Sick As a Dog

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.

Pick Your Poison

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.

Sleeping With the Enemy

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.

Is It Hot Enough For You?

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

Breatharian's Diary

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?

The Ties That Bind

I hang my laundry out on the line year 'round. It has been my experience, since moving here, that wet clothes will dry in any temperature as long as the wind is blowing. And the wind does blow quite well here. Ask my tipsy greenhouse.

Still, what is a grudging chore during the winter months becomes an opportunity to step out and enjoy the sunshine and brisk breezes of spring. As the clouds race by and the sun bounces in and out of sight, standing outside and hanging laundry in the fresh winds is almost as satisfying as gardening. Okay, I said almost, alright?

Every time I talk laundry with someone--and I've been on email lists where "Love of Laundry" threads have consumed untold megabytes of server space somewhere--there's always some unfortunate soul who is unable to hang out their clothes because of some residential restriction of one type or another. Someone was quoted as bitingly opining that hanging out laundry was trashy and poor. It always saddens me when I hear this, because it demonstrates to me an impoverished perspective. Laundry flapping in the breeze is part of the ambiance that says "home." Banning that is like forbidding the scents drifting from a busy kitchen.

I think of laundry as I think of all of the fundamental tasks that women have accomplished through the millennia. A generational thread connecting us. This task contributes a fiber to the thread of our lives...this thread that is woven into the warp and woof that makes us the fabric of history. These small, menial repetitive things that connect me to all of the women who have ever lived who poured out their lives in the sustenance, nurturing and nourishment of their families. Each generation is woven into the succeeding ones. We hand off the threads for those that follow to continue weaving after us.

Edith Schaeffer talks about these threads in her book The Tapestry. This reminded me of another book that was influential to me in the early years of marriage: The Hidden Art of Homemaking. This book, I realize now, was fundamental in providing me with an glimpse of the significance of the responsibilities I had undertaken. Her ideas, suggestions, and perspective sewed the early seeds that I now begin to see are the harvest that I am reaping in my life right at this moment. The idea of taking very little and using it to create daily beauty. The idea of thinking outside of the consumeristic mentality. The significance of the menial and small things in making our lives meaningful and beautiful.

Riffling through my memories, I am humbled to realize how much of what is coming to fruit in my life is a result of someone else's effort, someone else's germination, someone else's investment in my life. All that is spread out before me in my life is built on the underpinnings of the people who have shared, shown, and modeled for me their ideas, their epiphanies, their experiences and wisdom.

Making breads of all kinds are one of those generational threads. There's nothing so homey as bread, is there? Mother teaching daughter the tricks, nuances, and idiosyncrasies of dough. Isn't the loss of bread, the substitution of bread, the relearning it all the biggest hurdle in gluten-free living? (The most frequently clicked-on recipes here are the bread ones.) So many people stumble over the idea of giving up bread as they know it. It's fundamental to our concept of nutrition. And almost every culture has their form of bread.

When we lived in San Antonio, tortillas were an intrinsic part of the cuisine there. Every little mom n' pop restaurante made their own and I, a transplant from Louisiana, was introduced to the "breakfast tortilla." Dunno how traditional that is, but it surely was yummy. We recently trialled the Food For Life tortillas, but became convinced that the xanthan gum confirmed our suspicion that corn is still off the menu for us. Time for some "cooking dangerously."

Almost Everything Free Tortillas

1 1/2 cups grain flour
1/2 - 3/4 cups tapioca starch flour
2-5 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. Thinner is better.

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 minute.

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

I think of all of the hands that continue the timeless tradition of nurturing their families with warm tortillas. Blest be the ties that bind.

Happy Birthday!

Birthdays and other auspicious beginnings. Spring is the perfect time for both. That's probably what spurred me on a year ago to start blogging about all of the stuff that we'd been through and where we were heading. Yep. This week marks one year of blogging for me. Whew. Never knew I had that much to say. Well, an exasperated former supervisor probably knew it. There may come a day when I run out of things to say, but Breatharian, today is not that day.

Along with the beginning of blogging, this week celebrates another beginning: the day Princess emerged into the world. Each of my pregnancies and deliveries were radically different from the others. Dog, being a recalcitrant, unrepentant transverse position, required a c-section, even resisting two attempted versions. Bug was an unmedicated v-bac (natural birth after Cesarean) in a hospital birthing room with a midwife. While we hadn't planned on another baby, when I became pregnant with Princess, I swore that I was going to have a home birth. Fortunately, my birthing success with Bug paved the way for finding a midwife who would accept me as a client. Other than being very tired and cranky...the whole Breatharian thing had descended upon us by that point...it was a pretty good pregnancy, especially for someone tipping the Big Four-Oh.

