Making Do With What You Have

(image: Dadant Beekeeping Supplies)

Our grandparents could give all of us advice on how to Make Do With What You Have. In fact, I’m certain that 90 percent of you have already heard that lecture from your grandparents, or parents if they were the ones who went through The Great Depression and had to “Make Do, or Do Without.” At least that was the reason I always was given to understand all the things my grandmother had tucked away in her house. The storage drawer at the bottom of her old refrigerator was full of tidy balls of stray string and neatly folded paper grocery sacks. There were two drawers full of jar lids, a cabinet in the back porch full of little margarine tubs, a drawer full of clear glass pill bottles and carefully rinsed plastic straws, and in the storage room were stacks of strange, old fashioned high heel shoes she must have worn in earlier days.

I’m not exactly sure how useful most of this stuff would have been in an emergency, but you never know.

We tend to be a generation that, when we need something, we go and buy it. And then we throw the old one away, And really, that makes more sense today because of technology and the way things are made than it used to “in the old days.” But sometimes, sometimes we need, not want something. And we need it NOW, but we don’t have it. And that’s where a quick, outside-the-box-thinking mind saves the day.

Our family does Civil War Reenacting. Several years ago, the town of McCloud, in Northern California, used to put on a big Civil War Reenactment and show. The playing area was big and beautiful with the meadows, pine trees, and quaint town. My daughter Bethany, aka Red, was a cannoneer. The fighting was intense; the Rebs were giving them what-for, and the Red’s cannon was pulled by horse team to an advantageous knoll and dropped off. Their team of 5 artillerymen leaped to their stations to commence firing. As they released the implements, they looked in horror at empty water bucket, whose missing lid had caused all the water to splash out, and at the sponge, whose fleece tip had fallen off somewhere en route. The cannon drill requires that a wet, and then a dry sponge on a long rod be run down the cannon barrel between each round fired. All the cannoneers made the sacrifice and contributed water from their canteens to the water bucket. They pondered the missing sponge for a second or two, and then the gun sergeant made a personal sacrifice to come up with a serviceable substitute. I expect they were the only team out there that day using a blue-toed sock tied onto the pole with hay baling twine to sponge the tube.

Melinda, my eldest daughter enjoys horse endurance riding. She had been looking forward to riding in the Tevis 100 miles in 24 hours race for a long time, and had finally arrived. She and part of her team were setting up camp at Robie Park in Truckee on the eve of the race. A good night’s sleep was important, as she was preparing to be up the next day for 24 hours riding through some really rugged and dangerous trails. She pulled her little tent out to set it up. But… there were no tent stakes in the bag. And what resembles tent stakes to an uncanny degree? Screwdrivers! She extracted her brand-new set of Craftsman screwdrivers from the tool box and drove them through the tent rings into the ground!

I grew up in the beekeeping business. We all worked in it, from extracting honey to moving the boxes of empty and full combs on the hives out in the beeyards. We usually drove many miles to the different beeyards, often in remote locations. It was important that we had all the equipment we needed when we drove out. One very important item that couldn’t be done without was the veil. Each person needed one. It was basically a wire screen box that your head fit into, with fabric mesh at the top to fit onto your hat, and mesh at the bottom that tied around your neck, over your collar. This one day, a whole crew of us, my mom, my sisters, my brother and I went out to work in the beeyard putting empty combs on the beehives. When we finally arrived and sorted out the equipment, we saw in dismay that we were short one veil. It was unthinkable that one person should draw the lucky straw and sit in the cab or kick back in the shade while the rest toiled away, so we looked around us for a substitute.

I don’t know if they still make “Cool Cushions,” but at the time, we had them in every vehicle. They were two paddle-shaped plastic mesh sleeves hinged together in the middle with fabric. Inside the sleeves were coils of wire that kept your hot, sweaty bottom off the hot sweaty vinyl truck seat in the summer time. We took the Cool Cushion apart, pulled out the steel coils and tied one festively striped mesh sleeve around the head of one unlucky kid.

For years I would snicker every time I thought of how that had looked, like a giant walking fly swatter, or a person who got their head stuck in a big oven mitt. I would try to remember if we had used the less important back section or the hot, sweaty bottom section. But for some reason, I never had a real clear image of the actual ludicrous sight. Recently I had a good laugh with my sister, reminiscing over that episode and mentioned that I couldn’t remember who had actually worn the Cool Cushion. And then I found out why my memory of the sight was vague; it had been me.

