The Sweet-tooth's Survival Manual

I used to wonder what would happen if the connection to the grocery store was broken and my family was forced to survive on its own. Earlier this summer we picked up our household and moved to Oregon to find out.

We’ve only lived in our new home for a few months, but every day I marvel at the way the earth provides. At the risk of seeming boastful, I just need to share.

July was blueberry season. A neighbor showed me how to cut gallon milk jugs into picking tubs with a length of clothesline looped through the handle. I hung one around the necks of my two granddaughters and we picked until our lips were purple. We bagged them in gallon freezer bags for winter smoothies. We made freezer jam and gave a lot to friends because it was just too fun to stop picking! (The girls are two and five so the thornless bushes were a big hit.) Full disclosure--their mom and dad helped.

 In late July the wretched brambles that cover the countryside came alive with temporary recompense for their annoying existence. Everywhere I looked I found Himalayan blackberries just begging to be picked. Even though they sport life-threatening thorns, the bushes hung across the road, along the creeks and rivers, juicy berries sweet enough I didn’t need to add sugar to my pies. I started waking at 6:00 A.M. so I would head out to the meadow and fill my jugs with fresh berries for breakfast.

Every time I walked down to get my mail the letters came home stained with berry juice because I couldn’t resist. My fingernails were stained berry blue for a solid month and there was nothing I could do about it. (If there’s a way to pick berries in gloves, I haven’t found it yet.)

By the time I got my hands bleached, the peach tree in the orchard threatened to split under the weight of its bounty. The week we arrived we propped the limbs and thinned the fruit and we probably saved the poor mother-trunk's scrawny life.

By mid-July I peeled the skin off a peach with my teeth and ate it in three bites.

I picked the tree clean in slow stages every time a new batch ripened, an obsessive-compulsive activity that replaced writing for the entire summer. Finally I left a few for the birds and hornets and spread the last batch out on the patio to ripen. And on Canning Day I processed every pint jar I owned with peaches and made the rest into freezer jam.

Praise the synchronicity of nature. God must indeed be a woman because everything came ripe in stages. 

By mid September the apples and pears in our orchard began dropping. My tree didn’t have many, but I found enough abandoned apple trees to make wonderful sunshine-yellow applesauce with a combination of apples that needed just a hint of cinnamon.

I used one of those hand-crank peelers on another ten pounds and fried them in a skillet with a half-cup of brown sugar, a half cube of butter and a shake (more or less) of 6 different spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, pumpkin pie spice, allspice, cloves. Easy-peasy side dish for a Sunday pork roast. I froze most of the ringlets in baggies for future roasts.

 Big discovery—pear sauce is better than applesauce! When I ran out of jars, I quartered and peeled  ten pounds of pears and boiled them in two cups water until soft (covered pan), then tossed in a handful of brown sugar and some cinnamon and while still hot, smashed the fruit with a potato masher. To die for.  When it was cool I ladled the sauce into small baggies and froze them flat on a cookie sheet. After they were frozen I slipped them into one gallon-size freezer bag for frost protection. This way I don’t have a dozen small bags sliding around the freezer.

The beauty of using the land’s bounty is that you can slap-dash bake without worrying about “ruining” the recipe. I mean, have you ever tasted a pie you didn’t like? It it’s too sour, add ice cream. If it’s runny, so much the better. If it’s too thick, well, some people prefer it that way. I’m a lazy cook, but I have fun. As the oldest daughter in a family of nine hungry mouths, I learned early that you can’t mess up dessert. It just isn’t possible!

Here’s a couple of no-fail recipes—

Fruit crisp—fill a square or rectangular baking dish with small pieces of fruit. (smaller is better than quartered fruit. Berries can be left whole.) For the small dish, add a cup or so of water, a little (1 tsp.) cornstarch, a quarter-cup sugar and boil until it reaches z full boil. Don't worry if it's not thick. Double for the larger pan. Stir into the fruit. For the topping—equal parts flour, brown sugar and quick oats and ½ cube of cold butter, crumbled along with the dry ingredients. Don’t worry about the calories because you can’t make it crumble without the butter. I add a dash of salt and some cinnamon. Bake until the juice bubbles and the top is brown.

I add left-over pancake batter (gluten free) to a baking dish of cut up fruit and bake it with raisins, nuts and a little brown sugar for 30 minutes or until thick. I love it for tea or breakfast. My grandfather used to pour cream over his.    

Now my counters are lined with pint jars filled with fruit that I got for nothing. (Truth, I bought a few packages of Ball jar lids and a 5-lb. bag of organic sugar for the canned pears because they were a little tart.) Oh, and a few dozen more pint jars, but that's an investment, not an expense.    

