Wednesday, May 19, 2010 by Hodding.

The above title is all I’m going to say about my long absence/abstinence from writing here.  Some pretty cool stuff is in the works regarding my writing and being frugal that partly explains neglecting my blogging duties BUT I can’t reveal them just yet.  I’m hoping next week.

In the meantime, I’d like to report that Lisa and I have been working until 9-10 at night to get our various gardens in.  Literally.  And the thing that kills me is when I stop by a friend’s house to pick up a bicycle Angus has left behind (along with his scooter, baseball glove and muddy clothing) she has immaculate raised-beds all lined up in neat little rows AND, worst of all, not only are her sugar snaps a good 18-inches tall but she even has pole beans beginning to wrap their way around her perfect, plastic-coated metal poles shaped like a tee-pee.  What the hell?  There’s not even a speck of dust on the hemlock boards that she made the raised beds out of.  Even her weeds are trimmed back…well, ok, she doesn’t have weeds but if she did, they’d be looking sharp, I know it.

Then there’s us: garden plots that look like battlefields, dirt not only spilling out of the gardens’ borders but also littering the inside of our home (along with bits of horse manure we retrieved from our doctor’s backyard), and not a single plant emerging–except for the 200 or so strawberry plants that were already there.  Our living room looks like something Lewis Carroll* might have dreamed up with florescent bulbs resting on paint cans lining our dinner table so our precious baby seedlings will grow big and strong, despite the fact we began most of them about a month late (the baby tomatoes are looking mighty good, though, since I re-planted them up to their necks [bottom leaves]). And at least half a dozen of our hens’ backs are so red and irritated–and are missing so many feathers thanks to a certain roosters talons–that I’m considering filing rape charges against Snowflake, our rooster.  Eliza, in fact, has begun to ask me on a daily basis, “Will you please kill him today, dad.  Please  I hate him.”  Who knew roosters were so violent?  I am going to do away with him and the only reason I haven’t yet done so is that I want to incubate another dozen or so eggs.  I just keep forgetting to set up the incubator.

Maybe going public will urge me into action?

Ok, so we’re a bit messy, way behind our fellow vegetable-growers and are harboring a criminal but, hey, how about those falafel sandwiches and mint-lime slushies we just had?  As my loyal readers know, my downfall was my stomach and my taste buds.     I lived to eat something new, delicious and, more often than not, expensive and I fed this habit by eating out 2-3 times a week–or more, if you count those coffee-and-a-muffin mornings.  So, to pull off this frugal living, the one thing I had to still do was make sure we ate as well as–or better than–we did while being spendthrifts.  Boy, did we succeed the past few days.

On Monday afternoon as we shopped for milk, cheese and a few other essentials, Eliza announced, apropo of nothing, “I want some falafel.”

Huh?  This was a total surprise.

Don’t get me wrong, though.  I was happy it wasn’t, “Dad, I want to get my nose pierced.”  Or, even worse,  “Dad, I’m pregnant and my boyfriend and I are running away to the circus.” (She’s 14 and I’m totally not ready for either statement.)  It’s just that we’ve only made falafel 2-3 times her whole life and I didn’t think she really knew what falafel was.

Thank God I was wrong.  The thing I miss the most sometimes, when mostly-never eating out, that is,  is fulfilling my taste cravings.  I especially miss street food along the lines of Chinese pork buns, chicken shawarma in a pita, grilled baby octopus (northern Thailand, of all places), roasted maize sprinkled with chili and lime, etc.  Strong, mouth-watering bits that transport one’s culinary soul.

So in steps Eliza’s falafel.  As some of you may already know, the falafel themselves are fairly easy to make and tasty but are nowhere near where the excitement is.  Mix together some shopped up chickpeas, matzo, and spices.  Roll the mess into balls, deep fry for 2-3 minutes (in my case, said frying takes place in our garage; Lisa HATES the smell of fried food so she bought me a commercial fryer a while back that I’m supposed to use out there–which works for both of us because now that I don’t ever have to hesitate when wanting to fry!) and they’re good to go.  It’s what you put on the falfael, inside the pita, that makes this a transformative experience.  And our sauces did not fail: creamy, full-fat Greek yogurt cucumber sauce with fresh mint plus a sublime, sinfully smooth-and-nutty tahini sauce.  One bite and we were transported to the Mid East–although there was a short detour when Helen, 12, asked if these were also popular in the South.  Turned out she was confusing the US’s midwest with the Mid East.

