. Besides, I'd rather do my work upfront and not spend precious vacation time sussing out safe food sources and cooking.

Now one would think that Hobbits of such constricted food choices would celebrate over whatever is available to them. Unfortunately, that is not our reality. All of the stuff I blog about is stuff that gets eaten here; the rub is that there is very little that all three of them want to eat universally. At the same time. That I can transport. We narrowed down our very narrow choices to two: chili and chicken noodle soup. Dog and Tool Guy are always up for a bowl of chili and the rest of us feel the same way about chicken noodle soup. Which is just enough for a two-day trip.

The only nervous-making prospect of the whole canning expedition is that I've never canned meat before. It was rather a leap of faith. I pored over the canner manufacturer's instructions, Stocking Up, and The Ball Blue Book on canning. Repeatedly. Tool Guy rolled up his sleeves and made a couple of huge batches of chili, which canned up to perfection. We were all hovering over the bubbling jars, wiping the steam from our glasses, and listening for the metallic pops. I think I was holding my breath. All of them sealed beautifully. The Canning Gurus would've been proud.

The chicken noodle soup took a bit more thought, since I'm not a huge fan of canned vegetables. That's actually a major understatement. It was quite easy to sell me on the principles of fermented vegetables, since I don't think it is possible to convince me to voluntarily eat canned vegetables. The few experiments I made in that direction, with the exception of tomato sauce, ended up being stealthed into chili. Keep that under your hat, though...no one here is aware of this little tidbit and the less said on that, the better. In the end, I decided to keep the canned ingredients to a minimum: just the meat and veggies. The pasta came along with us in the bag, boiling up fresh pasta with each meal and adding it to the reheated soup at the last minute. I seasoned and boiled the chicken as usual, keeping the cut vegetables aside. After the meat was cooked, I deboned the chicken, returning it to the broth with the uncooked vegetables. I canned both the chili and the soup according the the manufacturer's canning instructions for meat. I was a bit disappointed that two of my chicken soup jars never popped, but that did give us the chance to see how our final successful product turned out before we were past the point of no return. Amazingly, the vegetables weren't mushy and there was surprisingly little savor lost. However, if I do this again, Philistine that I am, I probably would add a touch more salt.

When we packed up the trunk of our Malibu, we had only two suitcases--and I promised Tool Guy that I wouldn't mention that one was his while the other held everything else for everyone else...he's admonished me in the past that I tend to overpack...ahem--and the rest was, you'll not be surprised, food. The jerky, chili, and soup filled two boxes, while the rest of our dry food stuff and cooking paraphernalia consumed the remaining space. We were able--just--to close the trunk and cram ourselves into the intimate quarters of our little car, while my very own Mr. Sulu plugged in his spanking new Garmin and programmed the coordinates.

On the road again.

Things That Go Cough In the Night

2009-07-10T08:45:00.010-04:00

Elecampagne Plant

He never has been a cooperative child. Even before he was born, Dog refused to change his presentation to accommodate me and the OB. In a stubborn transverse position the entire final trimester, the best compromise he would yield was a single footling breech. He's been digging his heels in ever since.

We've been fighting Dog's cough off and on for over a year now. Tried lots of stuff, including pulling the passionately favorite ghee, thinking that the dairy was a contributing factor. For once, though, it wasn't a food issue. Go figure. Getting rid of that musty-smelling mattress did improve breathing conditions for the remainder of the winter. Bug and Tool Guy are sequestered in the shop, cranking out a bunk bed set reminiscent of Stone Henge to replace the former sleeping arrangements.

However, we are now in the height of pollen season. My email inbox is daily peppered with pollen reports of maximum measures of oak, hickory, birch, grass and other delectables which have left their yellow evidence sprinkled over every conceivable surface. When pollen counts aren't spiking, this very chilly, damp...I believe the season might be considered "summer"...is yielding sky high mold counts. So I'm breaking out all of my big guns to deal.

Our first line of defense is a neti pot. This cute little pot hasn't been welcomed as a best friend among the Hobbits, but application three times a day has certainly reduced the nightly wheezing and coughing. For such an intransigent child, Dog is really pretty good about putting up with my whack-job remedies.

This is the season to forage and what I'm looking for grows in abundance where we live. A few plants that are historically used for coughs are mullein, elecampagne, and coltsfoot. The Herbalist says these are her "go-to" plants for lung complaint.

Mullein

Foraging can be a relaxing outing, but when one is on a mission and there's mileage to be covered, many hands make light work. One sunny (rare, this year) afternoon, the four of us set off with totes in one hand and clippers in another in search of some off-road infestations of coltsfoot and mullein. A bit of land that fell to the ax of tax arrears has just opened up to public access for fishing in our neighborhood "kill" (shirespeak for "creek"). Rich pickings there, not only in coltsfoot, but also mullein. Off the road yet. It's always recommended to try to harvest plants that live at least eight feet off of any roadway, in order to avoid any toxins that the plants may absorb from proximity to passing vehicles. Score! I'll be watching for these mullein plants to be flowering soon. Earache season will be here before we know it and it never hurts to plan ahead.

Coltsfoot*

As we clipped, Bug began to unpack his own personal recollections of herb lore, surprising me with the amount of information he'd retained. Things I either didn't remember telling him or assumed he never processed. Astonishing, since this is the child whose lowest scoring domains are in listening skills. Guess it requires the right motivator.

Eager and enthusiastic hands make light work of filling our bags. The dehydration process didn't finish quite so quickly, but at the end of three days, the yield was such that I felt we'd collected enough.

Elecampagne Flower

Elecampagne is another big gun for respiratory difficulties. It rocks for things like pneumonia, bronchitis, and this coughing that is plaguing Dog. It certainly helps to clear up the gunk that clogs his lungs. This is one that has to be harvested in the fall after the second hard frost, since the tincture is made from the roots.

Every day, we check the pollen and mold counts the way some folks check their stock portfolios. So far, no single remedy is the silver bullet for us, but a combination of applications...and some cooperation from the "participant" and all of us, Dog not the least, are breathing easier and sleeping better at night.

*Peterson's Field Guide to Medicinal Plants and Herbs has this to say about coltsfoot:
"Contains traces of liver-affecting pyrrolizidine alkaloids; potentially toxic in large doses. In Germany, use is limited to 4 to 6 weeks per year, except under advice of a physician." p. 147

Chickens Coming Home To Roost

2009-06-26T08:00:00.011-04:00

Well, tie it up with a bow. The school year has ended. Whew. This has been the most mad six weeks that I can remember for any stretch of time. An extra co-op delivery sandwiched in between the Stanford for the older Hobbits, as well as a research paper/Science Fair project for Dog. But when your child tells you that he wants to volunteer to do extra work, one can hardly refuse, no? Actually, it was the display that he had really volunteered to do...or at least volunteered Tool Guy's help on it. By the time, I realized what had happened, they were quite committed to the accomplishing the of display and so Dog, by default, was committed to the research paper. He knuckled down with surprising cooperation--repaying the cost of display supplies looming over his head--to the completion of the paper. His first. With very little involvement in the actual writing of the paper from me. I just held his hand during the research portion of the project and helped him conform to the assigned format. The rest, he did himself. And brought home the Gold for his age group. Attaboy!

Bug's Stanford shows that he has taken tremendous strides forward in his reading and language skills...areas in which he has struggled in the past. Woohoo! I guess Raymond Moore is right. Better late than early. Some boys do advance better at eight years of age than before. I'm hoping the same applies to math word problem skills, because that's this year's area of greatest challenge. We've been using Singapore math, but if anyone has any suggestions or resources for beefing up word problem skills, holler at me! I'll also entertain feedback from anyone who wants to feed my internal mantra that this will come with time, like the reading did. Tool Guy thinks more time in the shop is the answer. Heh.

Princess began the year as a kindergartener who had a rudimentary grasp of the initial phonics rules and ended the year as a first grader who is also a reader and writer. We continually find little love notes tucked in out of the way corners around the house. Cute beyond words.

In the past, I have noticed the propensity of peer-mothers to, upon the entrance of their youngest into first grade, cast about for someone/thing new to mother. If they have decided that they are past the age of continual conception, most turn to the option of mothering something even shorter and furrier than Hobbits. A dog. Or a cat. Something I swore I'd never do. Now that the Hobbits are reasonably house-broken--having successfully broken the house--I swore I'd enjoy the languorous, sybaritic luxury afforded by my surfeit of spare time. Yeah. Right. Good luck with that plan.

Well, to my credit, it isn't a dog. Or a cat. I got chickens. That was my twenty-fifth anniversary gift, remember...a chicken tractor. Tool Guy brought them home to me from where they had been boarding at a friend's house until we were ready to receive them. They were more or less agreeable about coming. Except for one. Tool Guy said when they caught her, she'd "screamed like a woman." He's still trying to explain away that comment. Trust me.

The girls settled into the routine of our yard, trundling about the property in the tractor and nesting in their roost quite naturally. The Hobbits decided to name each of them, which I allowed, since these are going to be egg birds and not soup birds. The Wyondottes are called, respectively, Polka and Dot. We haven't been able to differentiate which is which. The other two are white, with one of them having neck and tail markings. The white one was christened "Snow" by the Hobbits, but I still refer to her as "Luci-" due to her...um...cunning wiles.

Luci has decided that she's the alpha bird. Having already expressed her aforementioned reluctance to relocate, she has concluded that as opportunity presents itself, she plans to avail herself of the relative roominess of our acreage, irrespective of anyone else's thoughts or wishes on the matter. The first time she flew the coop, I think she startled herself and so stuck close enough to her flock mates that after an hour or so, she was nestled next to the tractor, clawing wistfully at the wire. Her bid for independence, when I pursued her, was rather half-hearted and I was quickly able to recapture her.

Her second excursion revealed a more footloose and fancy-free Luci. Her hour of liberty was about ten o'clock in the morning and she planned to make the most of her day. None of the usual coaxings, baitings, pleadings, or corrallings could persuade her. I can only image what the neighbors were thinking, as they must have been watching. It was a popcorn-worthy event. Or sorghum for the corn-sensitive. She successfully avoided the team of Hobbits and adults trying to secure her. Scoffed at any food offerings. Distained to flee to the box trap someone so cunningly devised. Tool Guy thought a blanket as a net would work, but that spooked even the more docile hens who had decided to stay at home. Dad thought a bamboo garden rake would work to pin her down, but she skittered away with raucous and reproachful cackles that echoed off of the hemlocks that make up our woods. Eventually, I threw up my hands and announced that we'd wait for sunset time when she would naturally decide that she needed to be in her roost.

Nothing wrong here that a batch of cookies wouldn't cure, no? With patient and continual doses of "a tincture of time," the Hobbits continue to gradually gain lost ground. Beans have been unequivocally reintroduced. This addition to the diet was strangely not met with the same cries of delight that accompanied chocolate. I can hear what you're saying. Go figure. Being the untrustworthy and deceitful parent that I am, I never shirk at an opportunity to engage in guerrilla nutrition. Hence, bean flour cookies.

Chocolate Chip Bean Flour Cookies

1/2 cup palm shortening
1 tsp salt
1/2-1 cup maple syrup
2 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
1 tsp. guar gum
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 cup tapioca starch
1/4 cup potato starch
1 1/2 - 2 cups cup bean flour
1 cup Enjoy Life chocolate chips

Garbanzo beans usually figure largely in my bean flour blends, but I've abandoned the favored fava beans of Bette Hagman's "garfava flour" fame for my own combination of adzuki beans and garbanzo which I call "gadzuki flour." Yeah, I know. As Mrs. Weston put it, "all...people will have their little whims." So humor me, okay?

Cream shortening together with the syrup, vanilla, and eggs, mixing in the remaining ingredients, except the chocolate chips, which are best incorporated with hand stirring. Roll into balls and flatten with a plate or cup bottom. (I find that sandwiching between baking parchment or silicone mats assist in this process.) Bake at 350* for 10-12 minutes or until desire consistency.

As the sun started setting, I ventured out into the yard to see if Luci could be persuaded to submit. She'd spent most of the previous hour looking for her own way into the tractor. (By the way, leaving an opening for her to access at her own leisure only allowed Polka to emerge, giving us yet another refugee to regain. Fortunately, she did it with a better grace than Luci.) When Luci started fluttering and poking around the elevated hutch of the tractor, I judged it might be time. I circled the tractor while she walked the ridgepole of the roof, Anne Shirley-style. She wanted nothing to do with my help, silly git. I waited until she turned her back to scope out another angle before I reached up, finally grabbing one of her legs with success. I'll leave the shrieks of indignation and wounded dignity to your imagination. Not much that you could conjure up would fall short of the reality. But she'd come home to roost at last.

I spent the first couple of years of our food journey chasing the intolerances around, hoping to pin them down and to be able to put them where I wanted them. That wasn't any more successful than chasing Luci. We had unnecessary setbacks because I'd not yet learned to wait. But it's happening, though. All the chickens are coming home to roost.

I'm stalking bananas next.

Redeeming the Bread

2009-06-12T16:27:00.000-04:00

Bug's favorite excuse is "I got distracted." While he's a highly distractible sort of Hobbit, it does get old after a bit. It's sort of a contagious variety of excuse, since I'm hearing it from other members of the clan besides Bug. Tool Guy trots it out from time to time, to my cynical sneers. Oh, the hubris...

Sunday mornings are not an oasis of quiet and reflection in the midst of a hurly-burly week. As much as it pains me and as it is humbling to admit, Sunday mornings = stress in this Hobbit hole. Two hours is barely sufficient time to organize and corral five people out of the house in a tranquil and pacifistic manner. That's what the commute is for...regrouping and refocusing after the mad dash out the door. It's like herding cats.

I really should know better than to try and squeeze in any other activity than the ones required to get us out the door for the morning. I really should. It should be enough to feed and dress everyone, organize snacks, collect up textbooks, music materials, and sermon notes. Watching us leave must look like a troupe of Hobbits breaking bivouac. But for some reason or another, it seemed like a reasonable, rational, nay, even possible goal to get a loaf of bread going in the morning before we left. The theory was that if I set the bread to rising--my starter is sluggish of late and needs more rise time than previous--when I first got up, I could set the timer for the rest of the rise, the oven would turn on, bake the bread, then turn off, patiently waiting for our return home a few hours later. It makes a nice theory, doesn't it?

Half way down the road, it came to me that I'd never set the timer. Nothing for it but to sit in the passenger's seat and fume over the wasted product. Okay. Breathe deep. The rest of the drive involved my mind furiously shifting through ways to salvage the situation.

Redemption Muffins

2 cups of flopped bread dough
1 cup pear butter or apple sauce
1 cup dry quinoa flakes
2 t cinnamon
1 T vinegar
1 t baking soda

When I got home the dough, nestled in its 100* oven, had risen and fallen with a lovely layer of froth over the top. It was quite liquid, too. Hence, the addition of dry quinoa flakes. This may appear an arbitrary ingredient to add and, indeed, it is. The theory was that the dry flakes would soak up the extra moisture. Besides, the flakes were part of a cereal that the Hobbits swore that they loved, but really what they loved was to pick the dried mangoes and strawberries out and leave the hideously expensive quinoa flakes behind with a sneer. Soooo. One cup of dry quinoa flakes it is.

I think that I now passionately adore vinegar and baking soda as a rising agent, since stumbling across a cake recipe recently that called for this combination. Betty Crocker look out. So I now use it instead of the much pricier cream of tartar. But just to keep things interesting, I've taken to using cane vinegar, courtesy of our local international grocery store, since it has a sweeter and more mild taste than other vinegars and is a more palatable addition to dessert breads.

Mix ingredients and pour into muffin molds, baking at 350* for 30 minutes.

Dog, who has of late turned his nose up at such humble offerings as pear butter muffins, inhaled these and declared them the best he's ever tried. Figures. Now I have to go and engineer a deliberate mistake...

The Unkind Cut

2009-05-29T12:11:00.002-04:00

One of the Herbalist's favorite axioms is "herbs grow most where they are needed most." And it is an interesting proposition. I mentioned earlier that I've identified a large stand of blue bugle in my back yard and smaller clumps scattered across the rest of our property. I even poked Tool Guy about it, since it has been labeled the "carpenter's herb," being hemostyptic in nature. This was simply whistling in the dark on my part, because in the seven years since he has resumed wood working, he's never. ever. cut himself. Now, me on the other hand...well, I do talk about cooking dangerously, don't I?

Less than a week after identifying bugle and discovering its purpose, I had the quintessential opportunity to field test its efficacy. There I was. In the kitchen. A banded bunch of green onions in my hand. A very sharp knife. Let me say in my defense that at least I had the blade pointing upward and I was cutting away from myself. Alright, alright, but at least I feel slightly less stupid, okay?

As I wrapped up the cut and watched it rapidly soak the bandage without any indication of abating, I dizzily chanted to myself that I didn't want to go to Urgent Care at that particular moment. Somewhere in my scattered wits, the remembrance of bugle floated to the surface and I dashed out of the back door and onto the lawn to snatch up a couple of leaves. I stuffed them in my mouth, munched them into a macerated paste and peeled open the bandage, plastering the pulp in place and resealing the bandage. Two minutes later, the bleeding had stopped completely. It wasn't even hurting. Cross my heart and hope to die. That night, I applied a couple of plantain leaves to the cut for the astringent and antiseptic properties. In the morning, I was able to abandon the bandage altogether.

It was rather interesting that within a few days of this experience, I was settled in the bedroom, doing some studying when Tool Guy called to me with a strained note in his voice. When I answered, he told me that he needed me to drive him to Urgent Care. I darted into the bathroom where he was sluicing out a vicious cut where he'd been momentarily distracted and lost an argument with his miter saw. Fortunately, it wasn't his band saw or he would have lost more than the argument. Once again, I made a mad dash for the bugle patch, followed closely by Hobbits who were eager to assist me in the collection. Once again, it performed as previously, though his cut was much worse than mine. Whew.

I've certainly decided that, since cuts are not a seasonal hazard, bugle needs to have a place in our medicine cabinet. Toward this end, I gathered up runners of it with the leaves still attached rather than snipping off individual leaves. These I dried on racks in my oven, set on 100*. After drying, I store the leaves in a mason jar, vacuum sealed with a packet of desiccate inside.

Both of our war wounds are healing up nicely. Tool Guy is still accommodating himself to the green stores that are filling our medicine cabinet these days. After the bugle application, he insisted on scrubbing out his wound with commercial antiseptics and plaster on antibiotic-impregnated bandages. I'm trying not to be smug about the fact that his cut isn't healing quiiiiiite as cleanly as mine. When I pointed this out to him, he told me to talk to the hand. The uncut one. Heh.

The World In My Own Back Yard Redux

2009-05-15T12:31:00.000-04:00

I think that it has finally decided to be Spring. Every year, the cusp between Winter and Spring feels like it drags out interminably. Although old-timers auger a hard, dry summer from the signs they see before them, it doesn't look that way from my back deck. I've had to bring my soggy, struggling starts in more often from the rain than from the frost. This spring has afforded me ample opportunity to confirm that veteran remedy for soil fungus: cinnamon. I think that after watching me grab the cinnamon shaker and billow fragrant brown clouds over my sickening starts that the Hobbits shall be surprised at nothing I do. My starts are thriving, though. So there.

I'm always amazed at what powerful solutions we have at hand to us, should we choose to avail ourselves of them. At least, as long as we have knowledge of them. Which is why I've so avidly wanted to take an herbal class.