My final visit with the midwife informed us that the delivery could be at any time...which turned out to be that night. I'd gone to bed early with the benefit of some Benedryl courtesy of a cold shared by Bug. Thanks, Bug! Shortly after midnight, I was pinched awake by the contractions. Leisurely strolling to the phone, I informed the midwife that we were getting close. Bug's arrival was prefaced by twenty-four hours of labor, so I wasn't anticipating anything precipitate. I should have known better. Princess has always been determined to set her own pace. From the start. So far, nothing has changed. Heh.

When it became apparent that things were moving faster than the arrival of the midwife, Tool Guy, in a spousal state of panic, tentatively suggested heading toward the hospital. When this was greeted with gutteral growls, he retreated to the laundry room to warm up some towels instead of warming up the car. Good plan. Suggestions to change locations or change positions were equally death-defying efforts. He lapsed into supportive silence. Not for nothing has this man been married twenty years.

With all of the aplomb of a runaway train, Princess bound out into the world and decided to stay. Fifteen minutes later, the midwife arrived and, looking over the situation, informed me that she never had any worries about us. It was nice, though, to have someone tuck Princess and I into bed and take care of the rest of the details.

Princess requested cupcakes for her birthday this year and since Sin on a Spoon is essentially an icing recipe, I decided to play around with toppings on our standby cake recipe.

I had planned on photographing the mouthwatering outcome of my labors. Unfortunately, there was an unanticipated "earthquake" in the refrigerator and the results were...um...unphotogenic. Oh, they were still delicious enough for a Hobbit to gobble, but their appearance didn't do the cupcakes justice.

Caramel Carob Cupcakes

First make the cupcakes:

Red Devil Cake

2 cups flour (I used 1.5 cups rice, 1/4 tapioca, 1/4 potato starch)
1 c sugar (I used 1/2 c date sugar, 1/4 c vegetable glycerin)
1/2 c cocoa powder or carob powder
2 t double acting baking powder (I used cream of tartar)
2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt
2 eggs
1 t guar gum or xanthan gum
1 c diced cooked beets (I used pear puree)
1 c water or water to appropriate consistency (My uses average 1/4 cup)
1/3 c olive oil
2 tsp apple cider vinegar
2 t vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350* F. Lightly oil or spray two 8" square baking pan (I used a 9" round). Mix flour, sugar, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda and salt in bowl, combining well.

If using flax instead of eggs (see substitutions below), grind to meal in coffee grinder. Place 1/3 cup water in blender, start blending while adding flax meal. Blend 30 seconds. To flax mixture or to eggs in blender, add beets, 1 cup water, oil, vinegar, and vanilla. While mixing, add guar or xanthan gum. Process until frothy and well blended.

Pour this quite thick liquid mixture into dry ingredients. Mix quickly just until everything is moistened and incorporated. Pour batter into prepared pans and immediately bake for 35-40 minutes or until tester comes out clean. Watch carefully as it may take less time.

Frost when completely cool.

Substitutions:

Add more cocoa/carob and chips to get a richer flavor
Sub 2 eggs with 2 T flax and 1 cup water
Sub 1/3 c mashed banana instead of eggs or flax
Sub carob instead of chocolate
Sub sweet potatoes, yams, squash, pears, or pumpkins for beets
Make cupcakes instead of cake (approx 15)

Sin On a Spoon Icing
(All ingredients/amounts negotiable)

8 T ghee
1/4 cup cocoa powder
2 T coconut milk
2 T vegetable glycerin or agave nectar or
8 drops stevia
2 tsp. lecithin

Blend ghee with balloon whip mixer attachment on high until soft. Pour in cream/coconut milk, lecithin, and sweetener, whipping until blended. On stir setting, add cocoa powder, turning speed up to high as the powder becomes incorporated. Mix until the desired consistency, adding more lecithin if necessary to emulsify the ghee and coconut milk.

Caramel Topping

2-4 T maple syrup
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. ghee
Enjoy Life chocolate chips

In heavy sauce pan, combine ingredients and boil until syrup reaches the string stage. Allowing the syrup to cool just enough to not melt the icing (stirring the whole time), drizzle over the iced cupcakes. Garnish with chocolate chips.

To avoid refrigerator earthquakes, these are best served immediately.

Five years ago. Today. Snuggling the latest baby to bless our homeschooling group, I had some flashbacks and baby yearnings. Briefly. It's pretty exhilarating to be the mommy of an exuberant five year old. Think I'll keep her.

