Thursday, September 24, 2009 by Hodding.

“Hi, Hodding. I need a favor,” the desperate housewife blurted out suddenly, her voice husky with need.

“It’s gonna cost you. Big time,” I replied just as quickly, seizing this unexpected opportunity. It didn’t matter what she desired. I knew I could deliver—and get what I needed in return.

She giggled—was it nervousness or confidence? Impossible to tell over the phone—before revealing what she had in mind. Apparently, she’d been waiting for quite some time.

When she was done, I hesitated a good 30 seconds before responding, hoping to gain the upper hand. “I want a gallon of milk. One-and-a-half percent—not just any old kind. By tomorrow, or it’s no deal. Annnnnd … a box of Froot Loops. Got it? Otherwise, Madeline [her daughter, who I coach on the Y swim team] will not be excused from Monday practices, clarinet lessons or no clarinet lessons. Understand?”

Both the milk and cereal were delivered by hand the very next morning.

God, I love bartering, and, to my happy surprise, so does everyone else. We’ve made four or five exchanges in the past week alone (How was I to know we’d consume five pounds of butter in less than two weeks? What kind of family does that?), and I just heard from someone who wants turnips. Perfect. We’ve got so many turnips that I’d been thinking about using them as landfill.

Until our friend Polly emailed me recently saying she’d be happy to bring over some half-and-half in exchange for chicken poop, I’d been ready to throw in the towel on our zero-spending experiment. Last week, I complained how I couldn’t drink coffee because we’d run out of half-and-half, and even though we had plenty left over after making cod chowder, I have a suspicion that much of that went to feeding the new kitten.

Knowing we needed more than cream, I expounded at length on how great our chicken poop was and how it was worth much more than a mere quart of half-and-half. In the end, Polly brought over three pints of designer coffee ice cream; a fresh, ripe pineapple; both frozen and bottled juices; milk; and the aforementioned cream. When we gave her a five-gallon bucket of manure in return, she flashed the biggest I-just-made-a-killing smile I’ve ever seen.

It’s uncanny. We run out of something, and, the next thing you know, somebody who has heard that we’re fledgling barterers calls for a different something we have too much of—like turnips. It just keeps growing and growing, and I think it’s because bartering is this natural, age-old instinct that stubbornly refuses to die, even after decades of cookie-cutter shopping. All it takes is just one bartering exchange, and you just can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

The only problem I have is, how many turnips equal a pint of fancy coffee ice cream? Some jerk was so overwhelmed with barter-induced fervor that he ate the entire last pint in the house while his wife and children trustingly watched a movie.

Frugal Tip of the Week

Our kids were bumming out today from a lack of junk food, so we whipped up a batch of homemade tortillas, chapatis, whatever-you-want-to-call-them. A bag of eight can cost anywhere from $2.50 to $5, but making an equal amount at home only takes around 3 1/2 cups flour, 1 1/2 cups water, 1 tablespoon olive oil, and 2 to 3 teaspoons salt, at a fraction of the cost. Make the dough just as you would no-knead bread (slightly drier than usual so you can handle it), roll the dough into just larger than golf-ball-size shapes in your hands, and then either roll out with a pin or use a tortilla press. We have an electric tortilla press, which is a modern marvel. After slightly cooking them in the press, I put them directly over an open flame on the stovetop and flip them over a few times with tongs until they’re lightly browned (or charred, if I mess up). The kids down them, hot off the fire, like candy for breakfast, at lunch, and after school. Better yet, double the recipe, and, after making the tortillas, cut them into small wedges, coat lightly with olive oil, and toast in the oven at 375°F until they’re the desired color and texture—about five minutes for my family. Even if you don’t have a tortilla press (electric or not), give this a try because they don’t have to be shaped perfectly, especially if you turn them into chips.

Photograph by W. HODDING CARTER

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Thursday, September 17, 2009 by Hodding.

As each day reduces our stock faster than we had planned, our cupboards do not runneth over. We did not go out and buy enough of what we consider to be essentials to carry us through the entire four weeks; that wasn’t the point. But I must admit, since each day seems to require more and more ingenuity to craft a tasty meal and provide the kids with what they need, I sort of wish we had. While we have enough protein—as well as fats, grains, and vegetables—to last much longer than a month, more than two weeks in, we’re losing the kids. They’re not complaining, but when they ask for something that we might usually have for a treat—squeezable yogurts, for example—and Lisa or I say they’re all gone, they go screaming from the room, tears flowing, raving something along the lines of, “I can’t stand it! This was the dumbest idea in the world!! I hate you! I hate you!”