Sayings

It seems to be the nature of humans to take ideas, core beliefs, and basic philosophies and condense their essence down to mottos and sayings, abbreviations and acronyms. The athlete says, “No pain without gain,” and the die-hard Bluegrass traditionalists say, “If it ain’t got a banjo, it ain’t Bluegrass!” A family returning home from a long trip may look around at the shabby surroundings and say sincerely, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” I’m not terribly fond of apples, but I believe there is truth in the saying, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” and so I find ways to crunch down on a Honeycrisp or Pink Lady every day or so.

Some time back I learned the difference between an abbreviation and an acronym. An abbreviation can be the initials of the main subject, such as I.R.S., the government organization we love to hate. Yesterday I read a little story about a father who used an abbreviation of words as a saying for his young son. Whenever the son was in a situation where he might lose his composure, become upset, or use bad judgment due to peer pressure, he should say the secret code word to himself: “Essie.” Essie would help the growing boy to cope with difficult situations and difficult people. Years later the boy realized that Essie was the way his father packaged the advice of “SC,” or self-control.

Acronyms are fun. They are when you take the first letters of the main object or saying and put them together to make a pronounceable word. Some acronyms started out as abbreviations and have actually become real words. Think of snafu and radar. “Situation normal; all f*ouled* up,” and “Radio detecting and ranging.” Some years ago when I was dieting, I wanted a saying or acronym to put it all together and inspire me. With much tortuous wordsmithing I came up with S.E.P.T.I.C, “Special eating plan to improve cuteness.”

Our family has developed various sayings over the years. When we say them, we don’t have to try to come up with the words to convey just the right meaning of what we are thinking; the saying does that. We all know what you mean when you say “When you work, WORK. When you play, PLAY!” When you are fixing the fence or stacking the firewood then put all your attention there. Work hard and steady, and get it done! And then, when you kick back with your musical instrument or get your horse ready for a ride, don’t worry about whether your stack was straight or keep taking breaks to go back to tighten the fencing.

One set of sayings that is particularly important to me is “Could’a, would’a, should’a,” and “What’s done’s done.” I have a bad habit of second-guessing myself and regretting what I should or shouldn’t have done.” Saying these to myself helps to put a bookend on that row of worry and second thoughts falling off the shelf of my mind.

When different members of the family were moving around, going to school, still trying to get settled, my sister gave this saying, “Where family is, that’s where home is.” My mother used to say, “Every unpleasant experience you have, if it doesn’t kill you, helps you learn something.” I loved how the exception for death was inserted!

The most profound statement in our family is also the most enigmatic. I can’t remember whether I introduced it to my mom after I read it somewhere, or if she told it to me after hearing about it. It is short, only three words. I was moved enough by this saying to put it in counted cross-stitch and frame it, one of only two cross-stitch projects I ever made. My mom hung it by her front door. It said, “It Doesn’t Matter.” When someone worried excessively over an insignificant problem, you could say, “It doesn’t matter,” and you didn’t have to explain your advice further. The saying wasn’t just words; it was a philosophy. Don’t fret and worry over the things that aren’t important in the scope of life, because they just don’t matter that much. Eventually we quit saying it; we just pointed up to it and smiled.

Years ago, the framed saying would go crooked, probably when someone shut the front door too hard. Picture straighteners can’t stand that state, so someone would jump up to slide the string on the back of the frame along the nail to make it level again. But one time I stopped my mother who had stepped over to fix it. “Mom,” I said solemnly, “Really, It Doesn’t Matter.” She stopped, laughed, and stepped back.

It hangs crooked to this day.

Friends, Family, Food

Ruby Tequila's in Amarillo Texas, coming back from our road trip to Oklahoma for the National Cavalry competition. October 2011.

Good food and drink multiplies the pleasure that friends have when they get together!

New Goals

New Goals

Do you clean, trim, and cut your vegetables all up before you begin making the Ratatouille? Do you read your instruction manual before you will even turn on your new digital camera? Do you do your homework before you read your book, clean out the fridge before you watch that DVD, get groceries before you sit down with a cup of tea and a cookie? Do you clean the living room before you play your banjo?

If you cannot identify with the examples I listed above, then I’m not talking to you. In fact, you can’t even understand what I’m talking about. And that probably includes anyone under 18 years of age. Delayed Gratification to them probably means having to wait another 2 weeks until their birthday.

If you can see yourself in my examples, then we share some personality characteristics. I can’t take a whole lot of credit for trying to get things done, be on time, be ready and prepared; they aren’t virtues, they’re really just more a part of what makes me feel good and be comfortable with what is going on with me. I like things to be tidy and uncluttered around me; I feel less distracted and more at ease. I become very disappointed in myself when things under my control don’t go just right.