Come Fill the Cup

Bug and I are having this repetitive, back and forth conversation about winter. Somewhere along the line, he got it locked into his red little head that Winter begins on December 1st. Every day during the month of November, he would run to the calendar and announce how many "days remaining until Winter." Every day, I'd have to remind him that Winter officially begins December 21-22, not the December 1st. It probably doesn't matter, because when you're this age and in this part of the country, Winter really begins when it snows. And Breatharian, it has snowed...on December 1st. So Bug feels quite vindicated.

We even had our first activity canceled on account of snow. Pity. It was a church dinner and I made the Autumnal Beef Stew with some killer alterations...Campbell's Soup, look out! It didn't go to waste though; all of the Hobbits made short order of it. Even I managed to snag a bowl or two.

We've had our first weather-related power outage of the season. Almost in synch with Tool Guy's morning exit at 7:00a, I heard our neighbor's burglar alarm go off. Squinting in the direction of the clock, I was greeted with a darkened face. Yep. Power's out. Tool Guy had cleared a path to lug the generator up the hill, but with snow and ice since, it was a tricky proposition. Still, I managed. Welcome Winter...whatever the date!

BK--Before Kids--I was quite disciplined about my Christmas regimen. Thanksgiving Day, the tree went up. December 1st, cards went out. Gifting chores done way ahead of time. That kind of thing. Needless to say, this schedule as suffered the predations of time and the vicissitudes of motherhood. I was bemoaning the schedule for the next few weeks to another mom at our homeschooling co-op and how busy things were going to be. She placidly replied, "Only as busy as you let it be." Know what? She's right. I think I'm going to notch it down this year. More snow flurries are coming down and in celebration of winter, I'm making a great old standby that fills me with some of that magical, healing soup broth. Quick, easy, filling, nutritious, and most importantly for the chronically cold: warming!

Egg Drop Soup

1-2 quarts bone broth
2 cups bone broth, kept separate
2-4 T tapioca starch (depending on desired thickness)
2-4 eggs, scrambled with a fork
Pepper, optional

Tapioca starch is probably the best substitute I've found for cornstarch. So heat 2 cups of the broth just until liquid and dissolve the tapioca starch into the broth. The remaining broth bring to a rolling boil, stirring in the well-mixed broth/tapioca starch mixture. Stir until the whitened soup becomes translucent. When the soup returns to a rolling boil, slowly drizzle in the eggs, stirring constantly until the strings of egg are completely cooked. Grind fresh pepper over the top to taste and enjoy!

The tree isn't up yet--I'm shooting for this weekend. I've recused myself from Christmas card obligations for the remainder of my existence. And Tool Guy did all the major shopping in October. All that remains is for me to make up a few more tote bags, rice bags, and the Roman soldiers' armor for the co-op play. I'm thinking cardboard shapes glued to a fabric tunic and some metallic paint. What'da ya think? Oh, yeah, and I need to replace the zipper in Dog's snow suit. After all...it's past December 1st...it's snowing...must be Winter!

That Which Makes Me Stronger

I'm not a student of Nietchze nor am I an Existentialist. But while I was in college, I heard the late Francis Schaeffer say, "All truth is God's truth." And whatever else he erred over in all of his philosophical wanderings, in this respect Nietchze was right: "That which does not kill me makes me stronger."

Dog is getting older. Our first born. You know the old wag, "The first one is an experiment..." Well, we're feeling our way gingerly into the pre-teen years. It makes me nervous. He asks some very hard questions. Like "why us?" Being different is starting to bother him. I knew it would happen at some point. I just didn't expect "some point" to be now. But it is. "Why do we have to be the ones who have to eat differently than everyone else?" This is tough to answer without resorting to the hackneyed (and intrinsically insensitive) chestnut about how "I used to complain that I had no shoes until I met the man with no feet." Ugh. But we did discuss how everyone who is hit with something unexpected, unpleasant, and difficult to deal with wants to know why. There are lots of possibilities of "why." Most are too long and complicated to get into when someone is having a Big Feelings moment and many don't even really matter. Many times, knowing the "why" of something doesn't make it any easier to bear.

In this case, for me, there is at least one "why" and the knowing of it makes it easier. This stuff we're going through--this journey we're on--it does make us stronger. There are so many ways that I've grown through all of this...many of which I'm only dimly beginning to sense and am awkwardly groping for ways in which to articulate them. Some I'll probably only discover in later years down the road. I'm finding that one of the ways I'm stronger is that I've become free. I'm liberated from the absolute craving for approval from others. I don't need others to agree with the decisions we've made and how we're moving through life. I'm also realizing that just enduring doesn't accomplish the same thing as embracing. I've watched people enduring the overwhelming floods of what they face and I've watched others embracing. No doubt about it. Those who embrace move through it, carrying more away with them than those who just endure or rage against it all. Since I have to go through this, I don't want to waste a drop of strength that I can possibly glean from the experience. If I'm going to have to pay the toll of walking down this road to which I've been drafted, I want as much for my money as I can acquire. I don't want to squander it on anger.