Yes, I have plantain oil, which does marvelous things for diaper-rashy bottoms...or for the tweener who somehow must tangle with poison ivy every year. The property's administration practically razed the area around Dog's favorite haunt in an attempt to eradicate it. Dog still found some. The dried mullein leaves found use this winter and I think I have found renewed confidence toward putting the coltsfoot I harvested to use. We even had an ear infection or two that felt the gratitude of mullein oil and a heated rice bag. Comfort herbs, if you will. But I'm coming to the end of my own personal resources.

So when Tool Guy and I were discussing twenty-fifth wedding anniversary plans, he was a little taken aback by my wishes. He had a weekend in The City planned. I had a chicken tractor in mind. He was thinking ritzy dinners in hotels with hyphenated names. I was thinking about herbal classes. I guess his willingness toward extravagant romantic gestures, poor guy, is wasted on me, the eternal pragmatist. Still, he's happy to make me happy, so when green things started elbowing their way to the surface, I set off on a Saturday with my notebook, backpack, and a tray of kimbop. The first class of the season.

We sat in the grass under a fitfully sunny sky that tried to ward off the chill from the wind and opened our Newcomb's Guides. The Herbalist had selected a plant that grew proliferately among the grass for us to cut our teeth on identifying. She even passed out magnifying glasses and a jeweler's loupe for us to get up close and personal. I felt a disproportionate and ridiculous sense of accomplishment when I was able to identify the blue bugle. Clearly, I need to get out more.

Word is that bugle is called the "carpenter's herb" for its ability to stem bleeding. I guess there's some wisdom in the doctrine that herbs grow where they are needed...eh, Tool Guy?

One of my classmates identified the ground ivy or gill-over-the-ground, a plant which carries the reputation as being helpful with lead paint exposures. That's certainly a plant idea to keep on the back burner in these days of heavy metal toxicity, no?

I brought a few runners home with me and looked for a likely spot in my own yard in which to encourage them. After scratching out a place in a location that looked similar to the place where they were thriving in The Herbalist's yard, I started examining the leaves of surrounding hopefuls pushing up and--guess what?--I had transplanted some ground ivy in amongst...ground ivy. While that doesn't speak well for my identification skills, I can at least console myself that I have good instincts for where something may grow. I guess... Heh.

Each class has a lecture--this one was on the digestive system and, thankfully, she glossed through it very quickly in deference to those of us who have an intimate acquaintance with that particular system--as well as a project. One of our projects of the day was taking an infusion of burdock, decocting it and then making a syrup with it. Burdock is a good tonic-all and is a traditional herb for spring cleansing along with others like dandelion.

Burdock Tonic

1 oz. burdock
1 pint water
Stainless steel, glass, or enamel pot

Add water and burdock to the pot and bring to a boil, then simmering on low for 15-20 minutes. Remove from heat. Cover to prevent any essential oils from escaping and allow to steep overnight. Strain product from the liquid and return liquid to pot. Gently simmer until the amount of liquid is reduced by half. This decoction can then be stored in the refrigerator for a week when sweetened with honey. A splash of brandy (haven't yet vetted brandy out for corn-safety) will preserve it longer. For longer term storage, separate it into halves and freeze the unused portion.

I came home that day with a pinker face, thanks to the sun, a fuller notebook, a sense of exhilaration and empowerment. And two lemon balm plants and a valerian root plant. I've got a spot selected in the yard that I'm going to lasagna into an herb garden next year. I'm already looking forward to the next class and plotting what dish I'm bringing to the class pot luck. We're talking about doing a recipe book of our collected contributions at the end of the year. Cool deal. Talking food and herbs. Does it get any better than that?

Oh, and about that recurrent poison ivy? The Herbalist posits that poison ivy proliferates in disturbed areas...kind of a defense mechanism that says "Keep Out." That eradication attempt? Just made things worse. Given Dog's record, that makes it time to hit the yard for more stock-up stuff!

Bug the Builder...Yes, We Can!

2009-05-01T08:00:00.018-04:00

It's funny how small things can be pivotal. How many parents have wrestled with their child over math lessons or homework to the tune of the plaintive cry of, "When will I ever need this?" Bug, at the advanced age of...um...eight, has succumbed to this syndrome while doing those quadratic equations the rest of us know as addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Sigh. At this rate, I expect I'll hear the same from Princess in another month or two...

When his attitude became increasingly truculent, I decided that we needed some practical application and enlisted the services of Tool Guy. And truly, woodworking experience utilizes all of the functional math embodied in most third grade curricula. He obliged me, as he does in most all things.

Amazingly, this child who had heretofore shown no passion for anything other than videos and computer games (I do not count myself among those parents who see a budding Spielburg or Gates in such juvenile passions) developed an immediate affinity for woodworking. Now this is an avocation I'm thrilled to see him sink his teeth into. I'd much rather he wax on to strangers about the kerf of a blade than what level he acquired in even such as Math Blaster.

For his first project, he and Tool Guy settled on a bedside table in my honor, considering that a piano bench overflowing with my audiobooks, earbuds, and other multi-media accoutrement such as accompanies my night-time knitting excursions needs some help. Tool Guy did the ripping, but Bug did the rest. The centerpiece tool to this entire project was a commercial jig--doncha just love all of the lingo? Just wait until I start elaborating on mortises and tenons--which produces a superior assembly, both in strength and ease of execution. Within a surprisingly short period of time, Bug proudly presented me with a night stand that he had designed. Tool Guy assisted in dimensioning, but Bug's rough sketch of what he wanted still graces the wall of Tool Guy's shop. Bug sanded, assembled, stained, and shellacked this table. Amazing.

And when, proud papa that he is, Tool Guy flashed pictures of this table around as if it were Bug's baby pictures, Bug received his first commission to produce some bedroom furniture at some point for one of the mom's in our homeschooling co-op. Tool Guy and Bug were both so buoyant about its success that they decided to write to the jig manufacturer and wax enthusiastic about its merits and applaud them for marketing such a useful and efficient tool that even an eight year old could use to build quality furniture.

The response was surprising. On Thursday evening after trudging in late from a long day of homeschooling co-op, we were greeted at the door by a UPS package. I twitted Tool Guy, Mr. UPS-At-My-Door-Everyday, yet again for yet another internet order from his favorite jig company, but he declared himself innocent. And indeed, he was innocent. This time...don't kid yourself. The package turned out to include a warm letter of thanks for Bug's initial letter and pictures of his project. The letter asked that Bug consider building another project using the tool kit in the package, which was their latest incarnation of Tool Guy's favorite jig, and document the project for them.

The pair were beside themselves with excitement and acceded to my suggestion that we needed a new medicine cabinet for the bathroom and the project began in earnest. Meanwhile, the company PR rep was not idle. Shortly after the cabinet was finished and the last pictures and video clips were sent off to them, we received a phone call from the local paper wanting to schedule an interview with Bug. Heady stuff for an eight year old, no?

In addition to teaching Bug lessons about addition et al, this project has taught him a multitude of other things. Craftsmanship, creativity, a sense of self-confidence, and self-sufficiency. I want my children to learn that they can do whatever they set their minds to and not remain at the mercy of what the market provides. I think it was Bug who, when I was applying make-up one day and commented that I was almost out of a particular cosmetic, responded with, "Guess you'll have to make some more." Heh. But that's really the message that I want them to carry. If they can dream it, they can make it.

They can even make it if someone else dreams it. (Just don't sell it, alright?) One of the banes of Breatharian eating is the expense. Even the commercial preparations that are compliant with the diet are hideously...nay, exorbitantly...dare I say, usuriously expensive. Granny discovered this when she volunteered to underwrite providing the Hobbits with such commercial treats as they could have. She failed to reckon with the rising cost of food and the rising amount of such food that the Hobbits could consume. Quickly she cried, "Uncle!" and agreed to underwrite the ingredient purchases if I would do some cooking dangerously and reverse engineer the treat. It was an immediate hit. It has been requested to be part of our travel package when we do a road trip later this summer.

Grainless Granola Bars

Base "dough"

1/2 cup baking or whole dates
1/2 cup raisins
1/4 cup amaranth
1 T maple syrup
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup seeds or chopped nuts (pumpkin seed and sunflower seed pictured)

Run ingredients through food processor or blender until blend incorporates into a ball.

Into the base dough, press 1 cup total of pumpkin, sunflower, sesame seed, walnuts, pecans, or any preferred seed/nut or any combination thereof. Princess is inclined to a pumpkin/sunflower seed combination, while Dog and Bug favor walnut. The seeds/nuts can be pressed into the dough with a fork or scraper, but I decided to let my machines to the muscle and used the dough hook on my Kitchen Aid. When the seeds/nuts are fully incorporated into the base dough, pull off approximately 1-2 T of the mixture and press into the bottom of a muffin form. This amount of ingredients yields about 12 granola bars. Alternatively, press the whole mixture into a pan and slice into bars.

Bug told the reporters, "I like it. And I'm good at it." On such things hinge significant things...a sense of math, a sense of accomplishment, and a sense of direction. And quality time with Dad. Doesn't get much better than that.

Sick As a Dog

2009-04-17T10:18:00.021-04:00

I think that Dog is allergic to Sunday nights. If memory serves, it was a Sunday night when he decided that he didn't want to breathe anymore and to turn blue instead. The most recent Sunday night, he decided to complain about pains in his side and even had the audacity to run a temperature of 100.9. I suspected that it was related to the intestinal bug that had been making the community rounds and the rounds in our family as well, but sometimes you can't be too careful. As it happened, the "on call" doctor was our pediatrician, whom I like very much and who sent us to the hospital forthwith.

I'm no stranger to the ER. When I worked as a professional interpreter, I saw more than my share of ERs. San Antonio boasts a large collection of hospitals, from teaching to private and I got to sample all of them. I've learned a few axioms, some of those "universally acknowledged truths."

ERs are always busy.
ERs are always crowded.
ERs are always understaffed.
ER personnel are always overworked.
The labs are always backlogged.
Any ER visit will entail a minimum of four hours and usually more.

Based on such axiomatic wisdom, I instructed Dog to bring a backpack of what he would deem sufficient material with which to entertain himself. He brought his entire comic book collection. I brought my knitting and the library's play-away copy of Mere Christianity.

The registration desk confirmed that no universal truths had changed since my early retirement. We did eventually get in and he was seen. The doctor ordered a CAT scan and informed us that it would be a long night. See? He knows the axioms, too. Hurdle #1 was the contrast solution that they wanted him to drink. I requested the pharmaceutical insert in the substance to check for corn. It was a couple of hours, but I did get to read the insert, which yielded nothing suspicious. Is it possible that there is a substance made without corn? Not totally satisfied, I gave the go-ahead to drinking the nasty stuff...a whole quart full...sans Kornaid...er...Koolaid, thankyouverymuch. By then, Dog had read through his comic books and I had discovered that the battery to the play-away was good for about one chapter. That was all I would hear from C. S. Lewis for the rest of the adventure. And while I did bring my knitting, I'd left my instructions for turning the heel at home. I determined that I was going to knit even if this sock ended up turning into a thigh-high, dagnabbit. But by then, we had discovered that our room had a television tuned into interesting documentaries on penguins and polar warming. Just Dog's cup of tea.

Meanwhile, I had to svengali the gastrograffin down Dog's throat. A quart of it. All of it. Without the palliative assistance of Koolaid. The wiki stub on the substance says that it tastes "vile" and Dog concurs. Gotta give Dog snaps. He was a trooper. Of course, it did require some negotiations in which figured significant amounts of Endangered Species chocolate and Yummy Earth Lollipops. I had visions of his siblings engineering their very own ER visits on the strength of the perceived payoffs. But he did manage to get the whole quart down. Meanwhile, we dodged another corn bullet when they wanted to give him some tablet tylenol. The nurse registered a certain degree of shock when I said it probably had corn in it. I guess if it doesn't have a shuck on it, then it can't be corn, right? Someday, it will be a universally acknowledged truth that most pharmaceutical binders come from corn.

Hurdle #2 was when the surgeon showed up in the later wee hours to discuss the CAT scan findings. Yes. That would be "surgeon." Seems there was some "thickening" around the appendix and the entire intestinal lining appeared inflamed. The radiologist and the surgeon were a bit conflicted on how to interpret the scan and so wanted to hold him for observation and make a more determined decision around noon on Monday. If the pain subsided and he could keep down a meal, then the surgeon preferred to release him. Sounded like a plan. Meanwhile, he wanted to hook Dog up to an IV. "What's in the solution?" "Oh, just glucose and electrolytes." I shook my head. "No glucose," I insisted. "Corn." He hastened to assure me that there was no corn in it. We locked eyes and I assured him that I'd never yet been able to ferret out a corn-free glucose source. There was a very long pause in which I watched the wheels behind his eyes turning. Not sure exactly what he was weighing...but he counter-offered a solution of just electrolytes. Since I couldn't in all honesty claim to have researched electrolytic formulas, I decided to concede to the compromise.

Dog was a model patient through all of this. The pokes, and prods, and swills, and sticks. While he was gagging down the gastrograffin and being impaled with needles, he would cheekily remind me with a weak grin about the payoff and make attempts to renegotiate for better terms. Irrepressible, that lad. The prospect of surgery did make his composure wobble a bit, but he hung tough.

Hurdle #3 was The Meal. Tool Guy, in one of our update phone calls, reminded me that this was the same hospital whose definition of "gluten-free menu" consisted of...soup broth. Yes, period. And apparently, bringing in outside food, irrespective of its nutritional value, was Not Done. He spoke from personal experience. I had plenty of hours in which to carefully craft a polite, but immovable "suggestion" about what Dog would be eating prior to release. Props to the surgeon, though. He didn't hesitate a second when I mentioned bringing in food that was Breatharian compliant. Maybe the nurse had transmitted my answer to her query about what his corn reaction looked like: "An Alien pops out of his chest and devours everyone in the room." No problem. Bring his own food.

At noon that morning, after being up for thirty-six hours, I happy-danced my way to the grocery store to pick up some Hormel Natural Choice roast beef, which is the only deli meat I've found on the face of the Shire that doesn't have corn. (The rest of their meats have corn-based starter culture.) Dog inhaled the pack without tasting...his appetite being the surgeon's leading indicator that this wasn't appendicitis. Dog was actually rather reluctant to go home, having, at this point, gotten plugged in to the Playstation on the pediatric ward. We were sent home with directions to make a follow up appointment in a week. The lagnappe--the "something extra"--to the whole experience is that Dog came home reaction-free, something I would have deemed impossible.

As I went home, I had visions of bone broth dancing through my head. That is...those brain cells that weren't committed to the concept of unconsciousness for an unspecified amount of time. Fortunately, I keep copious amounts of this broth always on hand and have plenty to enjoy my latest incarnation:

Hot and Sour Soup

I make a big batch, so tweak your proportions accordingly.

2 quarts bone broth
3 T tapioca starch
4 eggs (optional)
1/4 tsp cayenne or hot pepper
1 T wheat-free tamari or fish sauce (I use my big batch broth for this, which I salt after making, so I use tamari here very sparingly. If you don't salt your broth base, then you may want to tweak the tamari/fish sauce contribution upward.)
5 T rice or cane vinegar

Reserve 1/2 cup lukewarm broth before pouring remaining 2 quarts into medium-sized stock pot. Bring soup to a rolling boil and add pepper, tamari or fish sauce, and vinegar. In reserved broth, stir the tapioca starch until completely dissolved, watching for any remaining lumps. Pour into the actively boiling broth and stir until soup becomes transluscent. Scramble eggs and slowly pour into still boiling soup, stirring constantly to produce a stringy consistency to the cooking eggs. (Allowing eggs to settle will create clumping.) Serve hot.

I have to say I was deeply impressed with the integrity of the surgeon. I've heard a lesser-known axiom that doctors do what they do best. Surgeons, being of a surgical specialty, are more prone to operate. Well, this is one who is an exception to that rule, if there is indeed one. It took a lot of...pardon the pun...guts for him to challenge the dissenting opinions of two other doctors and delay operation. Malpractice standards fly in the face of this decision as well, since a doctor is more likely to be adjudicated as liable when not doing something rather than doing the wrong thing. It is argued that a doctor who does the wrong thing at least tried. Doing nothing is more easily determined to be negligence. Let's hear it for those who stand by the courage of their convictions. They are still among us.

Bone broth is a wonderful intestinal restorative. Hot and Sour Soup has been my constant breakfast-lunch-dinner-snack companion for quite a few months now and I've seen huge improvements in my ability to digest starches. I'd love to claim that it wards off appendicitis, but that might strain credulity. The follow-up visit declared Dog to be fully recovered. No appendicitis. Couldn't wheedle the doctor into crediting the broth, though. Darn.

Not For Commercial Use

2009-04-03T13:30:00.003-04:00

Another pusher sleeve on my food processor snapped. Let's see. That makes how many? Four in seven years? The bowl got replaced once and I think I've replaced the lid, as well. The most annoying breakages are the plastic widgey bits that trigger the safety releases. (And with my track record, I need all of the safety measures they can dream up!) I can't blame all of the wear on the plastic, though. I ended up replacing the all-purpose blade along with the pusher sleeve. That's Number 3 for that type of blade. This one had stress fractures at the rivets. How did that happen? I'm on my third slicing blade, too. Hey, ten potatoes sliced two ways once a week puts some wear on a surface. The teeth on these instruments of mass destruction have been visibly worn down. I suppose that it's only fair to put the old ones out to pasture. And this is just my Cuisinart.

My Kitchen Aid mixer is starting to show the mileage, too. The lovely plastic coating on the beater paddle is worn off around the tip and the metal underneath is showing wear, too. Don't ask me about my balloon whip. Just don't. I'm telling Tool Guy that it ran away from home. Oh, hush. I think he believes me...

Then there are the Oster hand blenders. Yes. Plural. I know that a $30 hand blender probably isn't going to be an heirloom piece of equipment that will grace Princess or Bug's kitchen. I know that. But I do, Breatharian, expect it to last longer than six weeks. The first one that I blew through could have been a fluke. I could have snagged something that stripped out the plastic gears in the shaft. But there's no reason that the simple drag and torque from mere coconut milk should similarly strip out the plastic gears and crack the shaft housing. In two other blenders. No way. I think I'm going to donate my kitchen to Consumer Reports.

I've worn out a K-tec grain mill and its daughter has come to live with us. I realized the magnitude of what I'm doing when I bought a Retsel Mill-rite, thinking that this would be the best and last grain mill I would ever buy. Until I read the paperwork that said they estimated that the average home use would be an hour a week. (Insert derisive snort.) Anything beyond that would be considered commercial use. I've determined that anything that bears the label "not for commercial use" doesn't belong in my kitchen. So I guess it is official. I run a commercial kitchen. Lucky that Tool Guy inspects kitchens for a living. Got that base covered. At least.

I'm glad my food processor is back up to speed now. Although walnuts are tettering on the brink of successful reintroduction, we're not quite there yet. And even if we were, the current climate for nut butters isn't encouraging. Food integrity continues to be compromised. A recent discussion about Nutella raised a craving in me and started the creative juices looking for a replacement. It is for this kind of job that I forgive my Retsel for the fastidious limitations and "not for commercial use" injunctions.

"Seed-ella"

2 cups sunflower seeds or similarly mild-tasting seed
1 cup (or sufficient to make smooth) of rice bran or other oil
1/2 tsp. salt or to taste
1-2 T maple syrup or favorite sweetener to taste
2 tsp. cocoa powder or to taste

Run seeds through food processor or mill to render into a smooth paste. The Retsel Millrite does a very credible job of making this...much better than the food processor, which tends to yield a less smooth product. Put this paste into the food processor or blender and add remaining ingredients until well incorporated.

