Source: New Year’s Resolve… Reinvented
We’ve started out search for the perfect ten-plus acres for our homestead! Yay, Pioneers! On the surface, this is fabulously exciting. Yet, in reality, it’s just plain exhausting.
Like any house hunt, there are a plethora of things to take into consideration. What is the shape of the roof? What is the neighborhood like? Are the schools any good? How secure is the septic? On and on and on we go. Now add homesteading to the equation. What’s the soil like? Is the well pumping enough water per minute to give you confidence there is a vast underground supply? Is the land so reasonably priced because it’s smack in the middle of a flood zone? Head. Throbbing.
The elder generation of pioneers, Mosses and Poppy, have been out twice doing a little reconnaissance. Their first stop took them to a mini-farm with 12-plus acres, 2 homes and more outbuildings than you can shake a stick at. What they found was that the only hope for the original 1910 ranch house was for a match to land on it. Moses and Poppy are not prima donna home buyers. They have bought their fair share of fixer-uppers and aren’t afraid of putting some elbow grease into the manse to make it a home. It helps that they both have a history in real estate. They are not rubes in the realm of relocation.
Round two took them to six different properties in a forty-five mile area. They came home looking like they’d been through a midnight bombing and six months in a prisoner of war camp. Moses walked through the front door and went straight to her bedroom where she slept for fifteen solid hours. Poppy gave us the scoop. The first 5 houses were not to be considered. Clearly the photos and info garnered on the farm website where we researched were a bit doctored. As in, no way did a 5′ x 2.5′ crawl space with no windows count as a bedroom. And while tell of a gorgeous barn, original to the farm, sounded ideal, in reality it was held up entirely by the blackberry bushes and poison oak that snaked its way through the weathered boards. One of the houses was still on oil heating from its origins. Two were so completely isolated from the world you could hear the dueling banjos on the breeze. One was so close to the main road that if you took too large a step leaving your front door, you were in jeopardy of getting run over by a passing manure spreader. The last property, he confessed, was either a maybe or they were just too beaten down by the others to know. We made a plan to take a family field trip to the “maybe.”
The “maybe” was located in a rural farming town that has a pretty good rep. There are fewer than a thousand souls in residence and probably a hundred times as many sheep. The terrain was breathtaking! Rolling hills, farm land, rivers, woods. All I could think of on the ride there was that I was on my way home, I knew it. When we pulled up to the property I experienced a feeling of reserved optimism. We hit the barn first. Loved it. Big enough for necessary storage but not so big as to overwhelm. On to the house. It was attractive from the outside but inside was like the seventies threw up all over the eighties. The space was great though. Over three thousand square feet with a very workable floor plan for our family of six. Wrap around porches on both levels that overlooked the woods expanded our outdoor living space. There was a nice wood stove and fireplace.
On to the outdoors! We knew that the forest acreage outnumbered the farming acreage but were surprised to see how little 3 acres of cleared space really was. I would guess that in reality it was more like an acre an a half. Clearing the woods for planting would be a huge chore. Then the husband noticed the shake roof surrounded by large trees and shook his head. No way. Our last home in California was nearly consumed by the San Gabriel fires. Pass. The ride home left us shell-shocked.
Our lovely realtor further complicated our choices of towns by declaring one full of pot-heads (and that was just the town council), one was full of ex-cons, another had a meth problem and another still seemed to have a reputation for incest. Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me? One of the two towns she recommended had a school system that was below the state average, nixing that possibility. The town we are in has great rural area but not much for sale in the 10 acre arena and we are looking at twice the price for it. No longer living in California means that our income opportunities are not the same, therefore, paying a million dollar price tag to homestead seems a bit absurd.
Anyhoo, that’s the update from the Pioneer homestead hunt. We are taking a break for a couple weeks and trying to rebuild our intestinal fortitude to hit it again. All good vibes, prayers and happy energy you want to send our way is welcome!
Spiced Pear Butter is one of my all time favorite treats and if it was easier to make I’d give it to all of my loved ones and then roll in it. Alas, it’s a bit of a dilly to make. Not hard, but very time consuming and a bit expensive for the yield. Having said that, it is well worth it for your own private stash or for that lovely person who gifts you with one of their kidneys/lungs/other vital organs. In just over 6 hours, I have created 12-1/2 pints of ambrosia-like wonder.
- 12 pounds of organic pears (unpeeled) cored and cut into 1″ chunks. This is about 16 pounds before cutting.
- 1-1/2 cup dry white wine
- 6 tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice
- 4-1/2 cups of sugar
- 12 orange slices
- 3 lemon slices
- 16 whole cloves
- 6 vanilla beans, split lengthwise
- 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
- pinch of salt
1. Combine pears, wine and lemon juice in a very large stockpot and cover. Simmer about 45 minutes, stirring occasionally until the pears are very tender.
