Mother of Invention

They say necessity is the mother of invention; I say it's vinegar.

Somewhere in the deep past, humans discovered fermentation with all of it's delightful end products. Sometime after that, they must have overlooked some wine and left to itself in a forgotten corner, it turned to vinegar.

Did our ancestors toss out the sour wine in disgust? No, they found 1001 uses for the product, everything from pickles and salads to laundry and weed killing.

On the homestead, vinegar is a great lazy person project--mix it up and forget it for 3 or more months.

This winter I decided to try making honey vinegar and a small batch of apple cider vinegar. In previous research, I was interested to learn that the first step in making vinegar is making alcohol. This would be a lot easier if I drank alcohol but I was starting from scratch so the process takes longer.

For both kinds of vinegar, I used the mother from a bottle of Bragg's Apple Cider Vinegar. The mother is the scummy stuff that settles out when the bottle sits for awhile; it is cellulose and bacteria which through the magic of chemistry will turn your alcohol into vinegar.

The apple version was made using apples from our trees, cut up, mashed, and hand squeezed and strained. I added the mother and covered the jar with cheesecloth (REAL cheesecloth. I found in a previous attempt that the stuff that passes as cheesecloth is too loosely woven and the end product is fruit flies).

The honey concoction used 1 part honey to 8 parts water by weight plus the mother.

Since vinegar needs warm temperatures, I kept both jars near the stove for 3 months.

Today I strained out the flora and fauna that had grown and tasted both. The apple cider vinegar has a fairly strong flavor, the honey less so but both qualify as vinegar in my book. I wouldn't use either in canning as the acidity needs to be certain but for other culinary uses they should be fine.

About one hour of preparation and 3 months of total disregard--my kind of undertaking.

Downsized

Not so Live-stock

Bedazzled in the garden

I woke up this morning thinking about the Krebs Cycle*.

The Krebs Cycle, aka Citric Acid Cycle, was part of our photosynthesis studies in botany. Chemistry, however,  will always remain a mystery to me; I managed to memorize enough of the cycle to barely pass the tests then promptly forgot it. In fact, it was a semester of Organic Chemistry that opened my eyes to the fact that I would never get an advanced degree in Plant Science (I later discovered you can easily get a Masters in Library Science and never see the inside of a laboratory).

But I digress.

What the Krebs Cycle really brings home is the absolute marvel of green plants.

Somehow, kohlrabi, which never set foot inside a college classroom, not only manages Krebs but mitosis, geotropism, photosynthesis and all of those other big words we've forgotten from biology lectures. Carrots begin life as a seed almost too tiny to handle and become luscious, orange bunny food. And maple trees! One winged seed somehow germinates in dense forest and eventually takes over the neighborhood as the climax vegetation.

Scientist can explain and strew facts endlessly on the whys and hows and wherefores of nature, that doesn't mean life isn't a wonder. Take a minute and stand in awe.


*The pre-move stress must be getting to me!

Made to last

I am not one to wax rhapsodic over kitchenware.


I have the usual assortment of pots and pans, bowls, spatulas, etc. They get used and work well. But cast iron? I LOVE my cast iron,  especially the cast iron breadpans.


I've been baking our bread for years and using Pyrex pans I got ages ago. They did the job even though they're looking kind of scruffy by now. This year with some birthday money (thanks, Mom R!), I treated myself to two cast iron bread pans from Lehmans.


Oh my, what I've been missing all of this time!


The dough loves it's second rising in these and bakes evenly with a great crust. Loaves have less gaps and holes, even when I'm in a hurry and don't form them as tightly as I should. The finished bread doesn't stick to the pans and you don't have to wash them, just wipe them out and store.

And if you drop them, you may break a toe but never the pan!


Cast iron and bread are a match made in baker's heaven.

John Boy?

Shelling peas on the front porch. I feel like I'm in a scene from the Waltons, minus the apron, rocking chair, and passel of kids.

The fruit of the matter

Assuming we finally get to Indiana (3 weeks!!!) and assuming I can get the site prepared and assuming I have any money to work with, I'd like to start my orchard.

The area I intend to use is approximately 45' x 90', with full sun and good drainage. I'm thinking dwarf trees (apples, plum, pear, peach, etc.), blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, grapes, cranberries. I've grown all of these before with varying degrees of success, the plant husbandry part I can handle.

But I sure could use some advice on two fronts:

• Fencing. What works for deer and smaller pests? Bear in mind extremely limited budget!

And what do you do between your plants? Do you leave grass and then mow (N.B. My husband does the mowing and he hates it!)? Do you mulch everything or plant ground cover or...?

I welcome your experience. Here's to the fruits of our labor!