Dog viewed it suspiciously, but after I'd told him to take a bite, "because it's horrible," he quirked an eyebrow at me and bit. And hasn't stopped biting. Sin on a Spoon is still at the top of the favorites list, but this Seedella has SOS's crown wobbling. Absolutely decadent.

My stove gallantly chugs along. But it has needed a few tweaks along the way. The heat from the amount of cooking that I do has degraded the wire coating and resulted in a few of my electronic ignition wires shorting out. I disconnected the shorted ones and am waiting until all four are gone before I call a repair specialist to replace the whole harness. You already know about the gumbo fountain and I refuse to discuss the oven fire. Categorically. Let's suffice it to say that I am now intimately acquainted with all of my stove's ways.When I say "cookin' dangerously," it isn't always an expression of hyperbole. I may not be the Iron Chef...but I'm definitely nominating myself as the Asbestos Chef.

I Am Not My Stuff

2009-03-13T13:42:00.003-04:00

Are you thinged out yet? I know I am. When one has five people in a New England bungalow, one has to be judicious about possessions. I'm reminded of the Genii in Aladdin. You know. The blue one? "Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty-bitty living space..." Our house? Phenomenal back yard. Genii-sized living space.

Teaching stewardship is one of the big challenges of parenting. Every parent wants to give each child everything their hearts desire. Saying no is hard. Saying no to your children is even harder than saying no to yourself sometimes. I remember when Dog was a wee tyke of four years old and a particular toy in Target caught his attention. Shark Park. The ultimate little boy race car awesome track fantasy. He hankered after it with all of the fervor reserved for Ralphie in A Christmas Story. Every time we went to the mall (and in San Antonio, the heat and even Genii-er sized living space there made mall trips frequent!), he would visit Shark Park and lovingly stroke the box. Partings were sweet sorrow. He may have actually hugged it once or twice.

The Christmas after we moved to Little House in the Big Woods, we bought Shark Park for Dog. I believe that I can probably count on one hand the number of times that it was played with. After he got older and was able to articulate what was going on inside his head more, he admitted to me that he expected it to do things that it wasn't capable of doing. I suppose every child of the television era, and--if Ralphie's Little Orphan Annie decoder ring is any indication--even before television, has succumbed to the fairy dust of advertising that somehow makes a toy appear to do impossible things.

But Shark Park was a deal...a steal, actually. Because I can't tell you how much mileage I've gotten out of that Shark Park toy, though it wasn't the kind of mileage the manufacturer envisioned. Bug was old enough during the Shark Park debut to remember it, so every time someone falls madly in love with a marketing concept, we talk about Shark Park. We've completely dissected the dynamics, nuances, and strategies of Corporate Advertising and the Hobbits are now not ignorant of Its devises.

Princess wasn't around for Shark Park and so I was thankful when some teaching opportunities arose for her. One morning during Children's Church, she was perched on the edge of her chair with a rod-straight back (I swear I don't teach her these things!) and listening intently. The lesson title caught my attention and pretty soon, I was listening intently, too. The title was "I Am Not My Stuff." I started taking notes. It went like this:

I am not my stuff
My stuff is not my stuff (I Tim. 6:17)
My stuff is your stuff
If I make my stuff His stuff and your stuff, then I get the good stuff (I Tim. 6:19)

I like it when I hear other people talking about not being defined by the things we possess. It helps hold me accountable. When the drawers start getting too full, I start asking, "Do I own this or does it own me?" We all have our toys.

I'm not swayed by fashion lures, but kitchen equipment can turn my head. I have to be careful since I drool over kitchen appliances with all of the passion others reserve for Prada or Manolo Blahnik. I have to be honest, though...the closest I've come to Prada or such are the pages of Meg Cabot's work. I had to google these up to find out what the rave was. And Monolo Blahnik? This has to be the contemporary version of foot binding. And all for the low, low price of $1000 per pair! Not.

But I do like how having a few (just a few!) key appliances can make work easier. Like making bread. Like focaccia. Tool Guy has been fantasizing about focaccia ever since we picked up an artisan loaf at a local farmers market almost eight years ago. It was the first and last time I'd ever eaten it. That first year we were here, we kept talking about going back and getting more. Never did, though. And then the food pyramid collapsed.

When I discovered Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day, I stumbled across the focaccia recipe and squee-ed the house down. Tool Guy made me promise to make it soon. Well, Breatharian, it is now soon.

Focaccia (inspired by Jeff Hertzberg/Francis Zoe)

1/4 cup olive oil
2 eggs
2 cups sourdough starter
1/2 tsp. salt
2 t guar gum
2 T potato starch
2 T tapioca starch
3 T sliced black olives
1/2 onion, sliced
*Rosemary oil (prep at least a week ahead of time)

Measure in all wet ingredients and mix. While slowly stirring, mix in the dry ingredients, starting with the guar gum. "Knead" for five minutes. The dough should make a wet, slapping sound when the paddle runs through it, but the consistency shouldn't be thinner than toothpaste. Stirring slowly, add the black olives until incorporated.

Line pizza pan, cookie sheet, or other baking surface with baking parchment and spread dough rather thinly over the surface, approximately a 1/2 inch thick. Allow to rise in the refrigerator overnight or for two hours on the counter before baking.

While oven is preheating to 425*, slice 1/2 an onion and brown the slices in a skillet until the desired done-ness. Before placing in the heated oven, drizzle *rosemary oil over the top of the bread. Too much onion and/or too much oil will prevent the bread from browning properly.

Bake for 20-30 minutes or until brown on top.

*Rosemary Oil

Jeff and Francis' recipe suggests sprinkling rosemary over the surface of the bread. Well. This bread has to feed three Hobbits who would view the presence of twigs scattered on the surface of their bread with deepest suspicion, if not outright mutiny. They have raised no fool. So about a week before making this bread, I took a bunch (how's that for quantitative specificity?) of rosemary, crammed it in a jar, and covered it with olive oil. Sealing it with a Tilia vacuum sealer will expedite the extraction process. The result was an olive oil rich in rosemary with none of the sensory objections that twigs would provoke.

This bread was so absolutely delicious that Tool Guy reached for a share and narrowly withdrew his hand with his fingers intact. So there you go, Breatharian. Artisan focaccia. Can you get any lazier than that? Only if you're wearing Monolos, lounging them on the desktop, while filing your french manicure. Here. Have a Godiva chocolate.

Princess is taking her turn at bat with a Barbie Fashion head that she was bequeathed. After she'd had it for two days and one night of bad dreams over it, she readily agreed to Freecycle it to a special needs child who would enjoy it. Her parting injunction to the mother picking it up was, "They lied. It doesn't make a flower pony tail." And so the inoculation goes...

Keep It Simple

2009-02-27T08:00:00.003-05:00

Streamlining. Dejunking. Decluttering. There might even be a 27 Fling Boogie in there somewhere. Simplifying. Spring cleaning. It's a little early because we're only just teetering on the brink of spring, but we still have some days of persistent snow. The accumulation is looking a bit tired and shopworn, however, and Bug is now counting the days until it is officially Spring.

Soon it will be time to gear up for planting starts and planning what I'm going to do with that collapsed greenhouse. The ruined ribs stick reproachfully up out of the bank of snow and I bite my knuckle when I look out of the window. I actually feel guilty. Then I remind myself that I'm still being Scarlet and insistent that I'll think about that tomorrow. And it isn't tomorrow yet.

Winter has been busy and the Hobbits are hitting a growth spurt. Not so much physical, though Bug and Princess are surely shooting up. Dog is intractably refusing to put on any weight despite my best efforts at offering carbs and good fats. He does this just to be contrary, you know. No, their growth spurts are more of the developmental and maturational levels. Princess is picking up books and starting to read for the sheer enjoyment of it. Still working on Bug in that department, but he's getting more comfortable navigating the written word, so there's definite progress. He even picked up some Mr. Putter and Tabby books from the library, uncoerced. And Dog and I are slogging through his first year in Format Writing class and writing a research paper. Neither one of us do well with writing within the box nor coloring within the lines, but the discipline is good for us.

The biggest spurts forward include a sudden willingness--the ability was long there--to participate in household responsibilities. I think we've found the grooves that each is comfortable doing. Dog doesn't mind schlepping the compost down to the far side of the acreage, but finds the folding of clothes to be beyond tedious. Bug despises composting, but he and Princess take immense pride in the particulars of the folding job. There have been some proposed outings that provide us with the leverage for getting school work underway at the crack of dawn. With alacrity. Tool Guy mandated that participation in the outings required x amount of work accomplished. I awoke one morning to find that both Dog and Bug (tutored by Dog) had not only finished their work for the day, but had fed themselves and gotten breakfast for Princess. All before 8 am. Blink.

During the most recent co-op delivery, I had to peel Dog off the bottom of my shoe. (Where did all of that helpfulness come from all of a sudden?) In fact, one of the sorters had to graciously ask him to step out of her space because she couldn't repackage the fifty-pound purchase due to his head's submersion into the depths of the bag. He tagged along, eager to heft and haul the twenty-five pound bags for the ladies arriving and collecting their purchases. Bug toted empty boxes out to be discarded. Princess pulled her stuffed rabbit around on a scooter. Okay, so some of them are getting there.

All of such things confluence to make my time gradually less harried and constrained as it used to be. I remember when Princess was a baby in sling and literally the only time I sat during the day was when she needed to nurse. These days I'm finding more available time to just be instead of do. Simple things.

Even though the deep, bone-cracking cold of winter is past, the Hobbits still crave warm things to drink. Chai tea is quite popular and they also love to scandalize the staid adults who are shocked that they are allowed to drink coffee. (Maybe that's what's stunting Dog's growth, eh?) And simple things like hot chocolate. An easy, no-brainer.

Chocococonut Milk

1 cup coconut milk
1 tsp. chocolate or carob powder
5 drops stevia or 1 tsp. vegetable glycerin or 1/2 tsp. maple syrup

Heat coconut milk to desired temperature, add flavors and sweeteners, then whip with immersion blender. If you don't have an immersion blender, then mix ingredients first, then heat. Top with cinnamon or chocolate sprinkles, if desired.

The first dividends of the early years are now starting to roll in. When we get back from a morning of grocery shopping, they line up to haul the bags into the kitchen and unpack. Dog takes pride in doing the heavy lifting at home, too. More hands, less work, less stress. Simplifies things, doesn't it? More knitting time. Sweet.

More Hard Things

2009-02-13T07:09:00.000-05:00

The Hobbits have it rough. No two ways about it. A veritable laundry list of food sensitivities, but there's no stopping there. They've also inherited Tool Guy's sensitivity to wool. A point which is no small source of chagrin now that I've picked up my pointed sticks and am tasting the delights of what artisan yarn has to offer. Pout. Okay, it can be argued that Fun Fur is artisan acrylic. But a Princess only needs so many pink Fun Fur boas in her wardrobe, you know?

On top of that, they happen to be born into my gene pool, which doesn't seem to add to the food list, but certainly adds a respiratory allergen component. These Hobbits can't catch a break. They say the first child you have is the test model and you get to throw it away. Poor Dog. He seems to be the locus of the more challenging genes that Tool Guy and I contributed to his make up. He's the most food sensitive and the one who coughs and sneezes the most. Sigh. We're starting to swap notes, he and I, on which pollen remedies are most effective. He's even becoming a dab hand at using a Neti pot and even gave Tool Guy the tutorial on how to do it. Intrepid kid.

So when spring rolled around last year and he started coughing, we didn't think too much of it. I was sneezing and coughing, too. And when summer rolled around and his coughing continued, I was a bit uncomfortable myself and chalked him up to having a "bad pollen year." And indeed the pollen counts were up from previous years. Then when autumn rolled around and he was still coughing, well, it was goldenrod season, after all. I was pretty stuffy, too.

By October, however, the coughing hadn't stopped and the wheezing started. And nothing was touching it. Well, infusions of fresh ginger helped get the gunk up, but still he coughed. Things kind of came to a crisis on a Sunday night when he had to struggle to breathe and was even kind of blue around the lips. We were in the doctor's office pronto.

This was the first time we'd seen this doctor, our former pediatrician having moved on to some practice in one of the other seven rings of Dante's HMO inferno. I decided that I particularly liked the new doc when he turned out to be rather knowledgeable about gluten issues. Try finding one of those models in just any doctor's office. After we'd received a diagnosis of non-bacterial pneumonia, he started writing out the scripts and that's usually when the fun really begins. Just try finding corn-free anything. He was very cooperative about getting this worked through with our compounding pharmacist. And then when he started writing the script for an inhaler, I sort of wobbled, "I'm not really comfortable with steroids," having only been exposed to inhaler-speak during interpreting doctor visits for heavy duty asthmatics. He looked at me and said--and I quote--"Are you nuts?! I'm not about to prescribe a steroidal inhaler for him." Okay, I'm definitely keeping this one.

But even after running Dog through the course of medication and treatments to solve the immediate problem, low grade cough persisted. At last, a friend whispered in my ear a Hard Truth. You know. The ones you don't want to hear? Those. Her suggestion was that it might be a dairy thing. And you know the only dairy thing on our menu, right? Yeah. That would be the ghee. The ghee that disappears at the rate of a pound a week. Sigh.

It was with much wailing and gnashing of teeth that the ghee went on hiatus. The big rub was then what to have on toast. Favorite snack. Favorite spread. Cinnamon with ghee on toast. This is the Hobbit who looks like a famine refugee, so I don't want him to lose calories. Once again, desperation drove me into the kitchen for some Cooking Dangerously. (You have to love the friends who, when they speak Hard Truths, also help kick around ideas for dealing with the Hard Truths!) I didn't come out until I'd come up with

Cinnamon Spread

1 cup olive oil
1/2 cup palm shortening
1 t cinnamon
1/2 t salt
1 t vanilla extract
1 t maple syrup
2 t vegetable glycerin
10 drops stevia

Blend softened palm shortening with all ingredients in blender or food processor until smooth and well-incorporated. (All of the sweeteners are tweakable to accommodate your favorite.) This mixture is liquid at room temperature, but will achieve the consistency of margarine when refrigerated. Can't give you a holding time, because this stuff doesn't stick around long enough to be able to have determined an expiration date. Score!

Granted, it isn't ghee and Dog still mourns the loss of it, but at least it fills the hole, tastes something like what he remembers and gets some fats into him. I call that a winner.

It's very hard to follow a path that takes us a couple of steps forward and then requires backtracking. We want to set our faces in the direction we want to go and plow ahead. The Hobbits have regular conversations about what dishes they will have "when we can have xyz again." And ghee now figures into the list of wistful foods. I suspect that the progress we make will continue to be pockmarked with such landmines and regressions. Here's to learning to do the Hard Things gracefully...even the second and third time around.

Hard Things

2009-01-31T08:26:00.005-05:00

I'm 45 and I'm having a middle aged crisis. I'm trying to recapture my youth. Oh, not the tarty kind of "club kid" youth--I was never that--but the things I did Before Children. Like knitting. Yeah, knitting. I've gotten sucked into knitting forums and knitting lists and find myself fascinated with arcane discussions of yarn, needles, stitches, and the care of all such. It's almost as much responsibility as raising children and very much like being sucked down Alice's hole.

I have to blame it on a matriarch who inhabits our "village" and has undertaken the loving and nurturing of all of our children. In addition to doling out endless amounts of patience, attention, and affirmation, she also shares endless knowledge of all forms of stitchery. Inspired by some very chic things she's been working on, I dug my needles out of the attic and decided to steal her stitch and make some Christmas gifts. Oh. My. Good thing the Hobbits are learning to cook for themselves.

I'm reminded of a signature line I saw a while back: "Who is that mother whose house is so shocking? She there in the corner, knitting and rocking." Yeah. That would be me. I haven't gotten so far as to develop a stash, though I did amass quite a pile of FO's (finished objects) of giftables around Christmas time and have more than one WIP (work in progress) on the needles.

It's nice to have someone "live" to go to and ask for advice on techniques. Another of my peer moms is knitting, too, and we put our heads together from time to time to talk technique. But since we're both so busy on the days we connect, there's not much luxury for that. The Matriarch and I have more time, since she inhabits the table where she tutors all interested children...which include not a few boys...and during my free moments, we sit side by side and knit and explore the meaning of life. Things women have done since time out of mind.

She's sharing with me insights she is exploring. During my middle years, it's divine to know that at her age, I have the potential of finding new insights to explore. It would be depressing to think that one runs out of yarn half way through the project, so to speak. A common thread that came up in our last conversation was about hard things. She says that one of the reasons she's teaching our children textile arts is to help them learn to do hard things. To hold a small needle. Sew a straight stitch. Juggle a hook and yarn. Practice the tension. And she prays over each child's progress. Priceless. Absolutely priceless.

Her perspective is, "Yes, I can go to the store and buy this finished item. But it is more important that I have learned to do a Hard Thing. Hard Things are good for me." And so she cultivates an appreciation of the Hard Things among the next generation. I admire people who voluntarily undertake this kind of self-discipline because it is Good Thing. I'm glad for my Hard Things, though I admit that I didn't sign up for them. I got drafted. It was what I needed, though.

The current economy is starting to make things harder for most folks. Hardest for the folks for which things were already hard. These days we're discussing economizing and making our food dollars stretch to further impossible lengths. Rice is always popular as an economical measure. Since corn grits are off the menu here, rice farina makes a nice substitute for that, rice being almost as cheap as corn. What makes rice farina not as attractive economically as corn grits is that it isn't a grocery store staple and is usually only marketed by the high ticket alternative food brands. Unless you have your own mill. See? Power tools are not the exclusive provenance of Tool Guy. And they do pay for themselves in relatively short order.

Rice Farina

Whole rice (I use brown)
Burr wheel mill with adjustable grind or food processor/blender

This is one that costs 1/3 of the price of the commercial rice farina (Yeah, Bob, I'm talkin' to YOU!) if you can grind it yourself, so you're making breakfast cereal for the cost of your rice. This is also one where the Retsel Milrite makes it up to me for not doing well with rice flour, since my K-tec high impact mill won't go as coarse as grits. I've not experimented with this, since rice is an exceedingly hard grain to grind, but a blender or food processor might yield a "grits" consistency where it won't go so far as to yield a satisfactory rice flour.

I saved the last of the commercial grits I bought to give myself a "gold" standard or exemplar by which to measure the grind of what I do myself until I get a feel for doing it consistently. On the Retsel, I tightened the wheel to about half the width of a grain of rice and started from there. It was a pretty satisfactory grind. If you're doing this with a processor/blender, pulse the blade, stopping frequently to compare to the exemplar. Okay, confession time: I'm rather anal about this, but really, it isn't an exact science, so pulse away until it looks like whatcha wanna cook.

The cooking ratios are 3:1...four parts water to one part cereal and salt to taste. I usually use 1/4 tsp Real Salt in 1/4 cup cereal and 3/4 cups water. Depending on the size of your burner, simmer for 5-8 minutes. Stir once in a while to keep from sticking. A bit of oil/fat thrown in helps in that department, too.

There ya go. Your own rice farina. Bob's your uncle.

I'm sure we'll all be talking more about saving money in the days to come. Some things that are hard are forced upon us. Some things that are hard we do because they are good for us. We accomplish so much more in the long run.

"We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too. " -- John F. Kennedy

T'is the Season

2009-01-16T09:46:00.001-05:00

It's winter. Ask me how I know. The ice and snow were the dead giveaways. Gotta get up pretty early in the morning to fool me, eh? Funny how even homeschoolers have their "snow days," even though most people quip that it is one of the kiddie down sides to homeschooling. No "Mom, I missed the bus" or "It's a snow day!" when you don't have to walk outside your front door. Heh.