Oh, wait, that was me, when I realized that not only had we run out of half-and-half, horror of all horrors, but the substitute—condensed milk—was practically gone as well. I can’t wait for October. It’s not just the h-and-h issue. I like variety, the spice of life, even the kind allowed on a frugal budget.

I guess that’s why the phone message from my friend George almost brought me to tears. Okay, that isn’t quite true: It did bring me to tears.

“Hodding, I’ve got a proposition for you,” George had said. “It concerns food. Lots of free food, and all you have to do is call me back. Come on, Hodding. I know you can’t pass this up. But it has to be now—not the usual two or three days it takes you for to call me back.”

Okay, so maybe I’m not all that prompt at returning calls. I used to be—before the kids got older and seemed to need my time even when they weren’t around, before we had two warring chicken flocks that were always trying to cross the demilitarized zone, before the new kitten took to waking me up at all hours with a flying leap to my blissfully unconscious skull, before ….

Anyway, I called him back immediately, and, ignoring his shocked demeanor, pressed for details. I was not disappointed. He had cod—almost 70 pounds—and he needed help in processing it. He knew I’d been obsessed with smoking fish a couple of years ago, and was up for anything when it comes to food.

While I’d rather George had caught a species less threatened than Atlantic cod, he did use hook and line, which, unlike other methods, doesn’t destroy fish habitat, lead to overfishing, or kill bycatch. Greenpeace, via an animated fish singing like Amy Winehouse, reminds us that, “The only fish that’s fine … is caught on a hook and line. They try to sell orange roughy, but we say no, no, no.”

With Mark Kurlansky’s Cod as our bible and A. J. McClane’s Encyclopedia of Fish Cookery in reserve, for the next 24 hours we smoked, chowdered, salted, and made pâté to our hearts’ content. It’s amazing, in fact, what you can do with a fish when you really put your mind to it. To celebrate our ingenuity (and ensure nothing was wasted), George also decided to host an impromptu cod fry.

But what does all this have to do with needing half-and-half for my coffee, you might wonder? Well, the chowder idea was mine. One of the essential ingredients—of the New England variety, at least—is cream, which is what I suggested when people started asking what they could bring. “But make it half-and half,” I added. “We don’t want to clog anyone’s arteries, right?”

So thoughtful.

Sadly, they brought too much. George suggested I take home the extra.

Now, we just need somebody to throw a yogurt party.

Frugal Tip of the Week

If you’ve gone way overboard (like deciding to spend no money for an entire month) and are using candles to read by at night, make them last longer by freezing them. Once this month is over, we’re going to make our own candles—yes, I’ll write about it—and then compare frozen ones to unfrozen ones to see how much of a difference there really is.

Photograph by W. HODDING CARTER

Posted in Extreme Frugality | 1 Comment »

Thursday, September 10, 2009 by Hodding.

Ah!!!! One week down and so far, I’m happy to report it’s been a total success. I haven’t spent any money. Zip. Zero. Nada.

I can’t imagine the last time my whole family has gone an entire week without buying something. Oh, wait, I remember. Never.

That said, I don’t see how we’re going to make it until October 1. Although I bought two-and-a-half gallons of milk on August 31, we ran out two days ago. I had planned to stock up on powdered milk but I just couldn’t do it, although not for the reason you might imagine: I’m convinced Angus never would have noticed as long as I chilled the water in the fridge and added a couple of tablespoons of Nestlé Nesquik to each glass. No, I didn’t go for it because—drum roll, please—it cost more per gallon than fresh milk. Go figure.

I was expecting this milk thing to be the breaking point. Chocolate milk, after all, is Angus’s favorite food group. It’s where he gets all his calcium, most of his protein, and quite a few needed calories. The first morning after running out, he asked for it repeatedly, and the same thing happened the next day. He gave up yesterday, and all is bliss, especially since I’ve found a friend who will barter milk for eggs.

On the other hand, fuel conservation isn’t going quite as smoothly. On Day 1, I only drove 5 miles. Day 2 topped out at 22 miles, with nary a blink from the fuel gauge. Day 3, I drove 35—thanks to two different soccer practices, a play-date, and a school meeting. Even so, I was using less gas per mile than usual, thanks to my new driving techniques and, more importantly, a newly acquired, more accurate sense of self-importance.