Thirsty, we whipped up a batch of mint-lime slushies (Angus, 7, wanted the slushies and Anabel, 14, suggested the mint), using store-brand frozen limeade concentrate, ice, and some more of the fresh mint.   Helen, 12, by the way, had no part in the making of any of this because she is doing two sports this season–track and field and soccer–and has no energy to do anything at home besides moan and groan.

Gotta go–just writing about it all makes me want to do the entire meal all over again.  I’ll try and post some photos later.

*By the way, despite the assertion of those in favor of recreational-drug usage, Lewis Carroll (given name Charles Dodgson) was apparently not a drug addict and was also not high on anything while writing Alice in Wonderland.

Posted in Frugal Cooking, Frugal dish, Gardening, Hens, Roosters | 17 Comments »

Thursday, November 19, 2009 by Hodding.

Thanks for the comments, my steadfast readers.  My site host has a program that shows me how many unique visits I get.  Surprisingly, even though I hadn’t written in 3 weeks (was it really that long?), nearly 500 people were checking in every day.  It says that those roughly 500 are different web-surfers than the 500 who checked in the day before.  I find that both flattering and difficult to believe.  I’m sure I’m reading the analysis incorrectly because it also appears to be saying that in the first week or so, nearly 8,000 different, “unique” visitors stopped by.  I MUST be misunderstanding the information.  If that many people were following along as my family groped its way toward financial maturity on the Gourmet website, I’m sure Conde Nast would have paid me much, much more for my weekly column.  Otherwise, it would seem they were taking advantage of my desperate situation, right?  (Ok, I’m only having fun at the media giant’s expense.  It compensated me just fine considering how little we were, and are, trying to live on–although I wouldn’t mind being able to pay off larger chunks of our debt.)

Thank you for not giving up on us.  I will continue to blog.  We–Lisa, the kids and I–will continue to mess up.  We will try to entertain you with our constant attempts to improve the way we live.  And we will not give up–so please don’t give up on this lazy but humble chronicler.  Ok?

To those who care, Kirsten was right.  I did write yesterday morning’s update rather quickly.  In less than 5 minutes, to be precise.  I just wasn’t expecting to write and then it suddenly came gushing out, uncontrollably.  I guess my subconscious had gotten used to those weekly therapy/blog sessions (and yes,  I do feel better today as a result: lighter). Of course, it’s debatable whether or not that slap-dash blog is any good, or any of my writing, for that matter.  Certainly some of you out there don’t think so.  In fact, I googled myself late last night and found a bathroom-stall scrawler, er, I mean blogger who lives out west who absolutely abhors me.  She, and most of the others who express hatred for me (yes, they actually use words like “hate” and then, when refering to me, “ninny” and “poser” and “idiot” and “liar”), seem to hate the idea of me (well, maybe not me me but instead the “me” who I’ve allowed various publicists to create and put words in that me’s mouth) as well as how Gourmet and my publisher, Algonquin, promoted me.  I sort of get the latter–who wants to hear from yet one more writer who is Living a Year without _________? You can fill in the blank with whatever you want, and the funny, or annoying, depending on your outlook, thing is, it’s probably been done in the past few years–except maybe “A Year without Showers.”  I haven’t read about anyone who’s gone an entire year without washing and written about it–unless what’s his name didn’t shower when he was living biblically.  Now that I think about it, if he did shower then he cheated, right (Just joking–I hear it’s a great book.)?  But I’d buy a book by somebody who gave up on personal hygiene for a year, as long as he/she did things to get themselves good and stinky and then went out in public repeatedly.  I’d also like to see a chapter on deodorants and anti-perspirants.  Who sold us on all that useless cover-up crap?  Who decided regular body odors needed masking?  I’m guessing Americans didn’t start rubbing these ridiculous things under our arms until after the early 1940s (turns out I was right, at least when it comes to antiperspirants: a clever little aluminum-based b.o.-killer called Stopette was awarded a patent in 1941; you can buy a $238 book on the subject by Karl Laden or check out this Wikipedia entry, knowing the facts aren’t verified: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deodorant.).  Before that, lo and behold, people went to the workplace and their co-workers somehow “endured” their odor–for centuries and more.  Once again, much like the necessity of using credit cards, we were sold a concept–the odorless human–and then we readily bought into it.  I hope most of you reading this realized long ago that you can live happy, productive, and worthwhile lives even without sprucing up with a stroke of Old Spice, or Secret, every morning–and that you can even be attractive to someone else when you smell like yourself.  What a concept, huh?