We're getting socked with snow and ice pretty heavily here in the Shire. The Farmer's Almanac hits another one out of the park, because they've been telling us that winter was going to be slow getting here, but when it arrived, it would be making up for lost time. Bingo.

Somehow in the past few weeks, all of my days that I must and shall be out have occurred on days of significant snowfall. And, when New England calls it "significant," it is Indeed Significant. However, being the intrepid soul that I am, I must and shall go forth. The Hobbits, being less intrepid, decided that staying home with Granny and Paw-Paw would be the thing. Slackers.

Getting the early morning grocery shopping done wasn't the big fat hairy deal. It was getting Tool Guy, whom I had blithely dropped off at work before heading out to the store, home. Yeah, I went shopping and got home safe and sound. If that would have been the end of the story, it would have been the end of the story. But all Paul Harvey fans know that there is a...Rest of the Story.

This was the day that I was to learn that a Certain Degree of Incline combined with a top-heavy van, snow, and no grit are inimicable combinations. Half way up the Incline of a Certain Degree, the van decided that I was being totally unreasonable in my demands and refused to climb any further. Well. At least I wasn't stuck in a ditch. So I set off walking down the road...rather up the road where Tool Guy's office lay a mere mile away. In the blowing snow. On the top of a mountain. And me without a hat. Blessedly, the Hobbits were at home babysitting the grandparents.

I wasn't too fashed about the situation, because I figured someone would stop and pick me up. After all, Breatharian, the only thing at the top of that mountain is Tool Guy's place of work. And the only people coming and going are co-workers. Right? I was beginning to feel like the wounded soul on the side of the road in the Samaritan's story after the second car passed me by without even slowing down. Not that they were driving fast or anything to begin with. I plodded along, mentally playing with colorful metaphors and tracing the dubious genealogies of the persons who drove on past. Every now and then, I disappeared my head into my coat to thaw out my scalp and kept walking. I figured I could pretty much walk blind...what would be the danger? No traffic. Besides, if someone did hit me, then they would have to pick me up, right? Okay, it was a plan. That's all I'm sayin'...

Fortunately, before the mile was out--and there was never a mile so long--I heard the crunch of tires coming to a halt next to me and the window of the truck rolled down. I wasn't sure if it was steam or cigarette smoke billowing out of the window, but I didn't hesitate an instant at the invitation to climb inside. No respiratory snobbery here. If it was cigarette smoke, I could hold my breath for a very long time.

I explained my situation to Tool Guy's obliging co-worker and he set off. My rescuer apologized for the length of time it took the heater to get going, but I assured him that, by comparison, the interior of the truck felt positively tropical. He was the perfect gentleman and pretended not to notice that the ice cap on my head was thawing down my face in an oh-so-winsome fashion. Not a Kodak moment.

We achieved the top of the hill in short order. See what four wheel drive and your very own snow plow will net you? I've decided that no vehicle is "fully loaded" unless it sports its own snow plow. I don't care what the sales rep says.

Lately, I've had the urge for bbq chicken. Yeah, you certainly don't have to tell me it's winter time. I've picked up on the subtle seasonal cues, thankyouverymuch. But, Philistine that I am, I still haven't gotten into season eating. And a gas grill on the back deck calls to me--especially in weather like this. So I schlopped out the sauce from my pulled pork assay and tweaked it a bit further so it would stick to the ribs...or drumsticks...or whatever is destined for the grill.

BBQ Sauce

1/2 cup Breatharian Flames Ketchup
1/2 cup water
2-3 T maple syrup or vegetable glycerin (depending on sweetness preference)
2 t wheat-free tamari sauce
1 T tapioca starch

Dissolve tapioca starch in 1/4 cup of the water. Mix remaining water with the other ingredients and heat to a slow simmer. Slowly add dissolved tapioca starch to bubbling sauce and stir until tapioca is cooked. Apply to the grilled meat during the last 15 minutes of cooking over a low heat to avoid scorching.

Refrigerate any unused sauce.

Tool Guy and I were reunited and able to resume that oh-so-thrilling ride back down the Incline of Certain Degree. The journey home wasn't quite the adventure as getting up and down the Incline of Certain Degree, but the potential was there, given the paucity of snow removal personnel who had...rather had not...gone on before. Needless to say, this wouldn't have been a happy day to collect performance reviews for the snowplow infrastructure of our county. I'd share the love with our Town Manager if I thought that it would even be read, but one has to choose the swines before which one casts ones pearls. At any rate, it is warming to know that for all of the bureaucratic slackers out there, the world still possesses Samaritans who will stop and help in the worst of weather.

There's snow in the forecast. Welp. Time to fire up the grill.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2009-01-02T12:48:00.003-05:00

One of the most treasured things about having children is the opportunity to relive the magic of our own childhood Christmases through them. And as they get older and are able to pitch in with helping out, it gets even better. Of course, Christmas time is the time of year for baking and cookies. Which coincides with December being our "test" month. I usually pick one of the biggies that are missing out of our diet to test drive and see if it is suitable for reintroducing. This year, the Hobbits asked about oats. No controversy there, eh? So I bought a box of certified gluten free oats and romanced it for a couple of months before giving them oatmeal. They were singularly unimpressed. Go figure. You'd think that with such limitations, everything new would be greeted with a ticker tape parade. Not so, Breatharian. They suggested that the appropriate medium for oats would be cookies. Yeah, I know that suggestion surprised you, too. They've never met a sugar they didn't like and it covers a multitude of palatial shortcomings. So I underwhelm you with my

Just Another Gluten Free Oatmeal Cookie

1 cup gluten free oats
1 1/2 cup grain flour
1/4 cup tapioca starch
1/4 cup potato starch
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. guar gum
1 tsp. cinnamon
2 eggs
1/2 cup palm shortening
1/2 cup maple syrup

Whip palm shortening until soft, adding eggs. Add remaining dry ingredients until well incorporated. Form dough into balls and press flat on cookie or silicone baking sheet. Bake for 10-12 minutes at 350*

December always brings extra busyness for everyone, though we blessedly avoided The Plague this year. (Thanks everyone for asking!) We had an homeschooling co-op day called on account of weather this past month, so that put a cramp in the projects and deadlines that tend to loom upon us this time of year. Well, in all truth, I don't think that those students with papers due felt the cramp at all, but some days you get the bear and some days the bear gets you. However, it was a bit tense for those responsible for the Christmas play, which was a spirited rendition of I Witness Bethlehem, an anachronistic juxtaposition of modern and ancient in the retelling of the Christmas story.

Three months was a very abbreviated time in which to cast, stage, and rehearse all of the students from 7th grade and up who were drafted into the production, but it all coalesced brilliantly. The costumes glittered...as was appropriate for angel choruses and magi. Even the MIB (Men in Black...yes, Herod's secret service detail consisted of Men in Black...I did mention anachronistic juxtapositions, didn't I?) gleamed smartly and bore appropriately impassive visages. The sets were a tribute to the hard work and creative vision of the art students. Props for the props folk, too.

What brought this play to life was the absolute ease with which the students possessed the stage. None of the wide-eyed, shell-shocked, doe-caught-in-the-headlights episodes of stage fright for this troupe of thespians. Perhaps rabid gorillas do indeed have a salutary effect on acting skills; the quality of this production is proof enough. The actors comfortably and convincingly delivered their lines, synchronized their steps, and harmonized their notes. Each ad libbed line or interaction was a testament to the teamwork and camaraderie of the cast. The end result was a Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer Golden Studio Era style of performance that made the audience smile, laugh, howl, and ultimately remember the meaning of Christmas.

Bravo.

2008-12-20T12:17:00.000-05:00

2008-10-24T11:59:00.001-04:00

Small Things

2008-10-17T11:23:00.014-04:00

As I get older, I'm beginning to realize how our lives are composed of small things. The inconsequential, strung together like beads on a string. As the seasons change, I'm drawn back again inexorably to the sense of rhythms and the piling up of small things that make up the balance of our lives.

The leaves are falling and we begin plowing paths through carpeting over the yard. Bug is reveling in the piling up of leaves and jumping into them. He even got so ambitious as to pile up a mound at the base of the deck and jump into it. From the railing of the deck. Fools and children, I tell you.

The maple trees are making me glad that I live in New England and that Fall is a more brilliant affair than the sudden bleaching of brown that marks a Southern autumnal season. As we scrape the lawn clean of the bright litter, we stack up banks of it at the end of where the luge will be when the snow is deep enough to launch saucers down our back yard. Gotta have a back stop or there'll be no slowing down until one fetches up with an obliging tree. Permaculture at its best, no?

The garden, such as it was, is pretty much finished. I only have left the root crops to pull out. The shallots, if they didn't produce, at least survived and I've yet to explore what has happened to the chance yam that I stuck in the ground on a whim. There will probably be some butternut squash rendered up from an obliging volunteer vine. It was the volunteer fruit that saved me this year. Not many of my intended plans came to fruition.

Other markers of Fall are around. The nuts from the tree shading our house are falling on the roof, sounding for all the world like the squirrels are having a bowling party over our heads. They might actually be...Dog would probably know, given his intimate acquaintance with the roof. The chipmunks run around like a band of rodents with the mumps...their cheeks stuffed almost further than the diameter of their holes will permit.

A friend of mine called to pass on a message to me and made a chance remark about the washing of her windows...on just the day that I'd decided to drag out the ladder and hose and tackle ours. Some of the last of the warm, sunny days for Fall cleaning.

The piles of winter clothes cluttering the master bedroom. Too warm to put out all of the heavier clothing and too cool to put away the summer clothes for good. After seven years, I've still not worked out a seamless transition. So it goes.

As the Hobbits are growing, becoming independent, and assuming more responsibilities, I'm finding myself with--gasp--actual time on my hands. One of the matriarchs has inspired me to resume knitting. Which in turn has inspired Bug and Princess to become interested in needlework themselves. After teaching me the lacy stitch that is in short order becoming scarves, she's begun teaching Bug to crochet the basic stitches and even Princess is progressing with "finger knitting." Generational ties...

Small doings in schooling. Dog is progressing in his writing. We're working on formatting paragraphs and paragraph construction. Bug is tackling spelling with alacrity...okay, at least not outright resistance, which amounts to about the same for him and Princess is working on actually writing. It brings back memories of my childhood to watch her try and construct words from the letters she's mastering. I can remember stringing together random letters and bringing them to my own mother, asking if these spelled an actual word. Never happened. But of such attempts writers are born.

We've hung a poster of Roman numerals on the wall. Dog spotted an architectural cornerstone with Roman numerals on it and we've been working on decoding the date on the building since then. We inherited an abacus and Bug has developed a fascination with the beads on it. I've never learned how to use one, but I suspect I'll be proficient before all is said and done, if he has anything to say about it.

The chicken tractor is almost finished and awaiting its new tenants. I imagine that raising animals will add even more texture to our awareness of the passing seasons. All of this feels like putting down roots and planning to stay a while. This year I branched out into putting in asparagus and red raspberries. I'm finally settled into this settler's mentality, thinking further ahead than merely this season's crop. Who knows? Maybe next year I'll be planting apple trees...

One of these years, I'm going to plant potatoes. We eat so much of them and it would be simply delicious to be able to harvest new potatoes out of our yard. And given food prices, I'm looking for more ways to incorporate potatoes into our diet. Like tortilla de patata, which is becoming contagious in our homeschooling group. As a reciprocal gesture, one of the moms shared her favorite potato recipe with me:

Dill Mashed Potatoes by T.C.

Approximately 7-10 potatoes
1/2 cup coconut milk
2 tsp. dried dill
1/2 tsp. powdered garlic
1 tsp. Real Salt

Dice potatoes and boil until soft. (I never peel my potatoes.) Using a balloon whip, mash up potatoes and mix in ingredients. Garnish will additional dill and serve.

I must be a Hobbit at heart, because small things have always given me a sense of connectedness and contentment. "You do not know your danger, Theoden," interrupted Gandalf, "These hobbits will sit on the edge of ruin and discuss the pleasures of the table, or the small doings of their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers, and remoter cousins to the ninth degree, if you encourage them with undue patience."*

Small things pile up like the markers on Bug's abacus. "Teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts to wisdom."

*The Lord of the Rings(Book 3, Chapter 8).

The Best Learning

2008-10-10T10:39:00.001-04:00

I'm thinking that Thursdays are my favorite day of the week. Even if it is my busiest. That's the day of the week we have our homeschooling co-operative. When we get together to learn. But we do so much more than have class together. There are so many things that we teach each other.Throughout the afternoon, one parent is teaching some of our children about the fundamentals of reading and equipping them with the tools to be inspired by books. Another is teaching art theory and color confluences. One spot is littered with plastic bodies...a diorama in a historical re-enactment. In another room, we are parsing sentence structures and improving register selection. From the kitchen, wafts the scents of blueberry muffins or those glistening cinnamon rolls,sending out tantalizing fingers...proud product of the Home Ec class.(A definite incentive to show up before Announcements, so as to be entered into the drawing--what a pity it isn't gluten free!) Somewhere else, saw dust dances to the buzz of the machinery that set it in motion. This is most of what we gather for. But not all.

But even then this may not be the best learning. In many ways, the best learning is what happens outside of the classroom or hasn`t been pre-meditated and written down. I recall one college professor announcing to our class, 'I`m not here to teach you. I`m here to teach you how to teach yourself.' I imagined what my parents would say to the concept that the tuition that they were paying wasn`t actually funding an liberal arts education, but one in learning to fish. As in 'give a person a fish and they are fed today--teach them to fish and they feed themselves for a lifetime.' So part of what we`re doing here is learning to fish. We`re creating autodidacts. Like when our Butterfly Whisperer came in with a compelling caterpillar, there was an exciting opportunity to scour the internet in an attempt to discover what kind of butterfly it would become...and what will it eat in order to become that. Spicebush Swallowtail, it turns out.

Additionally,some of the things that we learn are not even overtly taught. Or are not in the curriculum or on the lesson plan. Things like teamwork.Learning how to work together toward a common goal, putting impatiences and irritations aside for the greater good. Not every child is thrilled about the course selection or the activity planned for the day, but in this process, learn forbearance. It`s the iron sharpening iron again.The rubbing of each person against another that wears off everyone`s rougher spots and hones us. It`s the learning to speak to each other with the law of kindness on our tongue. The learning of respect for each other`s space and place...sometimes as simple as standing in line.As homeschoolers, we are often free to wander our own paths and the discipline of working in harness with others can be a useful exercise.This isn`t the sort of thing that I write on my lesson plan when I`m projecting what we need to cover in class for the upcoming week, but I`m glad that it somehow finds its way into the learning process anyhow. These are the things we all need to learn.

One of the things the Hobbits need to learn is how to eat their vegetables. So in the spirit of guerrilla nutrition, I'm always looking for ways to stealth move vegetables in to their diets. Since they like just about anything that looks like a pancake and hold the promise of maple syrup, they were game to try the latest invention.

Parsnip Pancakes

6-8 parsnips, chopped and steamed
1 cup sourdough starter
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp guar gum
2 T chopped onion
1 egg

Run steamed parsnips through a food processor until creamy. Add remaining ingredients and whirl until incorporated. In hot skillet, melt a small amount of lard or ghee and dollop in 1/4 cup or so of batter. When browned on one side, flip and flatten with spatula. Cook until pancake is cooked to the center. Serve hot. Syrup mandatory for Hobbits.

Not all of the Hobbits were inspired by these, though Bug came back for thirds. They're learning.

Indeed, the best learning isn`t really inside the classroom at all, though that`s the stated reason we all come. The best learning happens in the spontaneous 'teacher' conferences in the hallways and kitchen. The sharing of ideas and experiences. Newly-discovered research. Newly-mastered skills. Or even old ones that are new to someone else. We`re teaching each other how to teach ourselves. The best learning.

Fools and Children

2008-10-03T08:38:00.004-04:00

It is generally to be expected that children of a certain age will require less supervision than ones of a younger age. I've watched with envy as other moms pass off responsibilities to their maturing youngsters, enjoying greater liberties even while having much smaller ones underfoot. It was with such burgeoning expectations that on a morning when I was running behind schedule, I tossed back over my shoulder to the Hobbits heading out the door, "You're surely old enough to know the rules and I hardly need to helicopter over you, right?" Listening to the chorus of assent, I informed them where I'd be and admonished them not to kill each other. I failed to mention not killing themselves. An important distinction, it turned out.

I've been a mom for almost twelve years, so I've done this for a little while. I've heard and even affirmed the chestnut, "When you can't hear them, go look for them, because they're up to something." Rookie error. No doubt. I got out of the shower and proceeded to proceed with my day, checking things off of my tyrannical to-do list. I vaguely remember thinking that they had come so far, matured so much, mellowed so significantly to be playing together so well. Must be the diet stuff, no doubt of it.

Rookie error. No doubt.

I was shaken out of the hazy-fringed, pinkish fantasy by an ominous crash in the vicinity of our back deck. Trying it imagine what it was that had caused such a loud noise, I dashed toward the back door to see a ladder laying on the deck and the blur of Dog, scuttling for cover. To tease the details out of what happened weren't so direct as what I'm relating and took quite a bit of time to unravel, but I did manage to find out what had happened.

It seems that the three of them had invented some kind of pitch and catch game between the deck and the ground, involving a Woody doll...or is it more politically correct to call them "themed action figures?" At any rate, this Woody--as much abused as his big screen doppelganger--ended up on the roof and stubbornly refused to come down. Smart Woody. Not to be deterred, these squabbling siblings were able to truce long enough to devise a plan of appropriating a ladder, bringing it up to the deck, and climbing up to retrieve the...action figure. Who was seeing a great deal more action that Disney ever imagined or intended, given his subsequent bedraggled appearance. This worked well for a few times--apparently all of the times while I was still in the shower--and they were actually throwing the doll up there for the purpose of retrieving it. Until Dog hit his knee on the poorly placed ladder and managed with that blow to knock himself off the ladder, barking his knee and obtaining quite a lump from the ladder's descent to the deck. I couldn't decide whether to shake my head or laugh. I think I did both. He was most incensed because Princess, of the Amazon stature of five years old, failed to hold the ladder securely enough to avoid this.

Where was Bug in all of this, you ask? Oh, when his exit from the roof disappeared, he availed himself of gravity and jumped off the roof at the front of the house. I kid you not. It should be noted, for the sake of everyone's cardiac stability, that our house is a low-slung bungalow which sits on an incline and the lowest part of the roof is actually the front of the house. I can stand flat footed and reach the top of the roof with my hand. But for an eight year old, even one who is tall for his age, that is quite a jump.

Dog was quite offended. I'm not sure exactly why. I didn't laugh in his face, nor did I yell at him for being stupid. I didn't ground him or exact any punishment or consequences for it, though I did try to explain to him why it was ill-considered behavior. He disappeared in a sulk and when I noticed that he'd been off my radar for a while, I asked the other Hobbits if they'd seen him. Nope. My last sighting of him was the vicinity of the van, so I suspected I knew where he was. Sure enough. Sulking in the van. I hopped in and sat next to him.

"So is this what running away looks like at your age?" I asked. He muttered that he wasn't running away. Somehow we managed to get the conversation going again and he poured out all of his tweener frustration. I listened, sympathized, and reminded him that if he was being an eleven-and-a-half year old for the first time, then I was being the mother of an eleven-and-a-half year old for the first time. We chuckled and walked away friends again. Though I'm still not sure what I'd done wrong in the situation. Other than take a shower.