As I write, the grapes in my vineyard are getting sweeter by the day. I have no idea what kind they are, purple with seeds, but they'll make juice for winter breakfasts until I learn how to make wine. All I have to do is steam, strain and squeeze.  It’s walnut season. I’ve collected a 50-lb. sack filled with English walnuts and I’m going to spend my evenings in the patio cracking them. In a wet-wood pinch I can use the cracked shells for firestarter--just mix with some dryer lint and a little glue and place in individual egg carton sections. My sister gave me the idea.   

My mom sent me instructions. I’m collecting acorns and I’m going to be making acorn meal as soon as I pick up enough. They stay around because we don't have much competition from squirrels, only the rain.  

My husband's a hunter. The Canadian geese are starting to land in the pasture. The wild turkeys march across the lawn and fill their gullets with our crickets so I feel entitled to one of them when it’s time to think about Thanksgiving. Five does and a couple of bucks have spent the summer stripping everything they could reach from the fruit trees. They wait while I shake the apples from the tree and eat everything I don’t bag, including the trimmings from the peeled fruit. We’ll be having venison for the holidays.

So this is what I’ve gleaned off the land so far. Do I feel better about the end of the world? You better believe I do. If I have to, I can survive on jelly and fruit. I’m waiting to see what the next season brings. I picked up a pinecone to harvest the nuts, but most of them were already open. I got there too late for pine nuts this year, but there’s still firewood in the woods for the taking. And in the spring I’ll find the best spots for miner’s lettuce. 

Anybody else out there a survivalist tiger? Do share.

SAYINGS THAT GOT LOST ALONG THE WAY

  

 Remember these? If you're over fifty you probably will. My list definitely reflects my Catholic upbringing. I'm surprised how many of these formed my outlook about life, and how many of them I used on my own children.  

My chores are finished. Anything else before I go play?

Shame on me!

It’s a personal point of honor.

That goes against my grain.

I saved up for it.

I fudged. (I goofed.)

Thanks, but I’ll wait my turn.

It’s not urgent (I can wait.)

This too will pass. 

Offer it up. 

You're a saint for doing that. (My Catholic mother was big on these.) 

Let’s take turns.

We’ll have to make do.

This is more than my fair share.

Let’s pray on it.

In due time.

I’m sorry, Sir  (Ma’am!)

Take it, you deserve it more.

A stitch in time saves nine.

Hand-me-downs

Let’s tidy up before Dad comes home.

Cut it down and make it over (reuse someone else's clothing.) 

Clean your plate. Kids in China are starving

If you’re not here at dinnertime, you don’t eat.

Sorry, we don’t own a television.

If you’re hungry, eat a slice of bread.

If you’re not tired you haven’t worked hard enough.

I can’t—my folks would kill me.

Time to hit the deck.

Time to hit the hay.

Rise and shine.

Live and let live.

I’ll sacrifice for the greater good.

It’s none of my business so I won’t ask!

I really shouldn’t (so I won’t!)

Here—you have it.

It’s good enough for me.

Keep a dime between your knees.

Act like a lady

Pretty is as pretty does.

Nice girls don't

Treat your date like she’s your sister.

He (she) has cooties.

Gosh, dog-gone-it, golly, phooey.

Jiminy Christmas.

Careful, these have to last.

School shoes, play shoes & dress shoes

Play clothes for after school

Crackers and milk for supper.

Forgive and forget.

Because you’re not old enough.

Because I said so.

Not now (it’s almost suppertime.)

Wait until your father gets home.

I have to set an example.

There'll be plenty of time for that when you grow up.

I broke it so I’ll replace it.

I’ve done worse (you’re forgiven.)

I sewed it myself.

How about your favorite sayings. Any I've forgotten? 

Three Things About Moving

All my life I thought that having deep roots was the best possible thing. I loved being a Native Daughter of the Golden West. But when I traveled, I saw new cities where I wanted to live—in Italy, and France and Southern Oregon.  

I looked around and saw a whole world waiting to be explored. But to live there I had to leave here. A dilemma, for sure. I know I’m not alone, wanting both worlds. I started questioning my old values. And once I started, I couldn't stop. 

If enough people believe something, does that make it so? Take, for example, the sayings: "Change is hard." "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger." What if change is exciting and renewing and all things are possible? What if lack of change slowly sucks the life, one cell at a time?   

But what about huge change? Would it kill me or make me stronger? I think the answer is, a little of each. 