Embracing the challenges we face reminds me of a cookbook I picked up from the library recently, Grandma's Wartime Kitchen by Joanne Lamb Hayes. It's filled with recipes from a time when things were in short supply and life was about "use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."

Cottage Pudding with Toffee Sauce adapted from Grandma's Wartime Kitchen by Joanne Lamb Hayes

4 (3 inch) squares or wedges day old unfrosted vanilla, spice or pound cake or pear butter muffins
1/3 cup coconut or other alternative milk cream
1/4 cup maple syrup
1 tsp ghee or other oil
1 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 350*. Arrange cake on a wire rack that fits on top of a 9-inch square baking pan. Place the pan in the oven; fill with boiling water to within 1 inch of the top of the pan. Place rack full of cake on top of pan. Cover with oiled aluminum foil or an inverted bowl. Heat cake until sauce is prepared--no longer than 10 minutes.

Combine alternative milk, maple syrup, and ghee/oil. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla.

To serve, place cake on individual dessert plates; divide sauce over cake pieces and serve immediately. Don't worry. It'll disappear in less time than it took to make.

While Dog and I talked, it all distilled down to the fact that our genes aren't going to change. We'll always have to eat, to some degree, out of the mainstream and we can either embrace it or rebel. Rebelling has too many thorns...more than embracing. I'm expecting that Dog may have to spend some time when he is older exploring those thorns, but that's going to be his journey.

Corntamination

Okay, I have to get this off my chest. Again. It bears repeating, so I'm repeating it: Corn is evil. Some people believe that gluten is evil, but they are mistaken. Nope. Corn is evil. Don't believe me? Read The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I'm not talking about the juicy cob, bursting with yellow goodness that gets roasted or boiled and served up on a platter. I'm talking about the agricultural monster commodity. And since there are countless tons of corn annually that need to be used for something, it is getting dumped into the food supply and beyond in distorted and frankencorned ways, but never completely forgetting its "corn-ness." Like the corn-based packing peanuts. I'm sure that the person who invented these probably was heralded as an ecologically brilliant thinker, since they dissolve in water and are biodegradeable. But it does make the experience of opening up that package in the mail very much like opening up a pipe bomb. You never know what is inside...it might be shredded magazines or it might be corn. Tag. You're it. It's almost worth investing in a hazmat suit.

What really fashes me is how hard some manufacturers work to avoid frankly telling the consumer that there's corn in their product. So it's rather refreshing to see some actually advertising this information on their package. Again, from an earth-friendly standpoint, biodegradeable bags make sense. Still, I can't help but think that it would be more ecological and earth-friendly to break the addiction to mono-cropping that we have trapped ourselves into and not grow more corn than is physically impossible for us to consume, thereby forcing us to resort to finding ways to unload the obscene surplus of one vegetable that isn't even a vegetable anymore. Like carpeting. Carpeting...I ask you!

I know that George Washington Carver pioneered industrial applications for agricultural crops and there are a host of reasons for admiring the man. He's a fantastic role model. But some days, I feel like I've got this love/hate thing for him. Indirectly, I have him to thank for all of the corn "gotcha's" from envelope adhesive to water bottles. Corn even lurks in such seemingly benign and "natural" places as honey, since many beekeepers are addicted to high fructose corn syrup as supplemental food for their bees. And do we really need to have corn in our laundry detergent?

Okay, there are some bio-friendly detergents out there. Alas, I am not one of those altruists who impale their budgets on the spike of alternative green products for their own sakes. Nuh-unh. Gotta be cheap for me. As a side note, I am working on re-indoctrinating myself with the principle that it isn't that alternative products are so expensive, though they do seem so. It is that they do not carry the government subsidy that corn-based products enjoy and so have a harder time competing against that financial offset.

Still, cheap is good. Dirt cheap is even better. Which is why I was doing the Snoopy Dance when I came across a recipe for home made laundry soap. Crystal is my kind of woman. Those pictures of her farm capture what I want my acreage to look like someday.

Laundry Soap by Crystal Miller

1/3 bar Fels Naptha or Zote
½ cup washing soda (not baking soda)
½ cup borax powder

You will also need a small bucket, about 2 gallon size

Grate the soap and put it in a sauce pan. Add 6 cups water and heat it until the soap melts. Add the washing soda and the borax and stir until it is dissolved. Remove from heat. Pour 4 cups hot water into the bucket. Now add your soap mixture and stir. Now add 1 gallon plus 6 cups of water and stir. Let the soap sit for about 24 hours and it will gel. You use ½ cup per load.