The first morning, as I pulled out of the drive and reflexively pushed down the accelerator to reach the speed limit—50 mph—when going to the Y, I just as quickly released the accelerator. What was the rush? I could get up to speed a few seconds slower and probably save some gas. I then very gradually brought the car up to speed, and repeated this slow-acceleration routine after each stop, arriving at the Y only one minute later than I would have. These days, I also slip into neutral at the slightest downhill grade, and have worked it out so I can coast the last mile home, complete the turn into our driveway at 20 mph, and make it to the end of our 200-foot-long driveway without any help from the engine². Psych!

A week later, though, the car I was driving³ the most is already under the half-tank mark, as is our other car, because Lisa has so far refused to change her driving habits; she continues to accelerate like an average American.

In other words, it looks like I’ll be using my bicycle even more than I anticipated. In fact, I just glanced at the seven-day forecast—clear skies, warm days—so this is ride-my-bike-almost-everywhere week. It’ll take longer to get places, but then again, what exactly was I going to do with all that extra time?

If anybody else is giving zero spending a try, by the way, please write in and let us know how it’s going. Personally, I’ve wanted to go to the grocery store almost every single day, and I have an ever-growing list of things that I might buy when the month is over. It’ll be interesting to see what I cross out after I’ve had some time to think it over.

Frugal Tip of the Week

Fall is my favorite time to forage, with nature offering up everything from apples in abandoned orchards to mushrooms in every patch of woods, but if you want a mostly free, vitamin-C-rich beverage, then track down the nearest staghorn sumac and make some tea. Don’t know a staghorn sumac tree from an oak? Well, at some point, sumacs were the darling of suburban landscapes. They can be found in practically every neighborhood and certainly along most highways—they’re those short trees with the bright red cones pointing skyward. Once you’ve made a positive i.d., grab a dozen of the cones (about 4 cups when separated from the stems) and scrape off the fruit. Pour a gallon of boiling water into a nonreactive container and steep the fruit until you get the flavor and color you prefer; ten minutes is about right for me. Strain the tea, add sugar (that’s where the mostly-free part comes in) and, perhaps, a sprig of mint, and enjoy. The taste is hard to describe—it’s like a tangy berry of some sort. Lisa and I learned all we know about sumac from Euell Gibbons’s Stalking the Wild Asparagus, which we used when we went on foraging dates in the early ’90s.

¹ Okay, “bliss” might be stretching things just a bit. We did, after all, have to get through a holiday weekend without a single trip to the grocery for last-minute picnic items. Also, since we entered our town’s annual free build-a-boat-in 24-hours contest—materials (two sheets of plywood, two tubes of caulk, one box of nails, two 2-by-4s, and four 1-by-3s) provided—we had to pass through town, and thus the store with slushies, numerous times. The first time Helen asked if she could have one, I looked at her like she’d lost her mind. When she asked again, I reminded her we weren’t buying anything. She looked surprised, then giggled and said, “Oops, I forgot.” Angus got into the act, claiming that he was going to die unless he had a slushy. Once we got home, to get things back to, or at least closer to, bliss, I quickly made slushies, using frozen kiwi-raspberry punch concentrate as the flavoring and sweetener. The kids claimed they were better than the ones at the store. And perhaps adding to our bliss, Lisa and I have gone through two bottles of mead with friends during this first week. And no one has made a this-is-yucky face yet.

² The first time I tried this, I had to fight the impulse to go back into Drive when I noticed my speed slipping from 49 mph to 44. Then in the driveway, when I was creeping along at 5 mph, it was a struggle not to go into gear so I could get home 20 seconds sooner. I’m not exaggerating: It’s funny how important we think we are. What was I going to do with those extra 20 seconds? Save the world? No, in all honesty, I’m guessing I would have plopped down at my computer and take one more look at wunderground.com.

³ Not “my car.” Our family’s vehicular fleet operates under a communist system in which neither car belongs to either of the two drivers. That has its bonuses and drawbacks. One plus: You can always blame the mess on the other driver. Minus: When you’re trying to save money on gas, the other driver can negate all your hard-won conservation in a single acceleration.

Photograph by W. HODDING CARTER

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Thursday, September 3, 2009 by Hodding.

Usually when I split firewood—as I was doing this morning after seeing all four kids off to their first day of school—I enter a peaceful, sweaty zone where everything becomes clear and life seems like an easy jigsaw puzzle. I work my tail off, and, in return, gain some much-needed clarity.