A couple of things have surprised me about moving so far from “home.” One is how much I admire my husband. Like Adam and Eve, we are the First Couple, relying on each other in this strange and beautiful paradise. I watch him with fresh eyes as he builds shelves and repairs gutters. He tends to a thousand details that will make our house strong in the winter. He works without expecting to be noticed, but I do. And he makes me feel like Eve.

Another surprise is how much boredom I had been carrying. Everything’s fun again. I’m a fresh helium balloon, filled with possibilities.  Something has been removed and the vacuum is being refilled. 

In a new kitchen with top-grade appliances and lots of counter space, I’m cooking turnovers, blackberry pies, ribs and roast chicken. I bought myself a Le Creuset roasting pan and I’m taking such pride in cooking. I have my neighbors over for buffalo stew and homemade bread with new blackberry jam. And it’s not just a hasty meal, it’s an event because they’re our new friends, a bridge to the community.

On the flip-side, I’m surprised at how heavy I feel some days. I love it here, but everything seems so serious. I drive with my tongue pressed against my cheek, concentrating. I pore over newspaper ads looking for clues for the best shops. I analyze, memorize and when everything is too much, I hibernate for a few days and start all over again.

A film maker friend is nudging me to show him product, a script we’re working on, and I am so grounded that it’s hard to be absurd and witty. Maybe that’s why I’m blogging about that today—a promise to get airborne again and feel the wind.      

Are you airborne or grounded? Be the wind under our wings and share your thoughts.

Trading Paradise For a New Zip Code

               

Six weeks ago my husband and I joined the exodus of Baby Boomers out of  California.

Leaving our state was a wrenching emotional decision, but the hardest part was explaining our decision to friends and family. We mentioned a slower lifestyle, a desire for four seasons, fairer tax rates, better hunting and fishing. It’s hard for them to understand. I get it. I’ve lost friends and family to the moving van.

So why did we trade paradise for newer zip code?

I’ve been a resident of the Central Coast long enough to watch the county fill with new Southland arrivals armed with passion for volunteerism, winemaking and dining out that transformed our sleepy burg into a world class wine region (at least until the water runs out.) Together, my husband and I have 120 years of history in the area. While we were rearing our family, most of our relatives lived within a thirty-minute drive. On holidays, aunts and uncles dropped by with gifts.

But, with all that familiarity the short track in our brain got lazy. It had already stored every decision we would ever need. We had our medical, church and shopping tracks down pat. We’d traveled every road on the Central Coast in car, truck, Jeep and motorcycle. We were living without wonderment, in a daze of half-interest and putting things off until tomorrow.    

 Always we yearned to see the other side of the mountain. We’d spent years traveling the West looking for that special place. Our family thought we were lookie-loos as we drove through Washington, Nevada, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and made appointments with realtors to show us their “banana belts.” Some we liked: Chilawack, BC, Coleville, WA, Garden Valley and Boise, ID, Grand Junction and Fort Collins, CO,  Helena, MT, Tensleep, WY. Some seemed foolhardy, and none seemed like home.       

Then one day we saw it. Someone produced escrow papers and I managed, in a single stroke of the pen, to overrule my every trepidation. Now we have a lovely house with a woods, and pasture for three feeder calves. We have an orchard, a chicken coop and a mini vineyard. Ag and forest exemptions. Our insurance and tax bills are a fraction of what they used to be. And no sales tax!

As perfect as it is, the house is only a backdrop for the movie of our lives where every sunrise brings a smile and every cloudburst catches me outside doing the happy dance. My brain is filled with street names and utility companies. My internet provider involves a receiver on our red cypress pointed at a tower two miles away. The measly local newspaper arrives in the afternoon, filled with news about people I don’t know. The neighbor’s dogs bristle and snarl.

I grapple with huge gulps of silence in a house that needs laughter and I wonder if I will ever have enough friends to fill it. The first week the silence was so profound that I could hear deer nibbling grass outside. Now I hear the distant train, turkeys stalking through dried leaves. The orchard fills with fruit, ripens and droops with peaches, plums and pears.

I’m afraid to close my eyes for fear I’ll miss something. The irises bloomed and disappeared before dandelions took over the lawns. The meadow grass ripened and a neighbor cut and baled it before we could get our tractor moved. This morning had a tang of fall and a flock of geese flew into our meadow while I picked blackberries at the springhouse.

Before the move I toted tons of valuables to the thrift shop. I would probably cry if I could remember what I gave away. But apparently none of it was necessary for the me that I'm morphing into. I'm using this time to reinvent myself. (More on that next time.) But I make it a rule to meet someone new every day—preferably over a meal or coffee. I’ve rediscovered the joy of living in the moment.