Twiddling my thumbs

No garden, no livestock, 3 weeks until we move. Sigh.

Don't tread on me

We made hard decisions about what to sell and what keep in our move to Indiana; I sold my hat collection and parted with my vintage dress patterns, we let the tent and camping gear go along with an impressive amount of books and vinyl records, even some kitchen tools.

But there was never any question about the treadle sewing machine.

I bought the Singer over 30 years ago at an auction. We suited each other from the beginning.

This early model (1901) Singer L is basic, uses shuttle bobbins and only sews in a straight, forward line. She's plain label and sturdy: a few gears and a rawhide cord, a cast iron base and oak cabinet.

For over 100 years, the up and down motion of that treadle has marked women's lives in stitches and darts. She holds the memory of young girls dreaming of proms and weddings, of new brides creating homes, of mothers sewing sunsuits and pinafores, of grandmothers holding grandchildren on their laps and closing the circle.

I'm no great seamstress but together we've made clothing and costumes, curtains and totes. I hope for many more years of feeding her fabric and if I'm lucky, some of those times will see my grandchildren learning to sew on my lap.

A rose by any other name

We planted Rugosa roses along the roadside because they are resistant to salt (Northeast winters = road salt).

They are beautiful, wildly fragrant, and the hips make AWESOME jelly!

Best dressed?



My work pants AFTER being washed.



I don't understand fashion.

I recently ventured into a clothing store, the first time in several years. I felt like a person blind from birth who has just miraculously gained eyesight. Nothing made sense! I saw colors and shapes but couldn't conceive any way these objects could be worn as clothing. Racks of poorly made items with prices that made me gasp; someone must design this stuff and someone must buy it although I question the sanity of both groups.

Part of the problem may be that I reached puberty at the time of love beads, Indian print tops made from tablecloths, and bra burnings. I was a child in a world where it was required to wear a hat to church and a major faux pas to be seen in white after Labor Day and a teenager in bell bottoms and paisley. No wonder I'm style challenged.

I guess we can conclude that the fashion industry doesn't exactly cater to overweight, sixty year-old women and especially mature women who need their closet full of items to wear to muck poultry manure. That's an altogether different chic.

Surprised by a parade.

I was just down to our county seat running errands. I came up to a cross street and was stopped by a parade.

Hmm. No major holidays, no school competitions. The short row of participants included several tractors, a float informing us not to use slow moving vehicle signs on mailboxes, an old time music band, and a group of young beribboned ladies doing the queen wave.

Aha! Must be Dairy Days.

We are not pack rats. In our 41 years of marriage, we've moved many times and every time have cleared out and pared down.

Even so, there are still some things you find when you prepare for another major move.

This morning we cleaned out Tom's file cabinet. Tom is a self-employed musician ( see We interrupt this blog) so he needs to keep business records, music files etc. But as we delved into his papers we found the kind of things that make you wonder "What the hey?"

• Like programs for concerts he never went to.
• Letters of rejection from publishers that went belly-up years ago.
• His 3rd place award for a radio ad that he can't remember writing.
• And our daughter's school newsletter from 1991 when she won the local spelling bee.

We could get all sentimental and nostalgic, maybe shed a tear for time's swift passage. Or we could feel guilty for the amount of stuff we will now be adding to our local landfill.

Either way, moving can be...

...bloodcurdling.

V

It's started already.

We've been at Woodchuck Acres for 10 years, for the past several we've seen no larger vermin than carpenter bees and the occasional mouse. Now it seems the word has spread that we're leaving.

First I started seeing squirrels in the yard. A chipmunk keeps appearing on the deck, peering in the glass doors. A cottontail has taken up residence in the yard. Woodchucks have burrowed under the goat barn. And crows are pecking at the lawn.

I'm sure to most people these are not signs for alarm. For a gardener, they're trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for PESTS.

It's like a horror movie only with furry, adorable invaders.

Meals Before Wheels

We're eating mostly from our pantry these days (to save some money and because empty jars are lighter to move than full ones.)

At this point the shelves hold:

Tomato products: stewed, sauce, bbq sauce, catsup
Canned chicken, turkey, a bit of ham, and ground beef.
Rice, pasta in various shapes and forms.
Dried beans.
Potatoes, garlic.
Maple syrup and honey.
A few jars of blueberries.
Applesauce. Lots and lots of applesauce.
Peanut butter and
Jelly. About 43 jars of jelly.
Olive oil.
Flour, baking soda, etc.

I do have a drawer full of herbs and spices and the usual suspects (mustard, butter, popcorn etc.) in the fridge and the garden has lettuce, radishes, and weeds. The freezer contains chicken, bacon, hot dogs, and the last few of our own eggs.