I've been following Crystal's recipe for six months now and I'm still on the original boxes of powder. That puts my investment so far at less than $10 for laundry for at least six months. This is washing clothes for five people--well, six if you factor in Tool Guy changing clothes between going from his day job to his tool job, plus a Princess still in night time cloth diapers.

I recently had a chuckle over a conversation I had with a telemarketer about laundry detergent. Despite the fact that we're on the No Call List, Boyfriend called me up to sell me some whizz-bang laundry detergent that would rock my world. Did you know that there are telemarketers out there who still ask to speak to "the lady of the house?" At any rate, I informed him that I make my own. Silent pause. I guess that answer wasn't on his "if/then" flow chart of Q&A's, since he then launched into a non-sequitur riposte of what a great savings it would be for me. Huh. I informed him that a penny a load was the price to beat and if he couldn't sell it to me that cheap, we had nothing more to say to each other. Haven't heard from him since.

I'm bummed. Can you tell?

Thanksgiving Comes in October for Us

Okay...uncle. I'll admit it. It's Fall. Every morning, there is a fresh layer of leaves carpeting the lawn, my garden is slowing down and it's getting downright nippy from time to time. The deer have lost their foxy coat and are turning gray. The squirrels are pillaging the trees for nuts; each tree has a pile of hulls littering the ground beneath. And the torrent of food from my garden winds down to a trickle. It's been a fruitful summer.

The other major hallmark of Fall in our house is the annual pear harvest. A neighbor of my parents, who live down South, has pear trees growing in her yard and what is food for us is a burden for her, since she has no use for them. Every October, my father harvests these pears by the boxful. Boxes of them. Hundreds of pounds of them. Every October, my parents trek up to our house with these boxes and boxes of pears. Every October, we spend a week in the kitchen, cutting, slicing, pureeing, spicing, processing, and canning. This year, the Hobbits were particularly excited about helping out with the processing. Everyone was armed with a knife and a cutting board. It's a family affair. The Hobbits sat down with my parents and plowed through two hundred pounds, non-stop, while I processed in the kitchen, non-stop. Dog is ten years old and is starting to produce adult-like labor, but even Princess didn't give up her end until the job was done. In fact, she was decidedly crestfallen when the last pear was chopped up and her part was complete. Between the garden and the pears, my basement is bursting at the seams. See how much we have to be thankful for?

The pear butter recipe is really simple, just a lot of work when you're talking two hundred pounds of pears.

Pear Butter

14 cups of pear puree
1/2 teaspoon cloves
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
3 teaspoons vanilla

Whirl through food processor and freeze or can as desired.

Dear Mrs. Baccus,

What can I say? Words fail me to describe your generosity in sharing such delicious pears, year after year, so faithfully. These have become such a staple in our household. Preserving these pears each fall has become a tradition in our house that we all look forward to. The pear butter recipe is a well-worn and spotted page in my recipe book. Each fall I imagine all of the possibilities. Some of them get juiced, some of them are sliced and dehydrated, but most end up in rows of jars that will sweeten our winter.

You would think that over these years the kids would tire of eating pear butter muffins, but with each batch, still Bug runs through the house, excitedly announcing when a fresh batch has come out of the oven. Then there is a corresponding thunder of feet as everyone lines up to get a steaming handful. I wish I could bottle up that enthusiasm and send it for you to enjoy. It smells like muffins fresh out of the oven. And that enthusiasm is just as fresh each time.

Thank you.

Dog Days of Summer

July is usually one of the hotter months of the year. Most years, cool temperatures turn sullen and soggy, making everything wilt and everyone flee to cooler places. This July has been a welcome difference from previous years. Very few heat spikes and lots of refreshing breezes. Ask me how welcome this will be during the winter when there is a corresponding "coolness" to the deep freeze temperatures in January. I'll be looking back at July quite wistfully.

July is one of the busiest months of our year. With holidays, birthdays, summer events, and outings, it's been a blur. The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of activity. Layering VBS with a day wading in the river and a bowling spree along side of a combined birthday party makes for some crazy busy days. We're all ready to kick back, relax, and enjoy the rest of summer.

When we first moved out here, Dog--born into metropolitan overpopulation--would ask when we were going to go to the park again. He was accustomed to a very small patch of green to run around on...shoes mandatory, since there were grass spurs. The only places for a child with that much energy to explode safely was an already overcrowded city park. After a few times of hearing this question, I led him to his back door, pointed to the sandbox, swing set, play house, and patch of woods that shade the back portion of our acreage and informed him that he lives at the park. I'm reminded of a billboard down the road a ways from us: "I'm not on vacation....I live here!" Yep. That's us!