The Hobbits like sweets, but for comfort foods, nothing beats fried anything. The moment seemed to call for comfort food, so Bug asked if I would make up fried onion rings. He even suggested the application, though I was mentally heading in the same direction when he made the suggestion. He's the one making his own breakfast these days...scrambled eggs. The next generation's chef, that one.

These onion rings take a bit of advance prep, but are, in Dog's words "awesome" and Bug concurred, asking, "Who wouldn't like these?" That's a five star rating in our house.

Grainless Fried Onion Rings

2 onions, sliced thinly and separated into rings
2 cups tapioca starch
2 tablespoons seasoned salt
lard

Take sliced and separated onions and soak in cold water for a few hours or overnight. In a plastic bag, measure the tapioca starch and seasonings and shake to mix. Drain the onions and toss into the plastic bag, shaking and mixing thoroughly to coat. Remove onions and spread onto a large platter or cookie sheet. Spritz with water from a spray bottle until the flour is damp, but not so much that the flour is rinsed off of the rings. Place in the refrigerator for a few hours, then repeat the procedure with the bag of seasoned flour a second time. Spritz lightly a final time and leave the rings in the refrigerator for at least a few hours or ideally overnight.

When ready to cook, heat lard in cast iron dutch oven or skillet to frying temperature and scatter rings in hot oil. Fry for 2-3 minutes or until desired crispness. Remove and drain. Enjoy!

When I spoke with my dad later that week--he was out of the loop, working on a hurricane relief crew on the coast--I shared the story. He laughed, too. I told the story of the neighborhood kids, including me, climbing up on the roof of the pump house located in a no-man's-land in our neighborhood. He informed me that he was aware of the practice, but let us stretch our wings, as it were. Then he shared a few of his childhood horror stories. Generational ties.

There's an old expression that God protects fools and children. Good thing that, since we seem to have a double dose of both.

The Kindness of Strangers

2008-09-26T06:57:00.009-04:00

It's hard to count all of the ways that people give of themselves to us. Of course, family is there...doing ten thousand little things in so many little ways. And then the folks whose lives touch ours on a regular basis are there. The person who thinks of us that we might be able to use a no-longer-needed book or some clothes that one of the Hobbits might get some more wear out of. The friend who clips a recipe, thinking it might be one that I can convert for our use. Even the kindly soul who has found an article on gluten-free living and thinks the information might be useful for us. Almost every day, there are people pouring themselves in small ways into the support of our family. The matriarch who at separate times gave Dog a pair of opera-style binoculars when she found out that he liked to look at birds. Then made a book bag for Bug to carry his AWANA materials in and always made a point to be available to listen to him recite his lessons. (He surely misses her this year when he has to wait in line!) And also made the flannel baby blanket for Princess...the one that she prizes above all others, even at five years old. I'm deeply grateful for those people. They are irreplaceable and I've been given occasion recently to meditate on just how irreplaceable they are. As I get older, such people are becoming increasingly more precious to me.

But the kindnesses that are almost more touching and certainly more surprising are the ones shown to me by people who I don't really know and have ample excuse to ignore me with impunity. Recently, I was graced by such kindnesses. Tool Guy and I made a decision to change banks in the wake of a security breach of a regional store's data bases. Which entailed all of the joys concomitant with changing banks, ATM cards, and checking accounts. We usually only change banks when we are moving to a new location and I'd forgotten how...er...unsettling it can be. No doubt about it. As I get older I take change less gracefully. Glad we're not bebopping to new locales at the rate we did when we were younger!

I was totally unprepared when Walmart refused to take my check. Particularly stunning since the bank we chose has a branch in that exact store. (Which, of course, was closed at the time.) I know, I know...I shouldn't be shopping at Walmart anyway, but they are the only place that carry OTC antihistamines without corn starch in them. It did niggle the back of my mind as I stocked my cart, walking through Sam's that I might have the same problem. Surely not. They have a computer data base with my entire shopping history from the inception of my membership. They'd see that I never have bounced a check with them in thirteen years. Nope. When you are talking to a manager whose voice isn't finished changing, you aren't talking with someone who has enough life experience to look at rational reasoning and make independent decisions. He's acquired his position by sheer virtue of the fact that he's outlasted his peers who change jobs more frequently than the software in their Wii systems. Nuh-uh. He's going to fall back on the dictums of policy and entrench himself there. No talking to him. Good thing I've been stocking up for the past few months, because I felt gratified by the fact that there was nothing in that cart that I didn't have more of already in my basement. The cashier, at least, had the grace to be apologetic.

Still, it was frustrating to think that I would have gotten up early and taken Tool Guy to work, dragging along three Hobbits who would have preferred to sleep in, and gone on this exercise in futility, only to return home with nothing to show for it. So on my next stop--at the very store whose computers got hacked--I first visited the manager's stand and spun out my sorry plight. Although I'm a familiar face in the store...not many patrons regularly shop at break of dawn every other Friday, with three children in tow even during the school year...when one thinks about it, she really didn't know me. Even the worst offenders are known to neighbors and considered to be trustworthy. But Doreen was gracious and understanding and pre-approved my check. She even approached me a few minutes later while I was browsing the outer aisles to discuss the computer breach issue in further detail, sharing some of her own experiences in the matter.

Ginger Gold apples are in season right now and the price is certainly right. I stocked up on a whole boxful, as this is a favorite of the Hobbits. Tool Guy remarked offhandedly a few days ago that it's been a long time since we've had apple pie. Yeah. A really long time. I don't think I've made apple pie since before we went gluten free. And I can't say that I was a dab hand at rolling out crusts back then. My crusts were usually rather leathery. It was with much trepidation that I approached the task of making pie. In fact, I think I spread it over a two day period, because I wanted to think everything through carefully before I committed myself. So much for cooking dangerously, eh? The resulting pie was an absolute delight, however, and the crust was astonishing...flaky and melting on the tongue. Perhaps it's been so long since I've eaten wheat and even longer since I've eaten properly made pie, but this was the best pie I've ever eaten, let alone the best gluten free pie I've ever made...having the virtue of being the first. Heh.

Gluten Free Pie Crust

3 T Rice bran
1/4 cup tapioca starch
1/4 cup potato starch
2 1/2 cups gluten free flour (I used a blend of brown rice/millet/teff/buckwheat)
1 t salt
1 t guar gum
2/3 cup lard/ghee/or palm shortening (In sheer desperation for this to work, I used equal amounts of all three)
5 T water

Sift dry ingredients together to blend well. With a pastry knife or with forks, cut fats into the dry ingredients until pebbly. Add water and cut until well incorporated. All of the recipes that I looked at for pies recommend chilling the dough. I found that chilled dough crumbled and this worked more readily when at room temperature. Divide dough into half. Using a silicone baking sheet under one half of the dough and a sheet of baking parchment on top, gently roll out the crust. Peel off the top parchment and re-place as necessary. When dough is desired size and thickness, remove top parchment and, leaving the dough sticking to the baking sheet, work dough into pie plate, carefully working the baking sheet away from the dough. With a fork, poke holes at intermittent spaces in the dough across the bottom of the plate.

When ready to place the upper crust, repeat the same procedure, cutting out the vent holes before placing the sheet over the top of the pie. I found it difficult to crimp the edges in the artistic fluting fashion so popular among pie bakers, so resorted to using the handle of a knife to approximate the pattern. Not sure if it is the nature of gluten free dough or the ineptness of my fingers. Only time will tell. If the taste tests are any indication, I'll be getting plenty of practice.

To prevent the edges of the crust from burning, I created a "collar" with some aluminum foil around the edges. Bake at 350* for 45-50 minutes.

Apple Pie Filling

6-7 cups apples, peeled and sliced (I soaked these overnight in water with a dash of lemon juice in the fridge, giving myself time to work up the nerve to actually bake this.)
2 T maple syrup
Vegetable glycerin mixed with maple syrup to total 1/3 cup sweetening
1/2 t salt
1/2 t cinnamon
1/4 t nutmeg
4-5 T tapioca starch

Sift dry ingredients to mix well. Add apple slices to the dry ingredients and stir well to coat completely. Spoon into pie plate and pour maple syrup/vegetable glycerin mixture over the top of the apple mixture, cover with top pie crust, and bake according to crust directions.

Ginger Gold apples remind me of our first taste of them a few years ago. In a passion of having discovered a new favorite food, they regaled Granny with raves about this wonderful "new" apple. Being the quintessential indulgent granny, she made it her business to stock up on them during their drive from Texas. Stopping in at a farmer's market, she found some and enthused over her jackpot, explaining to the patient farmer exactly why this was such a special find for children who had very little special to eat in their diets at that time. The lady walked over to a display of Ginger Golds and pulled out two more bushels and gifted them to my mother. The kindness of strangers. Sprinkles of gold.

Pick Your Poison

2008-09-19T12:49:00.001-04:00

After years--what feels like many years--of shoe-string menu selections, I have what feels like a backlog of foods or products that I want to experiment with. Each food that re-enters the menu represents a whole cornucopia of possibilities of things to be able to try. Each with their own risk.

People have discussed the challenge of making everything from scratch. And it is physically demanding. But on the other hand, it's easier. It lacks the drama and suspense of wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Or if the other shoe will drop. Or the bitter taste of when the other shoe actually drops. Particularly when you thought that the shoe was firmly tied to your foot.

I'm finding that, with the influx of new products to consider, making things from scratch may have actually been easier and less time-consuming than trying to vet out the various and sundry items. It certainly involves quite a bit of time and energy either on the phone or sending off emails, communicating with the companies, trying to pin them down to making commitments as to whether or not the "natural flavorings" might have something that is still off the menu, hiding under that muzzy umbrella term. It is particularly frustrating to have them primly reply that this is "proprietary" information. There are a whole host of unsuitable replies that I retain unsaid and from which I will spare you. I have, however, managed to corner a few into admitting to the absence or presence of specific problematic ingredients, like corn--which isn't required to be declared under the allergen labeling law.

Other manufacturers are delightfully open about what they put in their foods and their processes. It certainly makes vetting out foods much easier. One recent email exchange with Yummy Earth lollipops went something like this:

Me: I know you've got "dairy free" on your website, but I feel compelled--in an OCD kind of way, I guess--to inquire about dairy/casein/lactose in your Butterscotch candy. Realio-trulio? Nothing in it?

YE: Realio and trulio with a cherry on top.

Now why can't all manufacturers be this nice?

Unfortunately, even stuff that is labeled gluten free and looks safe isn't really safe when there are other food issues afoot. Chex cereals have recently declared their Rice Chex gluten free. But. The more sensitive folks are reporting reactions...perhaps to corntamination, but there's no way of knowing. I recently had a blithe moment...or was it a blond moment?...when I ripped open a bag of Mary's Gone Crackers' recently released "sticks and twigs"--which are delicious, btw, but Tool Guy now calls them "Mary's Gone Crazy" due to the putative effect it has here--and let all of the Hobbits indulge. In the ensuing aftermath, I had plenty of opportunity to repent my recklessness. What were they reacting to? Who knows? It looked safe. It should have been safe. But it clearly wasn't. Not for us. The food canaries. Four people having food reactions at the same time is a new ring of hell which I have not heretofore visited. Not goin' back anytime soon, either. Sorry, Mary.

I can only take so much of this kind of food drama and then I toss the phone into an obscure corner and head for the kitchen. The latest favorite food to show up on the menu is injera. I started indulging in this shortly after a very long phone conversation with an internet foodie friend. Hey, when someone calls you to say that they were researching lacto-bacilli until 4:30 am on your behalf, it gets your attention, right? The crux of the conversation was that not all grains are created equal with regard to catching wild yeasts. This is why rye is the recommended flour for sourdough starters. Rye "grabs" lacto-bacilli out of the air more readily than wheat.

Now for gluten free. And we know rye ain't gluten free. Let me digress a moment to say that God planned things very well, nutritionally as well as other ways. There is no one food that is the sole source of any kind of nutrition. Every single nutrient is present in abundant redundancy...which makes sense when you consider how big the world is and people used to be forced to eat regionally, food intolerances aside. Likewise, rye is not the single repository for positive LAB contribution to a sourdough starter. The very good news is that teff is similarly endowed and so is fenugreek seed. With some playing around, I found that a few fenugreek seeds tossed in a flagging starter re-energized it to a startling degree.

So I made it my business to get some teff--ivory is my preference--and play around with it. Most of the injera recipes I found included wheat because, unfortunately, the financial and governmental politics have driven the price of teff out of reach for those traditional consumers. So I resorted to the fundamentals of fermenting grains and engineered it that way. One of the beauties of this traditional comfort food is its simplicity, unlike most gluten free grain foods...just flour, water, and salt.

Injera

Mix a couple of cups of water with a couple of cups of teff and allow to sit out on the counter for a day or two or until bubbly. You can also use a starter from a previous batch by utilizing the dark liquid that accumulates on the surface of the settled flour...the liquid that old miners used to call "hooch." When it is ready, add a teaspoon or so of salt for flavor and enough water to make the batter runny. If the batter is too runny, the injera won't hold together, but it needs to be thinner than regular pancake batter. How's that for ingredient specificity? Pour into a heated, greased skillet (medium low heat) and allow to cook until the surface is no longer shiny. Traditional injera isn't flipped like a pancake, but I've not been able to restrain myself from the urge to flip. Similarly, the Hobbits have been unable to restrain themselves from seeing this as an exotic pancake and demanding copious amounts of maple syrup which to anoint the injera. Philistines, I tell ya...Philistines. Promising that someday I'll learn to make the African dishes which are scooped up with injera "spoons" and eaten, I make my feeble apologies to the traditional culture that spawned them. Someday. Promise.

Making stuff from scratch looks easy when compared to these labyrinthine exercises of detection. I know what is going in my stuff. Every ingredient. Every surface I touched. How that flour was milled. Where that tomato came from. Exactly how much sweetener went in it. Up close and personal. Intimate knowledge. We who have food issues have to work harder at eating than the average consumer. We just get to pick which way we want to work hard.

Pick your poison.

Let's Begin Again

2008-09-12T16:00:00.000-04:00

The leaves outside are turning and so is another page on the calendar. School is in session and it is time to begin again. Personally, I find that, as a parent, I`m greeting the school years with much the same kind of mix of anticipation and regret as I did as a child. Regret that the summer was so short-lived, but anticipation at starting up another school year. We all seem to feel this way, children and parent alike.

I remember thrilling to the possibilities of blank notebooks and the smell of new crayons. (Okay, show of hands...how many of you pulled the crayons out of the box and sniffed each one? 'Fess up...you know you did!) Unsharpened pencils. Shiny rulers and sharp scissors. New bottles of glue, uncluttered by tacky wads of previous uses. When I walked through the school supply aisles at the store--the ones that looked like bombed out strikes from the London blitzkregs--it was hard for me to resist grabbing more than just the wide-rule composition notebook Dog needs for his Format Writing class. I still find blank pages compelling.

It`s truly exciting and enjoyable to have regular opportunity to interact with parents who are equally excited about this job of teaching our children. The first few weeks of our homeschooling group are hallmarked by everyone, students and adults alike, reconnecting with old friends and exploring relationships with new ones. Every year, matriculation means the departure of solid fixtures in our family, both of the student and the parent, who contributed to the synergy that makes us feel like a cohesive team. Blessedly, every year brings fresh sparks of talent, enthusiasm and uniqueness that re-energize and enliven us.

Our homeschooling group has been around since...and has seen many families come and go--some for a few years and some for the full tour. The program has expanded and contracted according to need. Maturing along with the children attending and the skills of the parents leading.

Our Drama "department" has seen the coming and going and coming of different generations of talent, both in leadership and participation. Past performances have included Oliver, Anne of Green Gables, and Cheaper By the Dozen. I suggested that everyone was ready to assay Fiddler on the Roof this year, but the newly coronated drama leader glared balefully at me, so I wilted quietly into the scenery. But I think they could do it.

Drama class isn`t short on entertainment, even off-stage. Rumor reached my ears that the talents of these young thespians stretches even to the ability to improv the antics of a gorilla suffering from scientifically-induced rabidity. The things they learn... Despite my most earnest wheedlings, however, it appears that the story of the blowfish must remain untold. Dommage.

One of the things that makes this group feel unique and cutting edge are the talents that parents have contributed to our learning process. In the past, we`ve had such offerings as Crime Scene Investigation by a CSI and Korean Culture class by a first generation citizen. This year, the course offerings include such fare as Introduction to Phonics Fun for the primary set, and for the older students, college level Fine Art directed by a local professional artist who happens to be currently showing her work in some local galleries, SAT Essay Prep, Format Writing, Life Skills, American Sign Language III, Home Economics including fiber arts by a veteran artisan, Music Ensemble by an experienced musician, Drama, and Introduction to Furniture Building, as well as our perennials of General Music, Art and Gym.

Tool Guy is going to be joining us this year, having convinced The Powers That Be to allow him to flex his hours to work on Saturday so that he can be off during the week for our co-op. His is, of course, the Introduction to Furniture Building. There's a fulfilled feeling having all of us pile into the van and take off together to do this as a family.

Which means that I'm also packing more adult "snacks" to go along with us for noshing on during the afternoon. This past week was kimbop. I'm planning ahead for this week. The garden, such as it has been, is winding down. Don't think I'll get many more pickles out of it, but the tomatoes are persisting a bit. Not enough to bother canning, so I decided to pull out my salsa recipe.

We did a stint in San Antonio, where Tool Guy was exposed to honest-to-goodness lacto-fermented salsa. The kind where people just do it and think nothing of it, because "Mama always made it this way." His crew consisted of many natives of the area and he tells me that my salsa is redolent of the tastes of theirs...sans jalapenos for the sake of Hobbit sensibilities. Again, salsa is one of those "potato salad" foods where the ingredients are as varied as the families who make them.

Salsa

4-6 tomatillos
1-2 red bell peppers
1 vidalia onion
Enough red tomatoes to equal a gallon of product
2-3 T Real Salt

Chop all ingredients, more roughly than fine. Mix thoroughly with salt and divide up into quart jars. (This might very well be able to be fermented in larger crocks, but I've not tried it that way yet.) LOOSELY covering jars with a coated or plastic lid, leave out for 2-4 days, or until bubbling. Gases can build up during the fermentation process, so don't thread the lids on the jars until ready to remove to the refrigerator. This salsa has a tangy zip and effervescent tingle that adds zest to any food it tops.

The High School students aren`t the only ones who are amazing us. The first day, everyone was treated to a primary student with her kaleidscope of butterflies...that were even finger tamed. Finger taming butterflies? Who knew? Got to be here to see it! I was sorry that I didn't have a camera to the ready to catch an image of the cluster of small, grubby index fingers, outstretched in hopes of alluring those shy wings onto the receiver's

Aside from the input and direction that the parents provide to all of the children in each session, we have the input and inspiration that we provide to each other. 'As iron sharpens iron,' we 'provoke one another to love and good works.'

Summer of My Sloth

2008-09-05T11:58:00.004-04:00

Pneumonia can be dangerous. This I knew. But I never knew how dangerous. Oh, not necessarily to lung and life. I've pretty much recovered with only an occasional annoyance in the pulmonary department. And the on-hand elecampagne tincture has kept that nicely under control. No. It is in other ways that pneumonia has proved dangerous. You see, after that memorable bout at Christmas, pneumonia revealed to me that life can go on quite oblivious to the fact that there are dust mice under the bed. Stacks of games teetering ominously and with sometimes disastrous outcomes in the closet. Piles of books unattended. Light feebly poking through grimy, neglected windows. Cobwebs left to be co-opted by successive generations of spiders. Lawns left unmowed for extended periods of time, much to the chagrin of the neighbors, but somehow unmoving me. Prior to being ill, I'd pushed myself through my self-assigned work with uncharacteristic discipline, as if I could make everything in life right as long as I kept to my tasks and did "what needed to be done." It was almost compulsive and I could be rather rigid about it. I remember wondering what I'd done with my days before all of this had come to be. I'm starting to remember what I did.