Anyway, back to my original subject: It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve tried to set the record straight this past 15 months–the misinformation is caught in cyberspace and haters seem to stumble upon it no matter what.  But, again, just for the hell of it, I’ll repeat: we’re living this way–scaled back, credit-cardless, bartering, improvising, manure-shoveling, egg-producing, etc.–not for a book but because we finally faced reality.  And we’re going to continue living this way, continually tweaking the parameters and methods, forever, for one simple reason: It’s a better life.

And yes, Bev, it is Eliot Coleman.  I wrote “Evan,” right?  Sorry Mr. Coleman, if you ever see this.  Your books are great and your methods ground-breaking, and I made a misidentified you only because I was in a mad rush to get back out to the most glorious pile of composted manure that has ever existed.

Well, I’ve written this just as quickly–not counting the nodding off–as yesterday’s offering, and it’s still not the blog I want to write–that one is all about making cider from free apples and then there’s another one that is about my most recent batch of MEAD!  I’ll write those, and soon, but I also want to get my book finished for Algonquin so I can figure out exactly what we’re doing.  See, I really only understand myself, those around me, and what I’m doing, when I write.  In fact, that is why I write.

Posted in writing, history of deodorants, Perfect manure, Life, Gardening | 15 Comments »

Tuesday, November 17, 2009 by Hodding.

I promise I am posting an entry later today… well, tonight most likely.  I have no excuses beyond the fact that swim season has begun.  I’m the head coach and now have 80 swimmers.  We only had 40 when I began coaching two years ago.

I’ve also been overwhelmed with fall-type mini-farm chores.  It’s amazing how long it takes to distribute 3 (8 X 5 X 3) trailer-loads of composted horse manure.  Yes, you read it correctly.  Lisa and I did strike the motherlode of perfect, ready-for-planting horse poop!  A few weeks ago I casually mentioned (be careful what you casually mention, considering my very tired back) to our family doctor that I was looking for a greenhouse.  I’m not sure why I told him.  he live sin town and certainly doesn’t have the time for hobby-planting.  Well, his eyes lit up, his face said, “Ah, a sucker at last!” and he gushed, “Yes, Hodding, I do.  We have a greenhouse!”

He quickly got  controlled himself, though, and continued in a carefully controlled manner: “Uh-hhhmmmm. My wife and I just might have what you are looking for.  I’ll have to check with her to make sure she really doesn’t want it anymore.  I’ll call you later in the week.”

Ok, ok.  He didn’t really get a hold of himself.  Instead, he made it very clear that he would do just about anything if I were to take it off his hands and even admitted that it was a bit beat up.  I told him I didn’t care.  It’d be a starter greenhouse and how could I be choosy?  He was giving it to us.

Sensing this was “my moment” I went fro broke and asked him for the other item we’re desperate for: “You don’t happen to know anyone who has some extra horse manure, do you?”

And that’s when he almost fainted.

“Well, let me see how I should put this, Jesus, my savior (ok, he didn’t say that but I could tell he was thinking it).  I should contain my utter glee at the thought that somebody wants to come over and remove even a smidgen of this accumulated waste but I can’t.  So, in short, yes, Hodding, I do have manure.  Way too much manure and you can take as much as you’d like.”

It turned out that the greenhouse has seen better days but I think I can get it up and nurturing again.  If not, I can use the metal pipes to make a roof for our various broken-down very small boats so they can be safely stored for the winter.  Thank Man for global warming! Tt’s been the warmest November in Maine that I’ve ever experienced and I’ve had extra weeks to winterize everything.

Back to my story: The greenhouse may or may not get us growing things this February but teh manure.  I’ve never seen such perfect, aged manure my entire life.  Admittedly, I’ve never been on the lookout for quality, aged manure until now but even so, even subconsciously, I’ve never seen such perfect, fluffy aerated garden-candy (should I trademark nickname?  Lisa?).  As I waded past the mounds of fresh, greenish briquets of horse manure to stab what looked like a mound of topsoil, I furtively glanced around to make sure nobody else was witness to my discovery.  When my shovel entered the mound like it was stabbing a hill of popcorn I actually squealed with delight.  This was it!  The gift from heaven that I’d been hoping for.  With this mother-nature-processed poop, our gardens are going to make leaps and bounds into a totally different, higher class of gardens.  I wanted to shout for joy–and did, of course–but then I got back to loading up the trailer.  Boy, if there’s one thing a lifetime of writing has prepared me for it’s shoveling shit.  I scooped the poop for two hours straight (and am going back for more as soon as I’m done writing this.  I don’t think I could ever get tired of doing it.).

With this poop, Lisa and I will enter the realm of–dare, I say it? yes, yes, I do.  this manure is simply too superior not to crow a bit.  With this poop, Lisa and I will rival Evan Coleman, the current reigning king of all that human’s grow.