July is the month for camping out. I grew up camping out, so I suppose the camping gene is in the pool. Dog loves to camp out. Actually, all of the Hobbits do. The shine has worn off for me--Princess informs me that I'm too old...among other things--but Tool Guy remains diligent to indulge. He has lingering memories of wanting to camp out with his father while growing up and can never fail to accommodate them when weather permits. So he pulls out the tent, which stays up until camping season is over. Yeah, it kills all of the grass underneath it, but we're raising kids, not a lawn. The memories will linger much longer than the bare patch where they were made.

Snacks during camping out are mandatory. There's always the fries to fall back on, but--would you believe it?--even a Hobbit gets tired of fries. Popcorn is always a great camp out food. Pity it is off the menu. Still, I kicked around some possible substitutions. A few suggestions floated around the Internet, like popped amaranth. A little coconut oil heated in a skillet and let 'er pop. I tried this with sorghum, but it soaked up the oil significantly and left a lot of unpopped kernels. Then someone gifted me with a used hot air popcorn popper. I did delude myself into thinking that I could rid it of all of the cross-contamination from the corn. Yes, this was complete self-delusion. But what I did learn was that a hot air popper makes superior and outstanding popped sorghum. It's well worth the investment in a new and uncontaminated popper.

"Popcorn" Popped Sorghum

Presto (or similar model) hot air popcorn popper, preferably new and just out of the box
3/4 cup sorghum

The instructions say to fill with no more than 1/2 cup popcorn, but since sorghum is a smaller and lighter grain than corn, a little more is necessary to hold the kernels down long enough to heat and pop. Pour into plugged popper and cover. Wait patiently. It always feels like it is taking longer than necessary, but it will happen. As it pops, the finished grain may need a little encouragement with a spoon to come into the bowl.

Popped sorghum, to our palates, tastes just like popcorn and can accordingly be flavored according to tastes and tolerances. Just the sort of packable treat that makes a wonderful mess inside of a tent, while listening to the deer migrate by and wondering if the bear will visit this time. Who needs ghost stories?

Birthdays

It was our country's birthday this past week. Dog's birthday was in there somewhere. I'm reminded of Jimmy Cagney's portrayal of George M. Cohen, who was born on the 4th of July. "I always thought the fireworks were for me." I suppose it must auger well for Dog that he thought so, too, for the first four years of his life.

For the first few years, we spent the holiday weekend at my parents' place with a neighborhood parade and home town fireworks and always waited to celebrate Dog's birthday there. When we moved up to Small Town, USA, we relocated our traditions. Before going everything-free, we did the fire works and small town parade stuff...lots of noise, floats, and candy flung at cerubic Hobbits on the curb. The first year of everything-free, we still went to the parade. Dog and I had a discussion ahead of time that there would be no candy from the parade floats. When he's not infracting, Dog has a very rational and sometimes disconcertingly adult way of viewing things. I cautiously informed him that all of the candy had corn in it and suggested that if that spoiled the fun for him and he didn't want to go to the parade, then that would be okay. With a very conciliatory expression on his face, he assured me, "That's okay, Mom. I won't be sad." He and Bug had a grand time collecting the candy and giving it away to all of the surrounding observers. I have to tell you that this gesture from such younglings created quite a few expressions of surprise.

But once the sensitivities had escalated to even contact reactions, we stopped attending the parade altogether. The fireworks has become the high point of the whole day. The volunteer fire department in a neighboring village uses the opportunity as their big fund raiser of the year and they put on a display that would make some big towns ashamed. Well worth the entrance fee. We've made it the focal point of our celebration for several years now and the Hobbits have come to depend on it. They talk about it all of the rest of the year. Only birthdays and Christmas get more air time. Well, Princess didn't like it for the first couple of years, but she's come around. Something to be said for sitting out on the chairs on the fairgrounds, chasing fireflies and waiting for the show to start. It makes one feel connected to all of the generations who have done the same thing every year for the past 200+ years.

Special occasions like birthdays and parties and high days are always fraught with difficulties because all celebrations are centered around food. I remember attending the fireworks display last year and being parked next to a pick up truck that pulled up with a full sized bbq grill in the back. Added a whole 'nuther level to the definition of tail-gating. I've made everything-free birthday cakes....with pink icing yet for Princess, of course....but simple and easy stuff appeals to me these days and I'm glad that sometimes the Hobbits opt for the simple and easy stuff.