No doubt when the days turn gray and damp, I will pine for the gorgeous Central Coast. I will probably grumble about the fog and pop Vitamin D. I will suffer the indignities of being snowed in. (We’re in a banana belt. Two feet of snow. Melts out the next morning, I’m told.)  I’ll teach classes in writing memoir. I’ll write another book. I’ll publish the first in my historical novel series set in SLO County. 

I was afraid I would feel like I’d lost part of myself when I moved. Instead, I’ve gained a bigger world. It's more authentic, living in the moment. I hope I never forget the lesson.

Has anyone else experienced a live-changing move? Care to share?

  

When Appliances Break Down—A Survivor’s Guide

Go on, life-hit me with your best shot.

I’m studying the synchronicity of household appliances that are failing at the same time. Breakdowns seem to be “my thing” this month and I’m contemplating the downside of inconvenience versus the feeling of freedom from things electrical, followed all to quickly by a heightened sense of appreciation when they're all working again.

My exercise began with a simple change in propane suppliers. The old company charges $85 to drain the tank if it is more than 5% full. Ripoff! It seemed easy to monitor our usage, but since one of the reasons we were changing was because the gauge didn't function, we underestimated. Our tank ran dry on Memorial Day weekend. No stove or hot water heater for three days.  

Days earlier we hired a handyman to do some odd jobs, one of which was to put in a new kitchen sink. He was buttoning the job when he discovered that the new faucet was defective. Since we had to let the sink adhesive season for two days we agreed to a replacement faucet shipped by overnight mail. Overnight became three days without water in the kitchen.

Couple of days later the microwave bid adios in a hale of fire and sparks.

Then the black DIRECT satellite box sent out a stench of singed electrical wire and everything went fuzzy.

A week later the growl in my computer expanded to intermittent freezing and a cacophony of whirls, grunts and agonizing groans. What I thought was a bad fan turned out to be a warning that my hard drive was crashing.

The  following week we were traveling north in our pickup, towing a trailer toward a truck stop with $3.89 diesel a mile ahead when the truck sputtered to a stop. The computer claimed we had forty-five miles of fuel left, but an empty tank was the least serious scenario of our choices. It was and we did, but running out of diesel involved having the system recharged. The AAA tow truck driver couldn't do it, so we had to be loaded onto a tow truck and the trailer towed to the nearest Dodge dealership.

So that’s been my month. I’d like to say it’s been hell, but actually I enjoyed every adventure.
    

I’ve learned a lot about myself through these trails. Mostly that I like living a slower-paced existence and that change is fun. That conveniences don’t define me or limit me as much as I feared. The primitive woman emerged and is having a great time living with less.    

The lack of a stove and running water gave me some well-deserved days off from the kitchen. We ate out a couple of times, had paper plate picnics with sandwiches and cold cereal. We peeled oranges and listened to the birds singing. I suspect we ate less. One night we drank Margaritas for dinner with guacamole and chips. Thank God the coffee maker still worked.

The missing faucet gave me a chance to appreciate all the things I take for granted. I thought about the women and girls who have to walk three or more miles to the river and risk rape every trip. All I had to do was fill a pot with hot water from the bathtub spout and count my blessings while I washed dishes in my pasta pot. Hand washing settled me.

I’m still without a microwave and happily steaming veggies and boiling water. I use my wok and sing while I cook. I’ve missed the satisfaction of taking my time.  

The replacement satellite box arrived a few days ago and we haven’t hooked it up yet. Who knew that  sunsets happen during my favorite program. That neighbors walk their dogs while I’m tuned to the tube. I’m not saying that I’ll NEVER hook up again, but for now, it’s nice.

The truck debacle allowed me to watch my husband be a hero with reflectors and road flares. We rode in a tow truck like kids, and chatted with the parts guy at the Dodge dealership while his mechanics fixed the truck, added five gallons of diesel and refused any money.

I’ve intended to replace my computer for years. It was given to me nine years ago by a retired geologist from Nevada who had used it for five years. It was time. I unplugged the old soldier and phoned my computer guy and he’s building me a new one.

What I learned this month is to take a deep breath and give thanks when life changes directions. I’m strangely happier and relaxed. Life is better. Go figure. 

What’s  it like when something you depend on breaks? 

Three Ultimate Gifts from the Heart.

Ever think about the gifts we give and receive--what they say about us as humans? Here's a list of alternatives that will change lives. 

I just finished reading a commentary by Nicholas D. Kristof, columnist for the New York Times. His post Mother’s Day article is about saving the lives of moms. Specifically it’s about fistulas, a consequence of childbirth when girls, most often third-world girls, get raped and impregnated when their bodies are small or malnourished.