I read mountains of novels.

I played computer games. Compulsively. Just like I do everything else.

I slept late.

I watched videos.

I stared off into space.

Oh, yeah. That's what it felt like...

It's become rather hard to snap myself out of it. To resume the traces and re-discipline myself to those hard habits. Even in gardening I've become quite slack. When it became clear that my garden wasn't going to be performing up to previous years, I decided to live and let live with whatever decided to poke up. Ironically or perhaps to the point, what volunteered actually performed better than what I'd so carefully planned, started, and cultivated. There's probably a lesson to be learned here. I'm meditating on that possibility.

I don't know where this volunteer came from. A friend of mine gave me a couple of yellow zucchini squash from her abundance last year--I'd never heard of yellow zucchini before--but I thought we'd eaten it all. I have no recollection of having any seed of which I'd disposed. And somehow...the largest profile that dominates my garden is the volunteer yellow zucchini squash, producing in characteristic zucchini fashion.

Squash is, along with beans, one of those foods that never seemed to come up on the "crave" list among the Hobbits. No winsome appeals for "just some more squash, Mom!" Philistines. But they do like crispy, crunchy stuff. Salty stuff. Potato chips. That sort of thing. Having recently joined a foodie list on preserving foods, I sit and observe the conversations and technical discussions on the vicissitudes of dehydrating zucchini. Now I'm rolling up my sleeves to try my hand. A lot, it seems depends on the width of the slice, the length and temperature of the dehydrating process and the storage of the end product. Zucchini has humectant qualities, which will attract moisture from the environment to rehydrate itself. to this end, I've found it helpful to insert a dessicate pack, usually scavanged from an empty bottle of supplements, into the jar before vacuum sealing it.

Dehydrating these is one of those endless variables, kinds of things. I generally dehydrate between 100-150* depending on what I'm drying and how quickly I want it done. This time around, in a bit of a hurry, I dried on 150* for 3-4 hours after sprinkling salt over the very thin chips. Having opted for a thinner chip, the end product was a bit difficult to peel off of the drying trays. I learned to pull them up while they were still a bit leathery. Tedious, perhaps, but less tedious than trying to pull fully dried chips off that stuck and cracked like parchment. Individual taste and projected use can dictate how thick or how crispy one wants the final product to be.

I called the Hobbits around for a test drive. Dog and Tool Guy thought they were great, while the other two--unable to surmount the "but it's squash" obstacle--didn't care for them. Tool Guy remarked that this left more for him and left fewer people to fight with over them. Heh. Some you win, some you lose.

Summer draws to a close. My to-do list calls to me reproachfully and I gird my loins to do what must needs be done. Time to slough the sloth.

The World In My Own Back Yard

2008-08-29T15:14:00.001-04:00

Chicory

This is the value of networking. I got a phone call from a friend who is in our food co-op, asking me, "You're interested in herbal stuff, right?" And with my affirmation that I'm taking baby steps into herb lore, she shared with me an advert in the local paper for an herb walk offered in one of the upstate preserves. All of the querying and casting around for expert information on our local area netted me nothing, but the right set of eyes in the right place scored!

Tool Guy was just as excited when I told him about it and decided that this would be just the thing for a family outing...of which we haven't had as many as we would have liked this past summer. It meant getting up at 5:00am to pull together the day's food, but everyone was excited to go. I was nervous, because this was a place I'd never gone to before and we needed to be there at a specific time. The internet is a wondrous thing and so are the map websites, but I've learned very early that they aren't trustworthy. Sure enough. Halfway to our destination, we "found" the typo in the mapping program's instructions--someone must have hicoughed when they were laying it out. So we had to ditch the printout and resort to connecting our last dot on the printout map with what the Rand McNally atlas was telling us. With a lot of prayer and sweating, we rolled up to the kiosk to pay for our hike mere moments before the guide did. Whew! Tool Guy and Princess decided to meander off and explore the great outdoors on their own, but Bug and Dog felt that they were ready to wrap their brains around some serious herbaling.

I'll readily admit to being a neophyte in the realm of herbal lore, but I certainly realized how little I knew as I stood among the veterans on this herbal walk. One of our group, whose accent identified her as a world traveler, opened her flower guide, which parted to reveal pressed leaves that she identified as some things that she had found on a recent trip to Italy. Another in the group asked in astonished tones if the book was applicable over there, to which Greta replied that the flora was amazingly similar. Dog and I had a brief pangaea discussion while we slowly moved ahead...a mere two feet...to the next identified herb. It was slightly gratifying to be able to identify plantain and both Bug and Dog were quick with their offerings of the potential applications of it. Did me proud.

Barberry

I was excited to find barberry identified. Our next-door neighbor had informed me that the profusions of them hedging our road were poisonous, but my herbal guide was of a different opinion. It does look to be a plant that one uses judiciously and I'll be exploring the precise harvesting and preparations, but the possibilities are impressive. She declared it a good substitute for goldenseal, which is not encouraged for wildcraft purposes, being endangered. Both of these have berberine, the attractive ingredient in goldenseal, though goldenseal has a higher concentration of it. Nice to know that the prickly shrub looming toward the back of my lawn has some valuable uses!

Wood Sorrel

As we meandered through the meadow, we never went far before stopping to exclaim over a find. Wood Sorrel was particularly appealing to me, since I'd seen it encroaching in my garden, as well as other spots in the yard. A plant that is good for liver support, it also has a sharply lemon taste. I'm planning on harvesting all of the opportunistic clumps of them in my garden and stick them in some olive oil as an experiment in a potential salad dressing. Hmmm....

Jewelweed

Plantain has been my mainstay for poison ivy...especially since Dog seems to be magnetized toward the stuff this year. I'd heard references to Jewelweed as the herb of choice to remedy the unfortunate who ran afoul of sensitive foliage, but I never made the connection between that orangish-yellow flower dotting the ditches along my road with the pictures and descriptions I encountered online. I've come to believe that books and guides are but a poor replacement for a native informant for such matters. In his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma, Michael Pollan talked about hunting mushrooms and described how that, after having a live informant demonstrate, educate, and guide through the search process, those slippery distinctions between one kind and another kind became amazingly clear. Perhaps herb wisdom isn't quite so nebulous, but having someone point out to me these things enabled me to see them when I'd never seen them before. Tool Guy laughed at me on the way home as I exclaimed over this or that stand of herbs that I'd never connected with before. He told me that I sounded like an addict who was identifying places to score. Hmph. Troglodyte.

Jewelweed Pods

Dog and Bug were enchanted with Jewelweed, which also goes by the name "Touch-Me-Not" because of the delightful pods that, spring-loaded, will pop open with a touch. I had moved down the trail almost out of sight before I realized that I was light by two other sets of feet. They were lingering with some other enchanted adults, finding as many Jewelweed pods as possible. I won't even tell you about the frenzy they had with the silks in the milkweed pods. No wonder this two-mile hike took over two hours. Heh.

The walk wasn't limited to meadow foraging. We also found quite a bit of even more interesting things putting in an appearance in the deeper woods. These were undisturbed and protected, so we found some herbs that I'd heard were endangered, but never seen. Things like Trillium, Bloodroot, "Heal-all," and Solomon's Seal. Delicate stems of pink Indian Pipe poked up through the humus. When someone asked about the mushrooms we were seeing, she tickled us all with the quip, "There are old mycologists and bold mycologists, but there are no old, bold mycologists" and we returned to looking for the more shy herbs lurking in the understory of the forest.

The walk certainly whetted my appetite to learn more. After Tool Guy and Princess rejoined us (they lost themselves and found themselves in the woods on their walk), we decamped to find a picturesque picnic spot where we indulged in lunch meat wrapped in tortillas, fried chicken fingers, and the Hobbits gorged themselves on watermelon. When we got home, I walked through the yard, amazed at how much had been underfoot all of this time and I never knew it...all of these riches in my own back yard.

Stocking Up

2008-08-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

The weather has given us a very cool August. Hardly a need for fans this year, air conditioning aside. The Hobbits are "enjoying"--and I use the term in mild sardonic amusement--a vacation from media except on days that are stormy and otherwise confining. Needless to say, Bug prays daily for rain and not for my garden's sake. Heh. On the other hand, they are learning better how to play with each other, how to explore the limits of their imaginations and expand the limits of their patience with each other. I'm turning each room out in a fall cleaning frenzy, still trying to play catch up from all of the to-do's hanging over my head since I was ill during Christmas. And of course, everyone is starting to think schooly thoughts. I'm teaching an SAT essay prep course this year and am madly prepping myself for the task. Oh, I can write, but I've never tried to teach anyone else to write. Gonna be an interesting year, I can tell you.

The leaves are starting to turn already and it augers to be a very cold winter. The fall webworm caterpillars are in much larger abundance and some of the local veterans speak of them in ominous terms. One feels the urge to start the annual process of putting foods by and preparing for the winter ahead. Since the fruits of such garden as I have yield enough to feed us only a seasonal share, I'm looking at other sources of stocking up and filling my cellar.

Stocking up seems to be on the lips of lots of folks. Rising food prices and references to food shortages, though none domestically have materialized...yet, have a good many people thinking ahead and planning ahead. It doesn't have the frenzied commercial furor of Y2K, but I see more people quietly planning, working, and systematically laying in a store house of food for their families. It certainly seems reasonable to me. Nothing radical or overly ambitious. I'm following the same rule of thumb for storing as was given me for planting a garden. "Plant/store what you eat and eat what you plant/store. " No breaking the bank, either, on glitzy food rations and survival toys. Just every time I order food or go shopping, I pick up an extra bag or two of grain or bottle of olive oil or whathaveyou to stick down in the basement. The halt of some countries in their export of foods may be temporary and a blip on the radar, but as someone who can't just grab Mac n' Cheese instead of Rice a Roni if it comes to that, I feel the need to be cautious.

Since beans seem to be enjoying a return to the menu--that is if I can get the Hobbits to eat enough of them to monitor for a food reaction--I'm leaning on them as a cheap source of protein to fill in the corners of my now-less-roomy basement. Which brings me back to "store what you eat and eat what you store." I can store all of the beans our budget will buy, but I've got to get them to eat 'em. So I've been meditating on ways of presenting beans that will sell to Hobbits. (I won't elaborate on my nose being out of joint at their cavalier dismissal of my hummus, which I think is divine and Tool Guy agrees, but I digress.)

I think I found it.

Toasted Garbanzo Beans

2 cups of dried garbanzo beans
2 T lemon juice
mason jar(s) and sprouting lid(s)
4 T olive oil
salt or seasoned salt
1-2 T chili powder (opt.)

Soak the beans in water and lemon juice overnight. Drain and transfer to mason jars to sprout for 2-3 days or until tails are length of bean. Pour out onto towel and blot dry. Spread into baking pan or cast iron cookware in a single layer of beans (this may mean splitting the beans into more than one pan/container). Mix in 2 T of oil per 2 cups of beans and sprinkle with salt or seasoned salt to taste. If zippier beans are desired, add chili powder to the mix and stir well. In a 450* oven, toast beans for 20-40 minutes or until desired degree of crispiness is achieved, checking every 3-5 minutes after 30 minutes. These nuggets can go from toasted to "toast" in a very short period of time, so keep an eye on them.

These have the consistency of cornnuts, but, given my prejudices about corn--ahem--I think these are better. Certainly higher in nutrients, particularly when soaked and sprouted. A great snack and the Hobbits love them. As my Deaf friends say, "Pah!" (Finally/Success!) So I make another check mark on my stock-up list. Done.

The Accidental Composter

2008-08-15T16:51:00.002-04:00

One of the benefits of the Hobbits getting older is that I have the opportunity to do more independent stuff. Tool Guy has positively taken up residence in his workshop these days, having a laundry list of things to build this summer, and is locked in the throes of planing and routering. There's a built-in wardrobe at the end of his tunnel and he still has my chicken tractor yet to build. But since the Hobbits are needing less and less direct supervision, it's possible to leave them to their devices while Tool Guy is making enough noise in his shop to annoy the deer and I can go do "me" things.

One such Saturday involved a composting class with my gardening buddy. A local co-operative extension was offering the class, dangling an "Earth Machine" composter as the carrot. Tres chic, and my friend and I decided to bite, thinking that we'd get a free composter and maybe learn a few tips in the bargain. Our version of a Mother's Day Out. Hey, it beats spending money on a day spa, right?

We brought our folding chairs--Princess graciously loaned me her pink one that says, what else, "Princess"--to lounge in the warehouse of a local feed store, redolent of chicken feed and malathion, and prepared ourselves to be informed. The presenters were a couple who were interesting to listen to and well-informed on their topic...even had a PowerPoint presentation to go with it. One of the things that amused me during the lecture was when one of the presenters referred to herself as a "casual composter," by which she meant that she didn't vigorously attend her compost nor apply with scientific rigor the ratios and principles of feeding a compost bin, referencing her parents' habit of tossing all garden scraps and weeding onto a pile just outside the paling of the garden. But listening to her subsequent description how she manages her compost and its wormy inhabitants made me comment later to my friend, "If she's a casual composter, then I'm an accidental one!" Because I guess I'm a rule breaker...or at least a bender. I throw all manner of food scraps into my compost pile. The one that sits at least a half an acre away from the house, so smells and critters are of no moment. Everything including the bones from my soup broth goes into the mountain that sits on the edge of the woods. I'll admit that I pay little attention to ratios of greens and browns, though all of my leaves and yard clippings go there, too. It must all be good, because somehow it all reduces to dirt by the following spring and my worms are auditioning for "Tremors 2." Watch out, Kevin Bacon.

However, bending the rules or ignoring possibilities can come back to bite. This year's garden is a prime example of that. One of the most pertinent points in the lecture was "how to tell when your compost is ready." One of the ways to test compost is to sprout a seed in the stuff. If it doesn't sprout, not ready. Ding, ding, ding, ding. My currently-sluggish garden sprang to mind.

Last summer was the first summer of my huge greenhouse canopy. When I put the garden to bed last fall, I did as I'd always done and pile massive amounts of leaves and yard clippings along with the year's accumulated compost. This procedure has always worked wonderfully well, but I failed to take into consideration the sheltering effect of the greenhouse in diminishing the amount of moisture contributing to the composting process. In the spring, the layer of detritus still remained, bone dry and intact instead of crumbling into the soil over the winter. Despite enthusiastic...nay, desperate...tilling, it's taken quite a while to finish the decomp job. Lesson learned. I guess this is what they call "gardening dangerously."

I'm still managing to harvest a few things out of the garden. I have a half gallon of pickles with the promise of a bit more to come. We've gotten a few squash that volunteered themselves. When I realized that my garden wasn't going to be what I usually get, I decided that whatever showed enough spunk to stick its head up could grow whatever it wanted. I've gotten a yellow zucchini...and I'm trying to figure out where that came from...and a couple of crookneck squash. And a few tomatoes have ripened.

One of the culinary delights that was served to me during that celebratory luncheon with my gardening friend was gazpacho. In my mind, gazpacho has always been one of those exotic dishes that are classics on the gourmet litany of dishes, but I've never had before and never occurred to me to attempt. I was delighted when the first dish of the meal that appeared before me was gazpacho. And it was delicious. My friend confessed that her native informant had critiqued the gazpacho recipe as being "too chunky." Apparently, in this student's home, the gazpacho, after being blended, is sieved through a strainer to make it much smoother and finer. I agreed with my friend, however, that the texture of this gazpacho was much more interesting and satisfying. And refreshing on a warm July afternoon. Here's her version of this Spanish classic.

Gazpacho

4 tomatoes
1/4 sweet onion
1 cucumber
1 sweet red bell pepper
1 tsp. minced garlic
1/2 tsp. salt
olive oil, opt.

Blanch tomatoes, peel, and place in food processor with sweet onion quarter, minced garlic and deseeded bell pepper. Peel cucumber, reserving a portion to dice for garnish, and place in food processor. Add salt and puree to desired consistency. Garnish with diced cucumber and dash of olive oil, if desired. Serve cold.

There's an additional piquancy to this particular bowl of gazpacho. It contains some of the precious few tomatoes and cucumbers that my garden was able to squeeze out this year. It's a pity some lessons get learned the hard way. Ah, well. This fall, the yard clippings will reside in van-sized mountain at the edge of our woods and I'll wait until spring to haul it up and incorporate into the garden. Who knows maybe next year will be better than it would have been otherwise for this accidental vacation due to my accidental composting...

So Great a Cloud of Witnesses

2008-08-08T11:38:00.000-04:00

It's almost impossible to overestimate the value of the people who surround us. The people whom we elect to populate our "village." Prior to having children, Tool Guy and I were pretty free-wheeling. We picked up and moved at the drop of a hat and at the beck and call of his employer. Which was frequent. We moved, more often than not once every year and a half, sometime staying longer in a place, sometimes less. We always left behind precious and unique people...I'm just sorry that I didn't treasure them more while I had the chance. Since beginning to have children, however, we've only moved once. And every year, I find deeper reasons to value these people who touch our lives.

One of the first people to significantly touch us after we began the first steps of our Breatharian journey was Dog's Sunday School teacher. At that time, snacks were de rigour for class and it was the first social food hurdle we faced. I bought a box of Pamela's cookies that I've yet to see any child refuse and equipped him with it. I'll never forget the gracious words as she greeted Dog at the door, thanking him for bringing snacks to share with the class. I'm fully convinced that she set the tone for the level of compliance that we've had from him all of these years, making his food differences feel like a unique contribution to the group rather than causing him to stand out. Our further sensitivities pushed us farther off the food grid, but the initial experiences, the warm understanding and acceptance laid some important foundational attitudes for us.

Along the way, we're deepened relationships with the people who touch our children's lives. People who care enough to recognize and accept what contamination does to us and take such simple steps as washing their hands after eating and before sharing an activity with us. Who come to me with their plans for art projects to make sure that the paint or glue or food item included in the supply list is safe for us or brainstorm with me ways to make it safe. Some of our people don't know or understand or fully appreciate the difficulty of all of this, but blessedly, I've never, as one online friend shared her experience, had anyone deliberately sabotage our efforts and tempt any of my children into infracting just to prove a point. Gratefully, I'm surrounded with people who are at the very least sympathetic, if uncomprehending.

One of the most recent blessings came during a high stress time in my summer. As the scheduling dieties would have it, the whole foods cooperative we buy from changed our delivery week to one that fell right in the middle of Vacation Bible School. Either of these morning activities wipe me out for the rest of the day and the thought of both falling on the same day had me hyperventilating. My food buddy came to my rescue with an offer to make lunch for me. What a respite! In a particularly trying week, in the middle of a I-hate-my-own-cooking funk, to have someone make lunch for me! Does it get any better than that? While the Hobbits had the opportunity to apply their newly acquired swimming skills in her pool, she laid out a veritable feast for me out on her deck. The centerpiece of this celebration of friendship was Tortilla de Patata. Her recipe was even vetted out by their Spanish exchange student, whose only remark was that her onions weren't chopped finely enough. (I'm with her, though...I like the big onions!) Being totally new to the delights of Spanish cuisine, I was intrigued to hear that this is a big comfort food there. Kind of like macaroni and cheese to the American palate. It certainly was comforting to have it made for me in the middle of a very demanding week!