These traits can serve a person well. One can become successful with a career, manage money prudently, keep on track with repairs around the house, save time by not running around at the last minute to pick up some essential groceries. A person can end up not being embarrassed over the state of the living room carpet when unexpected company comes by.

But often, and maybe even usually, the system breaks down. The groceries are in the clean fridge, the cat hair is off the couch, that medical issue was researched, dinner was ready on time, the clothes are ironed, the bills are paid, the special project—cleaning out the closet—is accomplished, and now it’s 10:00pm and I’m beat. The banjo is dusty, the new book is still unread, the sketchbook is still white and unmarked.

And tomorrow looks to be the same.

But it doesn’t have to be. I’ve always been a big proponent of periodically re-evaluating life and writing out what I want to see in mine, using a template of short, medium and long-range goals. (I’m a big fan of lists.) I’ve also spent a lot of time trying to persuade other people to enjoy life, to make time for the things they love doing; that’s what makes life worthwhile!

Now it’s become important for me to follow my own advice. Time is a precious element. It can’t be created, it can’t be destroyed; it just is, and there is only so much of it in existence in each person’s life. It’s time for me to let go of some things, change some things, add some things to my days and I’m looking forward to that.

I hope I'll be writing more, reading more, sketching more, and running more. I’ll be looking at my lists and my time and trying to do what makes life satisfying and worthwhile to me.

Kids Are Picky Eaters

Kids are picky eaters.

You may ask how I can make such a bold, confident statement. I have two impeccable qualifications: I was a kid, and I have four kids.

When I was a kid, I didn’t feel like I was an especially picky eater. It seemed that my few requirements wouldn’t be hard to meet. Number 1: No cooked carrots. Raw was fine; cooked was absolutely out of the question. Number 2: No cooked squash. I’m sure it would have been no raw squash either if I’d had an inkling something like that was actually consumed. We are talking about the zucchini type. I don’t think my mom ever graced the table with winter squash. Number 3: No food on the plate was ever allowed to touch another food that happened to be on the same plate. If that ever happened, then the contaminated ring of food was left alone, leaving my plate looking like a tropical sea with coral atolls surrounding melamine lagoons.

I still remember a rare test of wills at the table when I was probably 7 yrs old. My mom had placed a serving of cooked carrots on my plate and insisted that I eat at least some. I stood there looking at those carrots (for some reason I remember standing…) for a good half hour, knowing there was no way on God’s Green Earth I could eat even one piece. She did not harangue me; it wasn’t her way, but eventually let me go.

Ironically, I now really enjoy cooked carrots and barely tolerate raw ones.

When I was little, I loved Brussels sprouts, broccoli, cauliflower, green beans and could actually tolerate a “mess of greens.” But squash was absolutely out of the question. No, never, no way. My very favorite vegetable was fried okra, only we called it “okrey.” We would cut it off the stalk, Mom would slice it, roll it in Albers yellow cornmeal, and fry it in a cast iron skillet with Crisco. It would end up as crunchy green/black morsels flecked with cornmeal and glistening with grease. I adored fried okrey! Coming to the dinner table one evening, I was met by a strange platter of food in the middle. Some vegetable had been sliced long-ways into quarter-inch thick pieces, dredged in flour, fried, and laid out on a paper towel on the platter. It had green edges and a cream colored center. Mom always cut squash cross-ways, so I knew it couldn’t be that.

“What is this?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Fried okrey,” Mom said, calmly.

I cannot explain why I believed that, but I must have, because I ate it. And I liked it. I still didn’t like “squash” for another fifteen years, but now it shows up in my cooking almost every day during the season; steamed, stir-fried, casseroled, raw, etc.

Somehow, in the last 40 years, I have abandoned my “food no touch” rule. In fact, my favorite way to eat a meal is in a shallow bowl, where I can enjoy each serving as it mingles with the one next to it.

You’d think I’d be more tolerant of my own kids’ peculiar food notions. And maybe I was, a little. But one daughter has a story about where I made her eat carrots even though she pleaded she would throw up, which she remembers doing. We did make spaghetti accommodations for the other daughter by not mixing the sauce with the noodles so she could just have the noodles and parmesan cheese.