2. Force through a food mill to remove skins.
3. Return the puree to the heavy stockpot. Add remaining ingredients.
4. Stir over low heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to medium and boil gently until mixture thickens and begins to mound on the spoon. This takes between 2-3 hours (depending on your heat). Stir frequently to keep mixture from scorching.
5. Discard fruit slices, cloves and vanilla beans. Spoon into sterilized canning jars, filling to 1/4″from top. Wipe rims, place lids on and submerge into boiling water bath.
Drum Roll please……………………..
In the last five years I have grown up (although I might actually be 1/4″ shorter), out (little heavier) and in (soul growth… the hardest!) Here are just a few of the insights I hope to raise my little girls with.
- Don’t judge others. This will always come around and bite you in the butt. Always.
- Jealousy is a waste of energy. You never know what someone else’s life is really like.
- If I dislike you on sight, chances are we are destined to become great friends.
- If your underwear is tight, buy a bigger size or lose weight. Feeling bad about yourself is an unnecessary step.
- It is never too late to apologize. 20, 30, 40 years… go for it! Your soul will be lighter for it.
- Like a tomato garden, pluck the suckers out.
- Everything has value to someone.
- You are not what you own. Stuff comes and goes– love and kindness last forever.
- All the crap makes for a more fruitful garden.
- Hard work always pays off.
- If you are going to kill it, eat it. This does not apply to slugs or other irritating garden bugs.
- Don’t buy it if you can grow.
- Buying it new is a waste of money.
- Everyone has a story you can learn from. Listen.
- Weeds that can be turned into wine, coffee and salad greens are not weeds. They are wonders!
- If, on a quiet country night, you are inspired to write a book, write it! Check out Mama Pioneers inspiration. She Sins at Midnight.
- Every single moment of life is a gift. Treat it accordingly.
I recently reread my New Year’s resolutions and have come to a profound realization. That being, I will be lucky to accomplish all of my goals for this year by 2020. Apparently owning a Wonder Woman costume (don’t ask) isn’t the same as being Wonder Woman. Crap.
While pondering the list, we decided that the chicken vs. duck dilemma was the first one to take on. For obvious reasons, like we had a friend that offered us chickens. Sealing the deal was the gossip that ducks are filthy, filthy animals.
Our friend and guru Chris, from Celestial Farms in Jefferson, asked what my criteria for chickens was. I told him I wanted pretty birds that laid pretty eggs. After much laughter, he informed me that rugged pioneer women are not interested in pretty, just functional. To which I asked, “Why can’t they be both?”
The girls pondered for days what to name their new pets. Jimmy voted to name them after Scooby and the gang. They weren’t interested. I wanted to name them after my favorite chicken dishes, Picata, Parmasan, Paprikash etc. which worried them that I was planning on eating their pets. Then, one morning it came to them, Barbie Princesses! So we welcomed, Odette (Anna’s particular pet), Anika, Analise, Rapunzel and Erika to our household.
We have come to love these darling, dumb birds. They entertain us endlessly with their theatrics. Nary is an egg laid that isn’t followed by the most outrageous noise you can imagine. The bock, bock, bock, bock, bagock!!! to let you know that once again they have produced a key ingredient in our diets. And in appreciation of their efforts we hand feed them table scraps and Cheerios. We let them free range around the backyard before the gardens went in, renaming the patio the poopio, for obvious reasons. Now that they are confined to their pen until we harvest, we have moved their home in order to triple the size of their wandering area.
Are our chickens spoiled, you ask? Of course, they are named after Barbie princesses and must be treated accordingly.
I can finally quit painting the dirt on… it’s go time!
I have been itchy, itchy, to get out in the yard and start doing something (anything) towards cleaning up for spring planting. Alas, with all the snow and rain we’ve had it was not meant to be; until today! Yes, that’s right, today I weeded until my hamstrings threatened to snap from disuse. I didn’t actually weed the gardens as I would need waders to slop my way to them. But I did do the front yard, effectively bringing a bit more curb appeal to the neighborhood. You’re welcome dear neighbors, I aim to please.
During out last day of no precipitation, we put up our little green house and we are in the beginnings of filling it with starters. I can almost taste the tomatoes. The fruit trees and bushes are budding and if shouting at them could make the fruit appear any faster I’d be out there day and night cheering them on.
Folks, the time is upon us. We now have an extra hour of daylight, the seed packets are arriving and I’m in a dither to start growing the best tasting food, ever! My manicure has been looking way to polished from months of dirt deprivation and I can happily report that my hands are starting to look a shambles (as nature intended) after today.
There are only three months left to Fresh Blueberry Pie! What are you hankering for the most?
No one with a heart beating in their chest could possibly look at this picture and think, “Man, do they look delicious!” I grew up in the era where little children ran around with rabbit’s feet for good luck and did not think my fellow grade-schoolers barbarians. I actually coveted the rabbit fur coat of friend and not once imagined the skinning of these creatures as part of the process. Yet when the thought of eating rabbits hits, I am positively overcome with sadness and revulsion. A quick recap, you can carry their feet out of superstition and wear their lovely fur and I’m fine with it. Eat them and I freak out.