Not today—at least, not at first.

Instead, with every successive swing of my eight-pound maul, I grew more and more confused. Why was I talking about painting our living room, even bringing home color chips from the hardware store, if we’re swearing off all purchases for an entire month? When I told Lisa I was having a hard time choosing between “Itsy Bitsy Bikini” yellow ¹ or “Wild Blue Yonder” blue, she shot me a look that immediately caused me to assume a defensive position. Since the kids were present, she didn’t let me have it the way she should have, but, all the same, I quickly lost interest in a new paint job.

But where had Home Improvement Hod come from, I wondered?

I split another 24-inch-long chunk of bartered oak², and Angus’s worried, anxious face floated into my mind. About half an hour earlier, I’d been driving him to his first day of first grade when he croaked, on the verge of tears, “Why does Mom have to work?” Lisa had lingered at home longer than she should have and was now racing to court in Belfast, 30 minutes away. Judges do not like being stood up.

Boing. The maul bounced off green-hard wood. What? It didn’t split? I’m One-Swing Charlie. This doesn’t happen to me! I swung again and it bounced off, again. I really don’t want to tell Lisa that Angus and I were a minute late and that he wouldn’t even look at me to say good-bye. He was so completely absorbed in doing the right thing in front of the rest of the class. Is that why this wood isn’t splitting?

When I had tried to answer Angus’s question about his mom, he jumped ahead to an even tougher subject. After all, he knew why his mom was working. Somebody in our family has to make enough for us to get by on. “Why does anybody have to work?” he asked. “Who started that? Why’d they do it?”

My answer ran, something along the lines of “Well, at first, people just shared. Next, some genius thought of bartering. You know, like how we got the firewood for eggs ….” And that is when, thank God, he lost interest and told me he knew he had friends waiting at school, concluding, “I’ll be okay.”

But as I finally split that piece of oak in two, then split it again, I got back to Angus’s second question, remembering that his sister Eliza had asked me a similar question this past weekend, somewhat angrily. “Why does it cost money to eat? It doesn’t make sense that it costs money, does it?”

I’d agreed with her because it doesn’t, does it? As I continued splitting wood and feeling less and less satisfied, I realized I didn’t want to paint my living room or even spend this next month doing everything humanly possible not to spend money. What I really wanted to do is sell the house, buy a big sailboat, and refuse to take part in all this madness, except for buying food at port-of-call after port-of-call.

I felt great for a dozen or more swings, until I reminded myself that I would still be paying to do something we have to do if we want to be living, breathing human beings. It was about then that I went into a wood-splitting frenzy, whacking pieces that were laying on their side, whacking ones right beside my shin, whacking pieces simply to keep moving—hoping, I guess, for some kind of wood-whacking answer.

Eventually, it happened: Maybe the best thing, after all, was to stay at home as planned, not spend any money, and eat what we’d grown this summer—just for the month, or maybe a few weeks longer if our veggies held out—so we could feel almost-free for at least a short while.

I stood another piece of oak on end, squared my shoulders, and even before maul hit wood, I knew my wood-splittin’ zen was back in the palm of my hand.

Thunk!

And that’s when I realized the first day back at school wasn’t only hard for the kids.

Frugal Tip of the Week
Ethanol has been pushed down our fuel tanks as if it’s the Great Green Hope (which in itself is more than debatable) but it turns out to be one of the most harmful things imaginable for small engines. In a perfect world—that is, one without contaminants—where everyone’s gas tank is spotless and the ethanol is used the same day it’s bought, then it’s not such a bad fuel (besides lowering engine performance and increasing fuel consumption). But because ethanol has turned out to be highly corrosive and also highly water-sensitive, it must always be used with a stabilizer. Otherwise, it strips every bit of dirt and moisture out of your fuel tank and lines and sends it into your engine, which will then go into shock and decrease considerably in performance and/or die. Trust me, neither option is a good thing when you’re in the middle of felling a two-foot-thick oak tree, for instance, or are a family of six crossing a windswept bay in a small motorboat. So, remember, if you’ve decided to save money by doing things yourself, be sure to add stabilizer to your fuel tank every single time you fill up.

¹ Admittedly, I wasn’t really considering “Itsy Bitsy Bikini.” I just liked the name. Now, “Fuzzy Duckling,” on the other hand ….

² We got four cords of firewood by agreeing to deliver three dozen eggs a week—for a year.

Photograph by W. HODDING CARTER

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