I don’t know the perfect way to handle a kid’s likes and dislikes, but my best guess would be a regular habit of offering, but not forcing, offering again, not forcing all through the growing up years. My son, the most picky eater of the bunch is now 18 years old. He used to enjoy about seven things: white bread (wheat bread had “shards” in it), peanut butter (but not on the bread—on a spoon), Tillamook medium cheddar cheese, broccoli (well-cooked), milk, dill pickles, and Spoon-sized Frosted Mini-Wheats, eaten dry. Over time, and without pressure, he has added many things to his preferred diet: bloody-rare steak, coffee, dried cranberries, Chinese Hot and Sour soup, tomatoes, Garlic Chicken pizza, and Honey Bunches of Oats, still eaten dry.

There are many things that we, the parents, thoroughly enjoy and believe our kids ought to also. Along with good food, we want them to like good music; Bluegrass, Mozart, The Chieftans, Old Time. We want them to consider choosing an occupation that pleases us. We want to share tastes in art, in cars.

But I think we should continue to follow the “food” model. Face it, have you ever really been able to make your kid eat anything? It is a battle that will always be won by the kid. And really, it would be a horrible thing to press your kids to join in a career that they didn’t like and only did to please the folks. I believe it is a real gift to give your kids the feeling that they are free to explore, enjoy and be what they want to be.

If you do want to encourage a preference, be patient; offer, don’t force. In time, you might be surprised at how the kids will come around to enjoying horseradish and Cezanne. And the kid who had no use for his parent’s music while young just might change his mind as time goes by.

"Cooky"

Last weekend I spent as “Cooky” to a very special group of people, the members of CHAS, the California Historical Artillery Society. CHAS sponsors and puts on an American Civil War reenactment and Living History event about the middle of July each year in Duncan’s Mills, about 30 minutes west of Santa Rosa along the Russian River.

Because this is our own event, and we are the hosts, not the guests of the other reenacting clubs, our turnout is high, though we are spread k tent. Somehow I had to satisfy an average of 40 hungry soldiers from Friday night through Sunday afternoon with food, beverage and snacks. Friday night I made the usual spaghetti dinner, cleaned up, set the cook tent in order and laid down to sleep in my nearby canvas A-tent, my alarm set for 5am. I knew that I would have to be on top of every step in the morning because it was crucial to be absolutely punctual for the meal-time. Officers Call was at 8, and breakfast was at 7:30am. And the worst was that my usual helper was handling the front gate. I was on my own!

I love the first half hour of the breakfast preparation. I crawl out of my sleeping bag while it is still a little dark and pull on my wool trousers, brogans, cotton shirt and shell jacket. I smooth down my wild hair with my wool forage cap. The sight that greets me outside the door of my tent is the lone horse watch sitting in front of the fire that has been kept going all night. Sometimes the horse watch is dozing with the cape of his greatcoat pulled over his head, sometimes he greets me with an offer of help.

The first task I must do is to make a big pot of coffee. I fill the 2 gallon pot with water from the water can and set it on to boil on the 3 burner propane stove we have hidden inside the cook tent. Two oil lamps light the well-stocked tent with a homey glow, and the burner heats up the chilly interior comfortably. Once the coffee is out and set on the campfire grate to keep warm, I can begin putting the breakfast together.

Today I am serving ham; sometimes I have sausages, sometimes I cook bacon. I have already cooked 2 ham halves at home and sliced them up. Now I fill up a Dutch oven with the slices and set them over the fire with coals heaped on top. In a cooler part of the fire, I set a Dutch oven filled with tortillas to slowly warm up. I have learned that a big pot of oatmeal will stay warm for a long time, so I like to get that cooked and out of the way early. After it is boiled up, I wrap the pot in a wool blanket and set it out on the planks we use as a serving board.

I try to have 2 kinds of fruit to set out; grapes are always popular, so I have brought a few pounds of those, and I rope a volunteer to cut up a pineapple that I have brought. Someone has donated a watermelon, so I get someone to cut that up also and put the pieces in a bowl.

I’m getting more volunteers for help now, and that’s a good thing because of the other breakfast tasks looming. Two large wash tubs have to be filled and set on the fire; one with wash water and one with rinse water, for everyone washes their own tin plates and utensils after they eat. The drinking water dispenser has to be filled so everyone can fill their canteens, and the hand washing station needs to be topped off with warm water and soap. In between, people are trying to give me their weekend chow bill payment so they won’t have to worry about it later.

Condiments and toppings, all poured and transferred into period correct containers, are being flung onto the serving board by me and by my volunteers. Milk and juice are set out in metal pitchers. The hot Dutch ovens are hefted up on the boards. The last 10 minutes before breakfast call are reserved for the eggs. It takes 10 minutes to scramble them to perfection, and when they are done, I’ll not have my eggs wait! Because of the crowd, I’ve decided to add another dozen and a half eggs to the usual flat of 5 dozen I cook. The big skillet is full of eggs with a half stick of butter to cook them in.