I am not a great cook. I am not an inventive cook. I am an adequate cook, so

Meals will be interesting from now until the move.

Shocking!

In the optimistic 1950s, we were assured of a brighter future. We dreamed of all-electric houses as the epitomy of civilization.


Skip forward 60 years and the prospect of a mostly electric home is a nightmare for me.


Our Lick Skillet house, thankfully, has a propane furnace. But everything else is electric. The stove, the water heater, hook-up for the dryer. And the electric rate is half again as much as in New York!


We're taking our new, small refrigerator and will retire the old, large one that comes with the house. The pressure tank for the well is tiny so the pump runs more than it should; replacing that will be our first plumbing project. The dryer hook-up will remain unhooked for now, a clothesline will suit us fine. The central air conditioning needs work so we won't be running that for awhile and we have already started replacing all bulbs with cfls. We routinely turn off lights and unplug appliances, follow all of the standard energy saving advice.

But, please sir, I want some more.

More ideas for reducing those kilowatt hours. Some different perspectives could really help here. What are your best, easiest, fastest, most effective ways to use less power?

Three little words

I must apologize for the paucity of posts;* I am involved in a REAL ESTATE TRANSACTION.

Anyone who has ever bought or sold property immediately understands the significance of that phrase and sympathizes.

Back in the dawn of time, it was undoubtedly simpler. I owned land. You wanted the land. You either started a war and took said land or offered me a dozen cows. We shook on the deal and you moved in.

It ain't so simple nowadays.

We call, we email, we wait for answers. We wait on agents and lawyers and contractors and plumbers. I feel we are clawing our way forward millimeter by millimeter by our bloody fingernails towards a closing. 

I hope this kerfluffle will be settled soon. Otherwise, I'd better stock up on Tums.


*Paucity of Posts? Sounds like a great title for a novel.

Drawn and quoted



He cries "fowl!"


People have all sorts of caveats and worries for you when they hear you live in the country.

 

You're so far away, what if something happens?
How can you stand the quiet?
What about snakes (spiders, bears, wolves, etc.)?
It's too much work to grow your own vegetables, save your strength, you aren't getting any younger!
What about salmonella (mad cow disease, lyme disease, botulism, etc.)?

 

But no one thinks to warn you of a common hazard that crops up again and again.
Yes, I'm referring to that which all sensible people try to avoid--

 

The pun.

 

First we got chickens:

Ha, ha, the yolk's on you.
Bet they only cost a b-wock and a half.
That's egg-cellent.

Next bees:

Bet you're all a-buzz.
Hope it doesn't give you hives.
Here's the stinger.

 

Even so, we perservered and acquired goats:

Seems for just a buck you could get some doe.
Sure gets your goat.
Are you serious or just kidding around?
 
I tremble to consider what we'll hear if we get pigs and sheep!  

41!

I can't see me lovin' nobody but you
For all my life
When you're with me, baby the skies'll be blue
For all my life

Me and you and you and me
No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me
So happy together

Garry Bonner and Alan Gordon

Happy Anniversary, babe!

Mr. & Mrs. Rand McNally

I have a fairly good sense of direction but my initials are CAR not GPS. Yet everywhere we go, people ask us directions.


I can understand that at home. We're outside alot and probably the only humans in sight on the road.


But it happens everywhere, no matter how many other local inhabitants are around.


I posit we must have a harmless, friendly look about us. Surely these middle-aged softies will help and not respond with verbal (or physical!) abuse.


I was at a conference in Washington, D.C., a place I only know from watching "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington". Got stopped and asked for directions to the Smithsonian.


We were in London; our only time there. Got asked for help on the Tube.


Second visit to our new place in Indiana Memorial Day weekend--3 different times drivers needed help finding the county park, a place WE'VE NEVER VISITED!


I will be ready before the next major holiday; I'll print maps to the park and charge a quarter, could be our first moneymaker in Indiana.

We interrupt this blog

Time for a blatant advertisement.

My husband, Tom Rasely,  is a musician, a guitarist of many talents.

He has toured, taught, and recorded. He's got many years of experience under his belt and has appeared on more than 60 projects. His own include albums of instrumental music, some vocal, some experimental, and some inspirational. His stuff is on iTunes and Amazon but it's easiest to check it out on cdbaby.com    I hope you will.

We now return to our regular country blogging.

Surprises

I can't imagine building a brand, new house on empty land.  There would be none of the discoveries you make when you buy an older property.

Like the cherub in the yard.

And the tomato cages behind the garage.

The lavender growing by the steps.

And the catbird nest by the side door.


Of course, there are also those niggling questions that will never be answered, like

Why would anyone install a three door garage...

...with NO DOOR HANDLES?