Tortilla de Patata _{as shared by my foodie friend}

Potatoes 6-10 (enough to fill the skillet 3/4 full)
Onion, sliced into rings
8-12 eggs, beaten and salted/peppered to taste
Enough lard to fry potatoes plus 2 T for frying onion rings

Slice potatoes and soak 8 hours or overnight. (Soaking and removing excess starch reduces the acrylamide load in the potatoes.) Drain and set aside. In large skillet, melt 2 T lard and carmelize onion rings over medium to high heat. Meanwhile, over high heat in cast iron dutch oven, deep fry potato slices until tender, but before becoming crisp. When the onions are browned to taste, layer in the potato slices and cover with beaten eggs. Over medium low heat, cook until the egg mixture sets. Do not stir. Covering skillet with plate, invert skillet, flipping out contents to the plate. Slide the contents with browned side up back into the skillet to finish cooking the eggs.

This was a big hit at the Hobbit house and not surprisingly, there were no leftovers, though I understand this is a dish that re-serves well. Every time I make this dish, I'll remember the support and encouragement in continuing this marathon.

"Seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses (examples)...let us run with patience the race that is set before us..." _{Hebrews 12:1}

The Frog Princess

2008-08-01T10:57:00.000-04:00

Summer winds on and begins to wind down. The sounds of lawnmowers fill the air, though not as frequently as usual. A cooler summer and the exorbitant price of gas combines to encourage everyone to be less scrupulous than normal about manicuring expanses of green. Weekends are punctuated with nights out in the backyard, "camping out" as the weather permits, trips to "Pooh Bridge" to play Pooh sticks, and bike riding in the park. Tool Guy refreshed the sand in the sandbox and Bug and Princess devote themselves to engineering and excavating new roads and infrastructures to support the necessary castles for HRH. Having a girl among boys presents a curious dichotomy. She is an interesting blend of girly stuff along with the reckless hobbledyhoy. Like when Bug was grooving on all things magnetic. His birthday and Christmas money was spent on interesting magnetic kits and building sets. Princess followed his passion blithely, but insisted that the magnetic marbles for her shopping bag all be pink. So I spent quite a few minutes, sitting on the floor of the educational toy store, picking out fifty pink orbs from all of the assorted colors in the container. Well, at least we don't have to guess which magnets belong to whom...

This has been a particularly busy and eventful summer for us. I think I'm emerging at last from my gestational hibernation. When I was pregnant for Princess, we were simultaneously hit with an exhaustive and exhausting list of IgG intolerances that needed to be eliminated along with gluten. The vulnerability of lacking safe food sources outside of the home, combined with the pressures of pregnancy, created in me a tremendous desire to hole up in the house and go nowhere. I expected that to evaporate after Princess was born, but, somehow, that reclusive drive lingered. Probably due to the dynamic of being contact sensitive to any of the off-menu food stuff and cross-contamination being what it is, every trip outside the house was an "adventure." Picture Snoopy attempting a trek "across enemy lines." That would be us.

This past weekend, we assayed our first participation in our local church's annual picnic. As it would happen, the morning was cloudy and spitting. As we packed up the van and headed out under the blessings of a light sprinkle, Dog kept up a running monologue about how it would be a temporary shower, accompanying the windshield wipers that kept working harder and harder to keep the road visible. I finally put him out of his angst by assuring him that we'd at least stay there long enough to eat, knowing that there was a pavilion where everyone would shelter from the storm.

Under a persistent drizzle, we unloaded the treats of the day and shared a table with another family for lunch. Rain wasn't the only risk of the day...this was a new recipe that I was trying and it was just as much a gamble to serve it to the Hobbits in public as it would be to serve it to guests. (As luck would have it, everyone liked the dish.) As you may recall, I'm in a food funk. My foodie partner has been holding my hand through this pout. She entrusted me with a stack of beloved "Taste of Home" magazines, from which I tweaked Anna Minegar's recipe for pulled pork.

Everything Free Pulled Pork

3-4 pounds bone-in pork ribs
4 cups water

Sauce

1 cup Breatharian Flames Ketchup
1 cup water
2 T maple syrup or vegetable glycerin
2 t wheat-free tamari sauce
1 T tapioca starch

In pressure cooker, cook ribs with 4 cups water for 25 minutes after the cooker has reached optimum pressure. Meanwhile, dissolve tapioca starch in cup of water, then add mixture with ketchup, water, maple syrup, and tamari sauce to heavy saucepan, and heat until thickened. When ribs are finished cooking, remove and strip meat from the bones, using two forks to shred the meat into fragments. Stir into sauce and heat until warmed. Serve over fresh bread.

When the rain slackened off...and even before...Bug and Princess dashed from the cover of the pavilion and went to explore the delights of the playground. Which included a merry-go-round. Before the end of the afternoon, Princess had assumed the "responsibility" of pushing everyone...all for the joy of "tripping" and allowing the momentum of the equipment to drag her through the muddy track worn down by previous hoydens. Heh. Not a few concerned parents pointed her out to me. One of the matriarchs pulled out her camera and captured the moment for posterity. I still have the princess slippers that did the honors of the day...I haven't been able to bring myself to wash them.

On the drive home, the boys were discussing what they wanted to do when they got home. Dog wanted to read the latest books from the library. Bug wanted to play with his Bionicles. Princess declared that she was going to go and slide through the mud. The conversation turned to food. Dog wanted chicken sticks for dinner. Bug wanted cowboy eggs. Princess declared that she wanted to go and slide through the mud.

If they would just stay five...

The Hurrier I Go

2008-07-21T13:22:00.011-04:00

I'm repenting myself. I'm beginning to think that making to-do lists isn't such a good idea. To-do things on a page together are like rabbits...they reproduce more little to-do things. It's almost like when you start fixing up the house and more things start unraveling than what you planned on renovating. This to-do begets that to-do and we all know how long the begets begot before they were done.

Delusionally, I keep thinking that at some point, I'm going to get caught up on housework, caught up on food chores, and caught up on homeschooling to the point of being able to sit down and relax without it all hanging over my head. I just googled up my personalized homepage and realized that the items on the to-do pad there hold things that still are undone. Oh, and I haven't looked at that page in over six months. Sigh. Well, in all fairness, there hasn't been a lot of demand lately for that snow suit needing the zipper replaced, so I cry "mercy!" there. And you know things are starting to approach pathological when the door greeter at Sam's says, "Oh, I have your book!" And turns to bring you your to-do diary. The one that was weeks ago abandoned in the seat of the shopping cart when you were distracted by having to settle the seat spat in the van, while you were off-loading groceries.

This whole attitude reminds me of when we first started our food journey. Oh, I knew that the gluten thing was going to be for life. And I was okay with that. Making gluten free foods didn't daunt me...armed with a pile of Bette Hagman cookbooks and a catalog from United Buying Clubs, I was loaded for bear. It wasn't until after we had to go everything free that things started to get a bit more stressful. In fact, going gluten free felt positively halcyon by comparison. But I didn't think it would last that long. The literature said that IgG's would heal up and we could reintroduce the forbidden foods in four to six months. I remember using that to encourage my father..."Hey, Dad, it's only for four months...six at the most!" It was probably a good thing that I didn't know.

When, at four and then six months, we weren't gaining foods, but still losing even more foods than had originally shown up on the tests, I realized that this wasn't a sprint. It was a marathon. And now, as we're approaching the six year mark and the six month window is a vague memory in the past. I'm having to remind myself again...not a sprint...marathon...think marathon.

With that in mind--and remembering how I hate my own cooking right now--I decided to take a page out of my gardening partner's book and resort to stir fries. Oh! That reminds me! I have to tell tales out of school. My gardening partner will just have to forgive me. In addition to sharing gardening passions, we also share co-op responsibilities. She has the herculean task of juggling the produce order without benefit of purchasing software, as well as gambling on whether or not enough members will make impulse purchases sufficient to sell off any unencumbered produce before we close out our monthly pick up session. It's no mean feat and she does it every month. This past month, there was an unusual amount of bok choy unsold by the time the truck arrived and she came, loaded up and with a plan in mind. Whipping out her wok, she chopped up one of the heads of bok choy and tossed up a quick stir fry, adding just a dash of wheat-free tamari sauce and some onions. Setting it on the check out table, next to our accountant--where people have to stand to pay for their order--she waved it under everyone's noses and pointed out the fresh heads of bok choy on our surplus table. Heh. I guess I don't have to tell you that all of the bok choy sold...

With a surfeit of squash out--and me continually threatening the Hobbits with more vegetables--I decided to shamelessly rip off her cooking technique. And her measuring technique. The end result was this.

Scorched Squash

A couple of zucchini and summer squash, chopped up
A couple of dashes of San-J tamari sauce (not corn-free, despite their declaration on their website)
A couple of teaspoons of minced garlic
A couple of spritzes of olive oil

In a very hot wok (I put this under my "blow torch" burner on my stove), spritz with olive oil, just enough to keep the squash from sticking. In small amounts, stir fry squash until seared and browned, but still offering resistance when forked. Add minced garlic and tamari sauce and stir fry a moment or so longer to incorporate flavors. Serve hot.

This past week, I genuinely took the week off. I spent one hurly-burly day cooking ahead and spent the rest of the week with my feet up, listening to mp3's supplied to me by my mom. Thanks, Mom! Amazingly, I'm not any further behind than I usually am and I'm significantly more rested. Marathon...marathon...marathon...

Gone Fishing

2008-07-18T14:49:00.000-04:00

Well...foraging, actually. I'm in a food funk. I'm sick of my own cooking. This is probably a precursor stage to another blitz of "cooking dangerously," but I'm not there yet. The weather is certainly a reason to draw me out of doors, being summer and all, with all of the activities that summer affords. We've been out of pocket this entire week doing Family Things. That doesn't leave much time for cooking and I doan wanna be in the kitchen any more than I have to be at the moment. Needless to say, I've been pulling out all of my Breatharian "fast food" ideas. The Hobbits should be heartily sick of them by this time. I know I certainly am.

I'm thankful for any excuse to get out right now. Gardening is still a bit of a tender subject, but there are things that are doing well enough. Almost everything that I planted is going to produce at least some amount of seed, so I'll be able to have seeds to save for next year's garden. It's been interesting to watch the arugula shed its petals and see little seed pods fatten up. I never knew that lettuce went to seed that way. Not sure what I had in mind, but that wasn't it. There are a couple of tenacious beans asserting their existence in the garden and I figure something that is that determined to live is something that I want reproducing next year. My newly settled asparagus crowns are sending spindly ferns up way past the point of being able to support on such thin stalks. Even though the brochure assures me that I can harvest briefly this year, I'm abstaining, once more thinking ahead.

This is a good time for thinking ahead. Thinking back to last winter with all of the miasma that floated around, I'm planning. The elecampagne plant in my garden is taller than Tool Guy and that's saying a lot. This looks like it is going to be a mullein year, too. Last year, I began looking for them late in the summer and gathered enough for a few cups of tea. This year, like the model car one has recently bought, I see them everywhere. Great stands of them littering the roadsides. I've already harvested a grocery bag...fabric, thankyouvermuch...full of the broad, flannel leaves, dehydrated them, and they now occupy four quart jars in the bottom of my basement.

In an enthusiasm of tincturing, I decided to make mullein oil, as well. I pounded a bunch of leaves into a quart jar and glopped olive oil over the top, suctioning all of the air out with a lovely vacuum seal to finish it off. And while I was on the phone, chatting to my herbal mentor, she informed me that the flowers provide the virtue of mullein oil for earaches. Oh. Flowers. My bad. Feeling like Roseanne Rosannadanna prattling about violins (violence) on TV, I grabbed a mason jar and headed back out to do some more foraging.

Picking mullein is not unlike picking cotton. Well, it doesn't have the spikes that lacerate fingers, so bonus points there. But the very small blossoms make harvesting a rather painstaking process. And mullein oil requires a lot of flowers. It's beginning to become apparent why mullein oil sells in these petite little bottles for a not-so-petite price.

It's a pretty straightforward tincture...stuff as much as you can into a jar and cover with oil and forget about it for 6-8 weeks. I cap mine with a canning lid and a vacuum seal to help draw all of the not inconsiderable air out of the whole morass. I have been more active with my particular batch because mullein in an unevenly blooming flower. The blossoms don't all blow at the same time, so a tincture may very well be best done in stages. About every three days, I do another round of foraging and collect what flowers are open and ready for harvesting. I throw these on top of the previous batch, press them down into the saturated flowers below and top off with more olive oil, sufficient to cover the top. Looking at the resulting oil, I'm thinking that straining this through a cheesecloth would probably be a good idea when all is said and done.

I'm working to forage as much as I responsibly can. Seems to me if the herbal plants are having a bumper year, it might be because we'll have a bumper need for them this winter. So every few days, I head out with my bag or my jar and collect new batches. And gingerly step around the blackberries...the crop that I didn't obtain permission to harvest. Drat.

Sleeping With the Enemy

2008-07-11T13:52:00.000-04:00

It's probably no surprise that I inhabit the internet quite a bit. In addition to all of the things one has access to and the informational goldmines out there, I find the interaction between people to be inspiring. "Iron sharpens iron." A recent conversation with a mom of a boy with burgeoning sensitivities brought back a flood of memories of what it was like for us when all this food stuff was new with us. When we paused on the brink of the abyss, not knowing how desperate things could and would become. We talked about how some children self-limit their foods out of fear. Out of a sense of losing control and desperately grabbing for the last edge of solid ground.

Developing food sensitivities is a horrible, out-of-control feeling. Control is definitely at the root of food issues and for a very good reason. There's a fundamental betrayal in all of this. Almost nothing, if not absolutely nothing, comes closer to the core of our psyche than what we eat. We can live without physical intimacy, but we can't live without eating. Food is one of the defining aspects of a culture and it is part of defining who we are individually as well. One of the basic "getting to know you" questions people ask is, "What do you like to eat?" When we can't trust our food supply or our food intake, we are betrayed...by whatever/whomever...on the most basic and earthbound level we can reach. If we don't have safe food, what do we have? If we can't trust our food to nourish us, what can we trust?

We know that we can't trust other people to tell us if something is safe. Some people can be trusted, but not most. Tool Guy can't travel for any length of time without getting zapped. Despite all the precautions. Despite lengthy questioning of the food preparers. Despite doing all of the "right things." This sort of thing pierces to a molecular level. Literally. And it becomes scary to think that we can't trust our eyes or that we can't develop a reliable strategy to protect ourselves.

I remember what it felt like when we were losing foods. Things that were safe last week weren't safe this week. One time the Hobbits would eat something and it would be yummy. The next time they ate the very same food, even food from that same batch that was fine the last time they ate from it, they reacted. And it was usually favorite foods. This shatters any sense of comfort anyone has about food. You scramble to find the common thread...some clue...some predictor of what is going to explode in your face next time. It feels safer to not eat at all, which is, of course, impossible. Sleeping with the enemy.

And the more severe the reaction, the deeper the anxiety. This can be hard for some people to understand, even other people with food sensitivities, if they aren't high reactors. As much as I loved the flip tone of Against the Grain by Jax Lowell--I adore wisecracking, tongue-in-cheek, wink-wink-nudge-nudge writing--I can't bring myself to recommend it. Someone who suggests, when at a party and faced with dicey food choices, scraping the caviar off of the cracker with one's teeth and tossing the cracker rather than appear de trop or affected doesn't live in the same world I do. She isn't sleeping with the enemy. Not someone who mail orders food as if it were takeout from the corner Chinese restaurant. The more sensitive the canary, the less concerned about perceptions and the more concerned about sheer survival.

It's scary for the Hobbit, the child, the person to whom it is happening. One day corn was okay for him and then it wasn't. One day tomatoes were okay for him and now they aren't. What's going to turn on him today? What's the common thread? Vegetables? I can see why he's not wanting to eat vegetables. Losing food in a very painful way makes us hyper-defensive.

The Hobbits themselves never reacted by self-limiting foods, but probably because our worst reactions weren't physically painful...just soul-scalding rages--which made me want to do the limiting foods...I'm the gun shy one in our house. But food sensitivities do that. Everyone wants to be able to put food in their mouths without feeling like it will explode in there.

This is why I developed the style of eating we have. Some folks are surprised to find that we don't eat a wide variety of different foods, but, honestly, when I look at indigenous peoples' diets, I don't see as wide a variety as is advocated by Western import-dependent cuisine. We eat plain. Meat, a few vegetables, a few kinds of grains, some fruits and that's about it. And it is the same stuff. Over. And over. And over. And I let the Hobbits pick what they want. At every meal. I have a collection of things that I can make up at a moment's notice and each of them can choose from that list for each meal. My MIL quipped once that it's like living at a diner. But given the severe limits imposed on us, I want them to feel like they have some degree of control over what they eat. Of giving them as much control over what they eat as the limits of their reactions permit.

Exotic cooking is fun and exciting and I do like trying new things. Mostly, though, for day-to-day cooking, I like things that are comfort foods. Foods I can throw together without giving much thought to. Foods like chicken salad. Just the ticket for sultry July days. This is one of those recipes that I throw together as a bit of this and a handful of that. See? Not much thought to it. Comfort food. Yeah.

Chicken Salad

1-1 1/2 cups mayonnaise
3-4 chicken breasts
1 tsp. seasoned salt
3-4 handfuls of Tinkyada pasta
pickles, chopped (opt)

Make mayonnaise. Since I like my chicken salad to be tangy, when I make the mayo for this, I double the vinegar and leave off any maple syrup or sweetener. Sprinkle seasoned salt over chicken breasts and grill out for 10-15 minutes each side or until done. Boil up pasta. I like to follow the package directions and boil my water first, then drop the pasta in the pot and cover without disturbing for 20 minutes before draining. They're right. It makes perfect pasta every time. When the breasts are cooled, chop into small, bite-sized chunks and mix with remaining ingredients. Delicious served hot or cold.

So as we walk this pocked-marked road toward healing, we're picking our way through the land mines...making our food choices carefully. That uneasy dance of sleeping with the enemy.

Hobbledehoy Days

2008-07-04T13:33:00.000-04:00

It's the Fourth of July. It's officially summer time. At least it would be if it would stop raining. The yard was sporting a three week growth before I spent the day chasing hurly burly Hobbits through the yard with the lawnmower. In late afternoon, the annual erecting of the tent will arise with all the pomp and ceremony accorded to such an occasion. The adults are approaching it with all the trepidation that the weather accords to such an occasion. And, per usual, rain stalks the annual local fireworks display. I think in seven years, we've only not been drenched once. You'd think it was Louisiana. Except the mosquitoes there are bigger. State bird, you know.

Mrs. Elton's prim and disdainful voice echoes to me. "Are we to sit down with hobbledehoys?" Yeah. That would be us. Not much standing on ceremony and elegance around here. Just straightforward, what you see is what you get. I'm barefoot in the kitchen (though the prospects of pregnancy are fading fast, but I'm not complaining) most days. The Hobbits, of course, being Hobbits, shun footwear at the soonest possible temperature in the season and don't resume without duress until the absolute brink of frostbite.

It's a hobbledehoy summer for us. Lots of outside and doing fun things. While Tool Guy was away from home, the four of us packed off for a day at a nearby amusement/water park. It was small and intimate enough--and crowded with enough of the adults in our "village"--for me to cut the apron strings and let Dog and Bug run loose. A first for them. They hardly knew how to contain themselves. About once an hour, Princess and I would suspend whatever we were pursuing at that moment (usually another trip on the roller coaster or another wet and wild spin down the oh-so-descriptive "Toilet Bowl") and go do a head count. I think that it was about three or four hours before I actually saw Bug, but there were adults who were able to give me Bug "sightings" and describe how relentlessly he and Dog were pursuing a good time. Something about being an unencumbered, uninhibited child to be able to have such unalloyed fun. We got there at 10:00 am and I don't think I was able to convince anyone to eat anything until 3:00 in the afternoon. We didn't leave the park until the last vestige of enjoyment could be wrung from the opportunity and they couldn't stop talking about it for three days.