The eggs come out at 7:30 sharp and I ring the triangle. Right on time! For the moment I sit behind the boards in my chair drinking a cup of coffee, taking pleasure in the sight of folks filling their plates and enjoying their meal around the fire and in small clusters near tents and on sitting on “cracker boxes.”

It doesn’t take long for the food to disappear, and guys begin to head off to where they need to be, rolling rounds, Officers Call, the “sinks,” training session for the new drivers. So then I eat a little breakfast too and take a few minutes to relax before it is time to clean up. It won’t be long until I have to start getting the place ready for lunch, and I’m already thinking about how soon 11:30am will be here!

Fish and Chips at the Coast

Nothing says “The Coast” like seafood.

The Pismo and Morro Bay area is my favorite section of the California Coast. I’ll admit that could be because I haven’t been to any of the more southern beaches, but until then, I’ll pick the San Luis Obispo area.

We went to Pismo Beach or thereabouts about once a year when I was a kid. I can still see and smell and taste the evening there. We would be sitting around a low campfire, quietly talking, listing to stories from my dad. Mom would be in the camper, or over the Coleman stove getting dinner ready. Soon our plates were ready, with fresh boiled shrimp and cocktail sauce, a wedge of iceberg lettuce and a lemon slice, and maybe some cottage cheese.

For lunch the next day, we usually went by a fish and chips place. We didn’t have a favorite one; we liked to try different places. Clam chowder, fish and chips, steamer clams, those were the usual fare. We would always take a turn through Giovanni’s Fish Market and see the live crabs and rows of fresh fish behind the glass.

A couple weekends ago, I went to Pismo with 2 of my daughters. Even though I’d kept the tradition with my sisters and our kids, Melinda and Loreleigh hadn’t been since they were little. We had a nice little tent spot on the far edge of Pismo North Beach campground where we struck our three tents.

We made easy dinner, out of cans mostly, but did try to enjoy a little campfire. I’d brought some wood and kindling from home, but just couldn’t get it going! It smoked and sputtered all evening. I thought I had brought wood that was too green, but when the same wood burned brightly the next night, I realized that the misty fog was keeping the humidity too high for a good burn.

Morro Bay is a great place for a seafood lunch. We loaded up Bingo and Melinda’s puppy Tess and drove up there, just skating in before the lunch rush. One of the best things about Morro Bay is that the parking is free! We got a spot in the lot right across from the heart of the strip.

A digression: have you ever seen a ruder parking situation as the black pickup who takes up 4 (four!) parking spaces by covering the “four corners?” And it’s not like it was a new pristine paint job either!

Rose’s Landing seemed like a good place for lunch. The dog-friendly patio was perfect, with a great view of the bay, glass fronted to protect from the wind, and great service. The service surprised me, since it had been so bad the last time we were there. Obviously something had changed. The fish and chips were battered. I usually prefer a more breaded texture, but these were so hot and crisp and obviously seconds out of the fryer that they were very nice. The girls order clams and chips. Sometimes fried clam strips can be like rubber bands, but these were tender and flavorful. A little pricey, but a lovely lunch.

Afterwards we drove out to the Rock, climbed up on the “Do Not Enter” area to look down at the wild sea, which wasn’t particularly wild that day. Sometimes you can see the spray flying up over the top of the rocks, but not today. We parked at the lot looking up at the Strand to watch the windsurfers and a cute little “wind buggy” madly tearing up and down the beach.

Back at the campground, we gathered up beach blankets and books and took the dogs out to enjoy the sunset over the sea. It was hard to get settled for very long, since the tide was coming in, and Tess became a digging maniac.
She reminded me of “The Diggingest Dog,” a kid’s book that I hated but my children loved, so I had to read it over, and over, and over…

Later, back at the now merrily burning campfire, I opened a bottle of Rosa D’Oro Muscat Canelli for after-dinner glasses. A fruity sweet-tart wine, nice for a not-too-heavy dessert.

If I was allowed just one indulgence, I think I would spend it on cinnamon rolls, those big, yeasty spicy specialty bakery ones, with frosting and nuts. There is a shop in Pismo that sells those. We walked up the beach to town on our last morning for our cinnamon rolls from “Old West Cinnamon Rolls” bakery. Warm, nutty, cinnamony, but not cloyingly sweet. It’s a good thing I don’t live near this place!