This year for his birthday, Dog requested rice crispy treats. Dr. Peter D'Adamo, in Cooking Right 4 Your Type, has a recipe for just such a confection that required very little tweaking for our type: the everything-free type. The original recipe calls for honey or brown rice syrup as the sweetener and he recommends refrigerating the final product to avoid the pieces falling apart. I found that including maple syrup and boiling the combined sweeteners to the string stage yielded a treat that didn't need to be refrigerated to hold together. It's even more delicious than the commercial corn-laden version. Since my Hobbits are children of my heart, they love chocolate as much as I do, so I tossed in some safe chocolate chips as an added fillip.

Rice Crispy Tr....um...Delights

4 T ghee
1/4 cup Lundberg brown rice syrup
1/4 cup maple syrup
4 T maple sugar
6 cups puffed cereal of choice--I used Erewhon crispy rice
1/2 c Enjoy Life Chocolate chips (optional)

In sauce pan, melt ghee, syrups, and sugar together. Bring to a boil and allow to bubble until the liquid creates a string when spoon is dipped in and removed. Pour into bowl with cereal and stir until incorporated. Add chips and stir. Expect the chips to melt somewhat. Press into flat rectangular pan. Allow to cool and cut into squares. These will hold together at room temperature, but refrigeration will keep them fresher longer....if any remain to be stored.

Happy Birthday, Dog!

Of Mowing and Musing....

When you have an acre of grass to mow, you can look at it two ways: an onerous burden or an opportunity for meditation. Pick your perspective. It is either sweating drudgery or a chance for losing oneself in the drone of the motor and think about things. (Hint: Hobbits tend not to interrupt lawn mowing time, so it is almost a source of solitude.) Of course, when the cable to the propulsion system in a self-propelled lawnmower breaks, this extends the opportunity to embrace the life's challenges.

Because things go wrong all the time. Right now, the boiler/furnace needs professional attention every other day. The reset button won't stay reset. We're either jiggering the button and watching billows of oily smoke issue forth or boiling water on the stove for hot water while we wait for the service rep. The van is dogging and it is either the catalytic converter or the transmission. My grain mill has a crack in the head housing and flour is seeping in and coating the inner workings every time I use it. The warranty expired a few months ago and I've started a nest egg for a new mill. The face plate on the dishwasher that holds all of the gears together has fallen off of the front. The plastic housing for the screws that hold it in place deteriorated. I have it wired back in place with floral wire....it's too old to call a repair specialist, but not so old that I'm ready to replace it. I've already told you about the stove. And now the lawn mower.

But this is hardly unique. Everyone experiences these kinds of ebbs and flows in life. And these are just the minor annoyances in life. Not the Real Thing.

I've been thinking about the people who live with chronic conditions, cancer, continual pain....living without knowing if the load will lighten or struggling with the tantalizing hope that it will eventually lighten but the reality of that dangles out there, just out of reach. And I've been thinking about the ways that we choose to deal with these issues in our lives. I think Anne Morrow Lindbergh captured it:

"I do not believe that sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness and the willingness to remain vulnerable."

Remaining vulnerable. That means not shutting out that thorn in the side. It means taking full advantage of its presence to learn everything that the situation has to teach. To turn away, ignore it, deny it, run from it, is to miss the opportunity to learn, to grow, and become something more. And that process produces the kind of joy impossible to know without ever having embraced the turmoil. The one thing that I hope most in all this journey that we are undertaking is that I don't waste any opportunities for learning, growing, or becoming wiser while I'm here. Whatever the magnitude of this journey is--or isn't--whatever it is, when I get on the other side of this, I want to have something worthwhile to show for it.

As the summer warms up, I'm having more of an opportunity to exercise my choice in perspective on lawnmowing. The Hobbits are beginning to exercise their summer ritual of requesting popsicles. Dairy, seeds, and nuts are still off the menu, but coconut milk makes a great replacer in lots of things. In replacements like ice cream and popsicles, it absolutely shines. So much of the Breatharian stuff takes a lot of doing, but it's marvelous to have something so luscious that is so simple.

Footloose and Fancy Everything Free Popsicles

Coconut milk
vanilla
stevia
popsicle forms

Since we're corn sensitive, I make my own extracts with potato vodka. When we were eyeballing potatoes warily, I did spend some time meditating on tequilla as an extractant since it is made from agave nectar. I dollop a tablespoon of vanilla and half a dropperful squirt of liquid stevia per 14 oz of coconut milk. Blend up. Pour into popsicle forms and freeze.

This is endlessly tweakable for tastes and tolerances. Some favorite variations among the Hobbits are: cherry concentrate, carob powder, orange juice for dreamsicles (I'm still pondering how to get that swirl) or blueberry concentrate.

It's time to go meditate....um...mow the lawn again.

"Don't wish me happiness--I don't expect to be happy. It's gotten beyond that, somehow. Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor--I will need them all." AML

Thanks, Anne.