The details aren’t pretty, but they’re even less so for the girls who are ostracized by their communities when their fecal matter and urine oozes in an uncontrollable stream from a rupture in their vagina caused by childbirth trauma.

Kristof calls it the leprosy of the 21^st Century. The consequences are long-lasting: no prom dates, no jobs at McBurger. Death by self-induced starvation, infection or hyena attacks orchestrated by villagers including family and friends.   

 The girls are taken to a hut at the edge of their communities and left to die. Some manage to crawl or walk to clinics supported by American donors and staffed by compassionate doctors who perform a simple surgery.  

Ironically, I read about fistulas right after my daughter Sam called to tell me that she has donated in my name to an organization that repairs cleft palates in babies.

Right after I sent a donation to an organization that provides goats to African villagers in my mother’s name. Great minds think alike.

Now I’m sending a donation to the fistula foundation on behalf of both my daughters. A perfect Mother’s Day Trifecta.     

Here are some links. (Note--there are others. Check them all out.)

(Author’s note: Gift ideas are suitable for all occasions and are not limited by gender or age. Comes in all sizes. Items described don’t require exchanging, packing or dry cleaning.)

http://worldwidefistulafund.org/ $450 buys an entire fistula surgery and changes a life.  For $150 we can provide her with social reintegration and job skills. For $25 we can give a girl a new dress after her surgery.

Operationsmile.org . (888) 377-2289. or Smiletrain.org .  $250 buys a new smile for a baby born with a cleft palate. Our donation comes with a Bonus Offer—after the operation the village will no longer assume that the repaired, beautiful three-year-old is possessed by the devil. 

Worldvision.org . The gift catalogue is online. Browse among the options that include a goat, three chickens or two ducks. Gifts benefit AIDS widows or women abandoned by their job-seeking husbands, or grandmothers left with the care of all their grandchildren. $75 buys a goat to milk, breed and develop into a small herd.

Let’s add to the list. Share your best big-hearted suggestions. 

California Casual--Is Rudeness the New Rule?

In California, we have a different way of doing things.  

. For us, RSVP are four random letters that appear on the bottom of invitations, indicating nothing. An invitation means that someone is having an event and seeks your commitment. If you're naive or new to our way of doing things, you should understand that no one holds you to your promise.

As everyone in California knows, an invitation is a mere technicality. The game plan is to throw it on the counter and fuggetaboutit! No worries. The hostess will give you a ring on the day before the party to see if you’re coming. You can decide then.

Weddings, intimate dinner parties—makes no difference.

According to my friend, no-shows are very common in Santa Barbara. Yes, even for dinner parties. People respond "yes" and then wait to see if something better comes along. She blames the practice on the "Biz (the film industry.) And it gets worse the closer you are to Hollywood.

Makes sense. Why waste your time at a "B" dinner in your honor if you can tag along to an "A" event and gawk at the movie stars. Even the concept of "A" and "B" comes from California. Remember the old Disneyland ride ticket books? Who wouldn't rather ride the Matterhorn than the train?

So I live in California. Time to bring this around to me.

I have a writer’s critique group on alternate Tuesdays. This group is new and just beginning to jell. Like any newborn, it needs attention. It helps to know who will be there. I requested that everyone RSVP, and they did. As of last Friday six plus me made seven. Yeah!

Tuesday morning the house is clean. Snacks are ready. Husband is fed and out of the house. And the calls start coming in. One member has a sore throat. One is still in jammies. A third one has slept late and can make the last half. The others are no-shows. And that’s when the idea for this blog starts.

As a new writer, for three years I used to drive 70 miles round trip every other Monday to attend a critique group that started at nine. I scheduled my life around that group! The moderator was a retired grade school teacher who ran that group like her classroom. I was terrified of getting “the look” if I walked in three minutes late.

No coincidence that in the years I belonged I wrote a bazillion short stories and essays and submitted them to markets all over the US and Canada. Had thirty acceptances (a 1/23 ratio. Not bad for fiction in the era before e-publishing.) I wore out three Writer’s Market books in the process and won ten awards. Wrote two novels. I quit the group when members started writing travel stories and essays and I was the only fiction writer left.

Point is, that critique group launched me. That’s what I hope to do for the newbies in my group.

Clearly the fault is mine. I need to develop “the look”. Tough love. Next week we’ll revamp the rules and get down to business. As soon as I finish writing this, I’ll dig out my cousin’s wedding invitation from the junk on the counter and send my RSVP. She even included a stamp.

Hope it’s not too late.

Anybody have a similar experience or want to add to the discussion? Here's your chance.