Lots of hobbledehoy goings on. Bee stings. Bug bites. Dog insists that he knows what poison ivy looks like, yet somehow manages to overlook it when he's beating the bushes...literally...and exploring. Even Princess picks up the odd scrape and rug rash. Despite her regal dignity, she careens across the floor of the activity room at church with a scooter and no shoes, yodeling to make way for "The Magnificent Princess." So much for decorum.

I have the magic potion. Plantain. Early in our Breatharian days, I had a friend tell me about her herbal stuff. She told me that plantain is a must in any medicine cabinet. She even claimed to have healed a gangrenous chicken wing using it. It strains credulity, but she swears it's true. Plantain is one of those "weeds" that is available in most places just for the picking. Another herbalist told me that it used to be called "settler's hoof," since the seeds for it were supposedly brought over with the settlers and favors high traffic areas. I have noticed that it has gradually proliferated through the yard in just such a pattern...the high trafficked areas.

Plantain Oil

Plantain leaves
Olive oil
Glass jar
A few drops of rosemary essential oil
A tincture of time

Herbals like this are relatively easy. I've begun sending Dog into the yard to collect the plantain leaves for me. Just a bowl and a directive not to stop until it is full. I figured that if he was the young jackanapes who couldn't remember to steer clear of suspicious foliage, then he could assist in replenishing the store of plantain that he depleted. After he brings in as much as he possibly can motivate himself to gather, I spread them out in the shade in shallow layers in baskets or on drying racks. An herbalist suggested letting them wilt a bit before processing to reduce excess moisture. After a few hours of wilting, collect the leaves and jam them into a glass jar, packing the jar as full as possible or using all of the leaves available, whichever comes first. Then cover the leaves with oil...as much as the leaves will absorb and then a little more so that the leaves are submerged. (A vacuum sealer helps to remove air bubbles and the oil to permeate the leaves.) Cover and let sit for about six weeks. Strain out the leaves. Add a few drops of rosemary essential oil as a preservative. I store surplus oil in the refrigerator and keep what I need handy in the medicine cabinet.

I understand that this oil can be used to make a salve with beeswax, but I haven't ventured that far yet. Maybe later on this year. Plantain is good for cuts, scrapes, rashes of all kinds and helps clear up topical infections.

There's something to be said for having herbal magic that only needs reach out the back door to acquire. Especially when one has hobbledehoy Hobbits at home.

Another Brick in the Wall

2008-06-27T13:45:00.002-04:00

It feels appropriate to say that food is now my calling. I've felt that way for quite a while now. It gets me some strange looks from people, though. Well, among the other strange looks that I somehow manage to earn. People aren't used to thinking of food in those kinds of terms. At least most people aren't. Some folks get it. Sharon gets it. She recently said this in an email exchange and I haven't been able to get it out of my head: "I find it impossible to separate my food life from my spiritual life. For me, they are the same." Bingo.

I think that the reason some have difficulty with this idea is that we've bought into the idea of a demarcation between the "sacred" and the "secular." Certain jobs are sacred and certain jobs are secular, right? It would follow that our being is divided up, then, into sacred (the spiritual) and the secular (the physical). I've seen a lot of folks use this kind of parsing to dismiss their food choices. It really doesn't matter what we eat, because that's only temporal, right?

For some years now, I've developed an increasing belief that the small and insignificant jobs that consume my day have a spiritual significance. An aura of the holy. I've wondered, from time to time, if this wasn't just a grasping search for meaning in a life mired in the mundane details of drudgery. And some days, I'll admit, it did and does feel that way. But I keep coming back to this core sense that this is what I'm called to do. And even though it doesn't earn me much respect, if any, and probably would earn me contempt from any movers and shakers that might happen to glance down and notice my existence, it still returns to me that this isn't trivial. These are the bricks upon which all is founded.

I've been doing a great deal of thinking about Nehemiah...the guy who was called to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. Who gave up a cushy job as food-taster (there we go...food again!) to go and stand on the rubble with a trowel in one hand and a sword in the other, to re-erect the walls that had lain in ruins for 150 years. Sounds like a secular job, right? Eugene Peterson, author of The Message, maintains that "work, by its very nature, is holy." Otherwise, why would it matter to God whether or not there were walls around a city? This was a holy calling.

I'm reminded of a conversation I was engaged in a few years back. The mom was consulting a noted nutritionist for her children. Her daughter had eczema and other symptoms that weren't responding to the usual treatments. The nutritionist pointed out the breakdown in the girl's digestive processes. "L's having trouble with her 'walls,'" she said. Indeed. Lots of us are having trouble with eroded walls and we are being called to rebuild them. Our contemporary food supply isn't designed to do that. We're going to have to do that on our own. Time to pick up a trowel and sword and put another brick in the wall.

The biggest stumbling block in this food issue is bread. I have acquaintances, even relatives, who won't consider making changes despite all of the indicators because of that one block...that one brick...bread. The most trafficked recipes I have are the bread ones. And the most requested of the Hobbits are bready things. It's a foundational food in our lives, even though we can live very healthy lives without it...sometimes even healthier lives without it. But it still comes down to wanting good bread.

The latest that I've been twiddling with is tortillas...working on achieving the penultimate tortilla. I'm getting closer. I noticed that the oh-so-delicious-but-ever-elusive-and-yet-corntaminated Food For Life rice flour tortillas have rice bran in them. So I acquired some rice bran and am now stalking their achievement...my own perfect tortilla. One step closer.

Grilled Tortillas

1 1/2 cups rice flour
1/2 - 3/4 cups tapioca starch flour
2 T rice bran
2-3 T melted lard
3/4 - 1 cup warm water
2-3 t guar gum
1 t salt
Extra lard for cooking

In mixer, using a dough hook (one of the rare times that gluten free baking requires a dough hook), mix the dry ingredients with the melted lard and slowly work in the water until incorporated. The dough should be dry enough to work with your hands. Break off a ball of dough and roll into a ball. Using sheets of baking parchment or wax paper, flatten in a tortilla press or roll out with a rolling pin.

On a grill preheated to approximately 400*, gently lay tortillas and grill about two minutes per side, with the lid closed.

Nehemiah left a legacy that he restored the walls of Jerusalem and made it a safe place for a culture to flourish again. That's how I want to be remembered. As someone who made food something that nourished my children again so that they could flourish and become all that they can be.

1 Corinthians 10:31 says, "Whether therefore you eat, or drink, or whatsoever you do, do all to the glory of God."

Empty Handed

2008-06-20T13:59:00.001-04:00

Sometimes when we try new things we are pleasantly surprised. Sometimes we aren't. Trying new things requires risk and risk means the possibility of failure. As I watch my garden not grow, I realize that I'm facing that possibility of failure. The risk I took when trying something new.

Honestly? It's depressing. I used to amble out to my garden in the mornings with a cup of coffee (now herbal tea), energized and excited to see what new things were happening. Now I make myself go out there around noon, dreading seeing the frozen plants, still the same size as when I put them in over a month ago. Sigh.

This isn't a year that I wanted this to happen. This is a "gardening when it counts" year. This year when tomatoes are tainted with salmonella, no doubt from sloppy farming practices. This year when food prices are skyrocketing. Usually at this point, I'm looking at the empty shelves and jars in my basement with something like satisfaction, knowing that they fed us all winter and will be full to feed us for the next. Knowing I've wrung every ounce of production out of my garden that it was able to deliver to me. This year feels very empty. Even if my garden starts producing, I'll know that it wasn't all it could be.

Right now, a few jars of pizza sauce loiter on the shelves, waiting to get used up. Not sure how much company they'll get by the fall. So we're savoring the last of last year's garden, holding up empty and hopeful hands...hoping the garden snaps back and gives enough to fill the empty shelves.

Since we are trialling beans--and beans haven't been one of the foods that the Hobbits have been clamoring to eat--I'm on the lookout for ways to stealth them into the food supply. More guerrilla nutrition at work. This is made with garbanzo beans, sprouted, cooked, then blended down and fermented for a couple of days with a bit of sourdough starter.

Grainless Pizza Crust

1 cup sprouted bean paste
1/2 cup dried potato flakes
1/4 cup tapioca starch flour
1 egg
2 T olive oil
1/2 cup coconut milk
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cream of tartar
1/2 tsp guar gum

Mix all ingredients into a bowl until incorporated. Spread out on a pizza stone with a bowl scraper to the desired thickness (we tend to like crispier crusts). Bake in a 350* oven for 15-20 minutes. Remove and top with pizza sauce and other desired toppings. Return to a 450* oven and bake for another 10 minutes or until toppings are browned as desired.

...And at last I comprehended
With my stupid mind and dull,
That GOD could not pour HIS riches
Into hands already full.

_{Martha Snell Nicholson}

Is It Hot Enough For You?

2008-06-13T10:08:00.000-04:00

Summer has arrived without much of a nod at Spring. We jumped from woolen sweaters to sweating in a week's time. My garden jumped from suspended animation to rabbiting upwards in a very short time. Whew! I was beginning to worry for a while there.

Despite the heat, the business of eating must go on. There's baking to get done, bone broth to be made, and other very warm occupations that need to be finessed to cooler parts of the day. And mowing the lawn, as well.

I'm actually enjoying mowing the lawn this year, though I won't be doing it as often...much to my neighbor's chagrin. Gas prices and carbon footprints dictate that Mistress Mary needs to be a little less nice about how the garden grows, thank you. Besides, I'm finding that benign neglect can have some pleasing returns. Last year, I scaled back in order to let the grass have a chance to re-seed itself. And clover started creeping in. This year, as I forage through the first swaths of mowing, I see new patches of clover reaching out to the rest of the yard. Clover means good stuff for the soil and good stuff for the bees, of which I'm mindful as I mow. You've seen that 1970's bumper sticker that says, "I brake for butterflies," right? Yeah, well, I'm getting one for my lawnmower: "I brake for bees."

Mowing takes on a meditative quality for me. It must be the drone of the motor and the repetitive motions of the job. Rolling it out, I felt like I was greeting an old friend who had been away for a while. In truth, the mower spent a goodly part of the winter at the shop, being lovingly tuned, cleaned, and refurbished for Spring. When I pulled the cable, it spoke to me in a completely new voice and scythed through the waves of grass with butter-smooth power. Wow. The grass being as tall as it was, I was making frequent trips to the compost pile to dump them. Where I got a chance to fight with the black bear for supremacy. Guess what? Picture me dusting my hands off, 'cause I'm king of that hill.

It's been sweltering for the past few days--we had a tornado watch in effect, in fact, and had our first grid black out of the season--so I selected early morning to start on the lawn. I traced familiar steps over the now-memorized roots and rocks, glistening with condensation...the cool damp of the ground competing with the deepening heat of the day. The Hobbits furtively dash from tree to tree, pursuing some "secret mission" that brings them out of the house when I mow, dripping coconut milk from the vanishing popsicles in their sticky hands. The popsicles are our quintessential signal that summer has begun. That and getting sprayed with the hose. Both are so cold that it has to be really hot in order to enjoy them. Well, Breatharian, it's been really hot.

Being the sort of weather that induces one to wish to limit kitchen time, a quick and cool source of protein is always a welcome addition to menu. I'm happy dancin' that beans seem to be back on the menu now, though it is early days yet...too early to call it a success. So I'm looking for ways to stealth more of them into different dishes to maximize exposure. Seeds being back on the menu, hummus seems like the answer to it all.

In keeping with my new-found passion for sprouting everything sproutable, the chickpeas are no exception. Soak overnight and rinse 2-3 times a day for 2-3 days or until the beans display a "tail." I run mine through the pressure cooker for a scant 2-3 minutes after pressure is attained.

Sprouted Hummus

2 t minced garlic
15 oz sprouted and cooked garbanzo beans
3 T lemon juice
2 T tahini
1 t salt
1/2 t paprika
3 T coconut milk

Process beans in food processor until smooth. Add all other ingredients until thoroughly blended, adding additional water and/or coconut milk until mixture reaches desired consistency.

After a purging thunderstorm swept in and scrubbed away the sticky heat, we all breathed a sigh of relief. I walk through the yard to look at the latest blooms of clover pushing up from the tight carpet of leaves beneath. The first of the bees bob on the now cool breeze.

He makes all things new... _Rev.21:5

The Road Goes Ever On and On...

2008-06-06T20:36:00.001-04:00

When Tool Guy and I first married, one of the favorite forms of entertainment was jumping in our Plymouth Fury--nicknamed "Polly"--and running the roads...just seeing what was beyond the next bend. Needless to say, that practice is curbed these days, along with the vehicle most of the time. Unfortunately, it isn't only the price of gas that has kept us burning the home fires...lack of convenience foods tends to take the spontaneity out of things. We do day trips from time to time, but only with care and planning. I tend to overpack for those occasions, since I have this dread fear of getting lost or breaking down somewhere and not having safe food to eat. This week, a friend expressed frustration at her own family's particular food issues at times controlling their activities. At times? For us, that would be just about all the time. It certainly limits the scope of our treking.

It makes it particularly challenging, then, when travel is mandatory. Tool Guy, who disguised as mild-mannered Safety Guy in his day job, has to attend training sessions a couple of times a year that are somehow never close to home. More like the other side of the country and he's grounded from flying. In the past, Amtrak has been an attractive choice. "Let someone else do the driving" kind of thing, and for a few years, they did a reasonably satisfactory job of accommodation. Unfortunately, in this day of "cost containment"--which usually means "scaling back on quality"--the last Amtrak trip meant that there was very limited safe food to eat and absolutely nothing do-able on the breakfast menu. All prepackaged stuff. Nothing like being trapped in a steel box for three days with no food, eh?

This year, he's driving. But restaurant reliability is a very dicey thing. Anything that is a chain is doomed to the same fate as other prepackaged fare. Anything that is not a chain is a roll of the roulette wheel. The Russian Roulette wheel. He shared with me that he is singularly tired of getting contaminated every time he takes a trip. Toward that end, he acquired a small crock pot and a game plan for this trip. And I've been playing around in the kitchen, working on "road food" toward the goal of us being able to expand our horizons and find some elbow room. Lots of ideas swirling around and this seemed a good time to start working on application. This is the first one to go on my list.

A couple of themes that have been running through my attempts at "cooking dangerously" these days are grain-free and sprouting. We're trialing beans in this corner of the Shire and sprouting seems to be the best way to make them as digestible as possible. Many of the less desirable...um...attributes of beans disappear when they have been sprouted before processing. The idea of making bean tortillas popped up when I was trying to think of a way to svengalli the Hobbits into eating enough beans to register if they react or not. They could eat tortillas by the stack if I made enough of them. Lots of nutrients and certainly better than rice flour.

The beans need to be soaked overnight and then sprouted (the technically correct term for this is "germination") for about three days or until a "tail" emerges to about the length of the bean. I run these through the pressure cooker for a mere two minutes once pressure has been reached. After a quick trip through the food processor, I mix in a spoonful of sourdough starter and leave in the fridge for a day or two.

Black Bean Tortillas

1 1/2 cups bean paste
1/2 - 3/4 cups tapioca starch flour
2-5 T melted lard
2-3 t guar gum
1 t salt
Extra lard for cooking

In mixer, using a dough hook (one of the rare times that gluten free baking requires a dough hook), mix the dry ingredients with the melted lard and slowly work in the water until incorporated. The dough should be dry enough to work with your hands. Break off a ball of dough and roll into a ball. Using sheets of baking parchment or wax paper, flatten in a tortilla press or roll out with a rolling pin.

In cast iron skillet over medium low heat, melt more lard. Place tortillas one at a time into the skillet, browning for a minute or so until it starts to brown and bubble. Flip tortilla and cook the other side for another couple of minutes.

Best eaten warm, but these can be frozen and reheated later.

"'It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door,' he used to say. 'You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.'"

Maybe having a safe food supply will make going out the door a little less of a dangerous digestive business...

Breatharian's Diary

2008-05-30T07:09:00.008-04:00

This is gonna shock you, so brace yourself. I'm a list maker. I know. Whoda thunk? What can I say? When every Hobbit views me as their own particular property and at their disposal for endless interruptions, it's very difficult to remain on track. Some days I find myself literally drifting in circles, like a rudderless boat. But it's worse than that; it isn't enough that I make to-do lists. No. I have to have categorized to-do lists. I have a to-cook list, to-clean list, to-school list, to-project list, to-garden list, and a chore list for the kids for each day. Is that anal enough? Not quite.

I've decided that I've discovered the value of a diary. Not the kind of soul-searching, deeply-delving journal where one pours out one's essence onto the pages as a bequest to future generations. No. This is much more shallow and callow than that: I want Brownie points. So much of what I do through the day is repetitive, routine, and ephemeral that I feel the need to have something to show for it. After all, I was on my feet and moving from early morning to 9p last night before I finally dusted my hands and called it a day. I didn't get but half of my to-do stuff done, but I was busy doing things. Doggonit, I want credit for what I did. Yep. I'm starting a diary. You know those dry, stale things that were a laundry list of laundry, et al that one does in a day, but no one is interested in reading? Yeah, no one in posterity is going to want to read these things, but dagnabit, at least I can hold that up next to my trashed house and say, "See??? I did SOMETHING!!"

Phyllis Diller said, "Cleaning the house while you have children is like shoveling the walk while it is still snowing." Yeah, but you can't wait until the mess stops making to start cleaning it. We had a taste of what that would be like this past week when Tool Guy was...um...tooling. He's converting some wasted space into a room for Princess. New England cottages are usually characterized by realtors as being "cozy." Well, our cottage is quite "snug," thank you very much. This little conversion provides us with some "found" space, but in order to utilize it, we had to displace a great deal of...er...stuff. Our timing lacks synchronicity, because while he was projecting away on the room conversion, I was beginning to tackle changing our wardrobe over from winter to summer. Which requires evacuating the contents of the attic. The house was in a state somewhat less fit for polite society. So as much as I would like to wait until it stops snowing...still gotta shovel. Through all of this mess.

There's a lot of Breatharian cooking that doesn't take a lot of time, even though the little bites of time start adding up after a while. Making ketchup is one of those things. Of course, since almost all ketchup is corn-sweetened, contain corn vinegar, or corn-based citric acid--though that may change with corn prices rising--Hunt's and the ilk are off the menu. As my tomato plants are adjusting to their new home in the greenhouse, I'm eyeing the last jars of tomato sauce and wondering if they will hold out until the first fruits come in. And I grab another jar to make ketchup.

Breatharian Flames Ketchup

6 ancho chile peppers, stemmed & seeded
1/2 white onion, chopped
1 tsp minced garlic
3 cups water
3 T vegetable glycerin
3 T maple syrup
1 T apple cider vinegar
1 quart plain tomato sauce
1/2 t salt
pepper

Place peppers, chopped onion, and minced garlic in a large saucepan and cover with the water. Bring to a boil and simmer over low heat for about 15 minutes or until peppers are soft. Strain out peppers, onion, and garlic and blend in food processor. Add tomato sauce and remaining ingredients and blend well. Adjust seasonings to taste and spoon into glass container. Store in refrigerator.

Keeping a diary of to-do stuff keeps me accountable. It keeps me on track. It keeps me aware of how I use my time. "Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom." _{Psalm 90:12}

Oh. Yeah. I'm also one of those people who do something and put it on the list for the joy of crossing it off. Am I pathetic or what?