The Side Tracked Breatharian

I had so many plans for the week, but it was consumed in stocking up a friend with gf bread for the month and a couple of other friends for the week. And getting caught up with a grungy house. And grungy laundry. And the ten million kid things. And grocery shopping. And co-op orders.

I had a lot of plans for Saturday. I was going to bake bread for us. Get caught up on laundry. Again. Then hit the yard and mow the not inconsiderable amount of grass, both in square yardage and height. I had already flippantly told Tool Guy that it needed to go to seed before we cut it. But Saturday would be the day, promise-promise! Then I'd work on the next week's blog, which included tweaking that recipe some more. Which meant more baking.

Un, huh.

I dunno what it is with me and that stove. I truly love it. It's a great stove. It's me; I'm the biggest klutz there is. In the short life span of this stove, I've created an oven fire with spilled coconut oil (the clean up from that was on par with the clean up from the gumbo fountain since dry powder fire extinguishers generate an amazing amount of powder) and then the aforementioned gumbo fountain. And today, of all days, I create an over-boil. Amazing what kind of havoc a little water in the wrong place on an electrical appliance can cause. I now know the intimate workings of my stove and it has been mopped and cleaned in places I never heretofore even imagined existed.

Actually, as I explained to Tool Guy, who was shaking his head in disbelief, this was the sequel to the gumbo drama. If we'd not had to replace the GFCI outlet, we wouldn't have known that there was water creating a short in the igniter in one of the burners, since it dutifully tripped off as designed, informing us of the problem. Who knows how this could have ended....an unexplained kitchen fire, perhaps? Okay, maybe I'm reaching, but I'm trying to find some meaning out of these kinds of annoying and time-wasting road blocks. So humor me.

Oh, and when I went out to mow the lawn? Yeah, well, the mower and both of the gas cans were all empty. And I couldn't leave to get gas because I had a batch of bread rising in the toaster oven, the stove being out of order until Monday, because there is no way on God's still-green earth that I'm going to call a repair specialist out on a Saturday. And by the time all was said and done, there wouldn't be enough day left to mow such acreage. It would need to wait. In fact, everything I'd planned would need to wait.

So what did I do with my day? I went out to the garden and finished transplanting my tomato starts. Then packaged up the starts that I'm giving away to other gardeners. I dug out all of the materials to transplant several herb plants to larger containers. Bug has decided that along with being a chef, chemist, and artist, he wants to become a horticulturist. For his recent birthday, Tool Guy took Bug to a botanical garden, where Bug picked out a gardening tool kit as a birthday gift. Since I had all of this suddenly unencumbered time, he and I transplanted the herbs and he, to his delight, got to use his tool kit. While he trimmed the dead leaves off, he waxed enthusiastic about how much he was enjoying this gardening time.

I was stuck on worrying about the repair bill on that igniter problem. With an effort, I managed to shove all of that aside and force myself out of my "Martha moment."

Just enjoyed the gardening with my little guy.

Roaming the yard with Princess, looking for bees.

More digging in the dirt and listening to Bug bubbling over with pleasure about how much fun we were having together.

Sometimes it takes a crowbar...or a kitchen disaster...to lever me out of my ruts and go with the flow. Dinner wasn't anything like I'd planned. I love our outdoor grill and in emergencies like this one, I really appreciate having a fall back plan. It was one of those simple nights: just grilled chicken sprinkled with some seasoned salt. Early in our everything free days, when I was winnowing out the corn sources, Lowry's Seasoned Salt went off the menu. Maltodextrin. Scrounging around and looking on the internet at all of the top secret substitutes, I tweaked ours to look like this:

Almost Everything Free Seasoned Salt

2 T Real Salt
2 T paprika
2 T chili powder
1 T turmeric
2 t kelp powder
1 t onion powder
1 t garlic powder
1 t red pepper
1 t cumin
1/4 t nutmeg
1/4 t coriander
1/4 t allspice

Blend well and store in covered container


I'm still tweaking the turmeric and kelp powder to get the maximum amount without unfavorably distorting the flavor. Turmeric has been found to be anti-carcinogenic, which is beneficial when one is introducing carcinogens via bbq grills, as well as protective against Alzheimer's. And kelp is a good source of iodine, especially in everything free diets where iodized salt--yeah, more corn--is off the menu.

My faithful and much abused stove is still with us. No, never did call a repair specialist. While I was out puttering with the Hobbits, the wiring dried out and she's back to her chipper old self, so there was that additional virtue in getting sidetracked. Sometimes a tincture of time fixes everything.

I've promised to save all of my major boiling projects for the outdoor burner. And Bug and I have a date to separate some of his herbs* that have outgrown their pots already.

^{*Parsley and Basil in photo compliments of Bug.}