Our friend, Chris, who is Mr. Sustainable, surprised us with a cooler full of wonderful meat from his farm this summer. Grass-fed,hormone-free beef, free-range chicken and you guessed, one little bunny. I was delighted for the the beef and poultry but the bunny? I tried to give it back. Ignoring my protestations of, “But I won’t eat it. I won’t even cook it. You monster!” He informed me that I was no kind of pioneer if I could not eat a rabbit. He doesn’t call them bunnies, which probably makes it easier for him, heathen.
According to WeEatRoadKill.com (not a real site), bunny tastes a lot like chicken. The question lingers, why not just eat chicken then? We are already used to eating chicken, why branch out? The smarty pants response is, what if chickens weren’t available? What if the only thing around was rabbit? My answer: what if horses fly and leave gigantic piles of poop on top of my house? Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, hmm?
Yet I take this whole bunny in my freezer thing as a personal challenge to prove my worth as a woman of the earth, pioneer stock if you will. You could double dog dare me to eat it but I wouldn’t budge but challenge my grit and I’m pissed. How am I going to do it? I think I’d have an easier time eating my neighbor’s guinea pigs, cause let’s face it, they aren’t “bunny” cute. Don’t panic Jen, I won’t eat them, I’m just saying…
Sometimes, for the sheer entertainment factor, I try to imagine what real pioneers would have made of our modern conveniences.
One of my favorite imaginings is showing up on the prairie with a Jumparoo, that magical piece of equipment deemed a necessity for the modern baby. The Jumparoo allowed me to exhaust my baby whilst doing important things like loading the dishwasher, running the vacuum or taking a bubble bath ( I brought the Jumparoo into the bathroom with me… genius, I know). A real pioneer mom could have made bread for the week, hauled water, fed the animals and killed a chicken without worrying that her baby would accidentally crawl into a flaming hearth. In fact, had they had the Jumparoo on their wagons as they climbed the Rockies, I venture to guess they would have dumped their grandma’s china beside the road before letting go of what could have been a very important part of pioneer motherhood.
Can you imagine what the pioneers would have made of modern grocery stores, where Cheetos, candy bars and laundry soap abound? The sheer shock and awe that we as a society treat such things as commonplace would certainly overwhelm. Not to mention how much easier their lives would have been with sanitary supplies, toilet paper, Vicks vapor rub, Tylenol and Zoloft.
Last weekend, we took the girls to Super Bounce in Salem for a birthday party. I had not yet experienced the wonders of such a place and was momentarily struck mute by what my eyes beheld. Actually, my first thought was, no effin WAY! My second was that of envy as I wouldn’t be allowed to climb up and whiz down that super-amazing slide. And finally, my third thought; the real pioneers would have crapped their pants to think that in a matter of a century, their future kin would be jumping around in over-sized blow up contraptions. With their everyday survival, who would ever have the time, money, inclination to build something so outrageous just to entertain children? Children, who in their time, would be needed to work as soon as they could walk to help keep the family alive.
Ah, the joys of modern pioneering! While we yearn to get back to the earth, and we are, we are still fully relishing the convenience of raising our children in the modern world. Here’s to being a New Pioneer and not a real one.
We currently have an old friend visiting us from California. It is food for our souls to be together again, reminiscing of old times and planning future adventures.
Beth, who grew up in California, has been updating us on the drought situation there. We are bemoaning the aspects of drought we already know about; crop failure being the most worrisome. Anyone can live without a beautiful green lawn. We had to our last year in California and were only allowed to water our lawns for twenty minutes once a week. Why bother. But now it’s not just lawns that are affected. Now, it’s our very food source. California supplies nearly fifty percent of fruit and vegetables for the whole country. Being that the Golden State is now the driest it’s been in a hundred years, this is seriously going to affect produce supply and costs.
What we haven’t heard about before was what is happening in towns where the water is already running dry. Beth lives in such a town. On the surface it is a beautiful little artists community in the San Gabriel Mountains; a place anyone would want to live and raise a family. Yet several months ago her town had to change its water source because of the drought. Where is the new water coming from? Don’t know. What we do know is that the water is coming out of the tap yellow.We were shocked to hear this. How can you palm off yellow tap water to a whole town without people freaking out? We asked her what the local paper is saying and what the town officials are saying. Here’s the party line, “The water, while yellow, is perfectly safe. Just don’t give it to your animals.” What?! It’s shades of West Virginia with the small exception that this has been going on for months with no foreseeable end in sight. Don’t give it to your animals! Why? How can you cook, bath and drink water that is unsafe for your animals?
What I know is this.California was not named The Golden State because the tap water was yellow, until now.