Yeah, okay.  I just went too far but I’m so excited.  I can’t wait to post pictures of what we grow next spring and summer with this stuff.

Now if I could only get that greenhouse back together…

Postscript:  Like I said at the top, I promise I’ll make an entry later tonight.

Posted in Frugal winterizing, Perfect manure, Extreme Frugality, Gardening, Hens | 9 Comments »

Thursday, July 16, 2009 by Hodding.

Ahhh, the life of the frugal subsistence gardener. Wake at the break of day—not by alarm clock but from an internal synchronicity with nature or perhaps the crow of a rooster. The early, ethereal rays of sunshine don’t just light a path to the lower vegetable plot but dance beside you, leaping and bouncing from dew drop to dew drop. You are one with the soil, and fear not the bank statement. That’s the way it is for some of our fellow frugalistas. I know it is. But it’s definitely not the Way of the Carters.

“Mom! Dad!” Anabel screamed from her upstairs bedroom Tuesday morning. “There’s something gross all over my room! Help!” And then a few seconds later: “Something’s definitely wrong with the kitten!”

Punctuating her screams was a repeated, “Tap! Tap! Tap!” originating from somewhere between her and me.*

I would’ve gone to help Anabel clean up the mess but at that same moment, Lisa came bursting into the house, a basket of eggs swinging from her wrist. “Hodding. We’ve got to do something about the tomatoes. They’re dying. The blight is back!”

“You’re on your own, big girl,” I called up to Anabel. Blight trumps scat any day. “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

This summer has been the wettest summer on record since 1914. I’m not sure what happens to most vegetable gardens in Seattle, but here in New England, our peppers, corn, tomatoes, and basil don’t take kindly to non-stop Wet Willies. The 67 tomato plants (plus another dozen of varying strains that Lisa got on sale) that I nurtured from seeds and carried in and out of the house all spring long to soak up sun in the day and stay warm at night are under attack. Their leaves get brown spots, turn yellow, and finally wither away, taking entire branches with them. According to the news, a certain Alabama nursery sent out seedlings infected with “late blight” to big-box stores all over the northeast. Evidently, one or more of the 12 plants Lisa purchased delivered what’s taking us down—along with my fellow Gourmet writer, Nanette Maxim. Even if Lisa hadn’t bought one of these infected plants, we probably would’ve gotten the blight anyway, since the fungus can travel two to three miles by air.

Forgetting the sick cat in Anabel’s room for the moment, I dashed outside, scissors and plastic bag as my weapons, and began snipping midstride. The blight…must…die! I will not lose my precious babies to a mere fungus. Those aphids earlier on were one thing, but a fungus? No way! (This was before I learned I’m supposed to pull up the entire plant and dispose of them in sealed plastic bags. Ahhggg! Guess we won’t be canning tomatoes after all, and we’ve started spraying the potatoes since “late blight” is what caused the infamous Irish potato famine.)

“Mom! Mom! Mom! Dad!” Angus suddenly started screaming. I figured he needed a boost on his hand-me-down bike that’s just a little too tall for him so I kept my head down to let Lisa handle this one; it wasn’t an emergency. “The chickens are loose!”

I dropped the scissors and quickly herded the escapees back into the pen, immediately cursing that I was wearing a bright red shirt. Snowflake doesn’t like red. He flew at my chest, pecking and scratching even before landing.

Stumbling backwards out the door, I squashed an egg mid-retreat. When will Stella learn to lay her eggs in the nesting boxes like all 18 of her sisters?

Almost back to the besieged tomatoes, I wondered when things had gotten so crazy and if it was okay to drink mead so early in the morning? My rationalization being that the mead had only been fermenting for a month (I tossed out the first batch that would’ve been a couple months old by now, because it tasted like burnt vinegar) and was therefore fairly weak. Lisa called from the lower garden: “There’re slugs everywhere! All over the potatoes! What should I do? Get some beer?”

Slugs, like thirsty frat boys, will crawl into Bud-filled containers and die what I assume is a very happy death.

“Smash them!” I scream back. “Kill them, now! We have not yet begun to fight!”

*The tapping from upstairs and the mess in Anabel’s room had a single source: an escaped 6-week-old chick that had evidently sneaked inside. Since we’d been away visiting family the previous night, it’d actually been home alone for 24 hours. Although I’m still not sure how it got from the closed garage to the inside of our house, I was finally prompted to move the chicks outside. They’re now living under an overturned (ruined) dinghy inside our trash trailer. They can’t be directly integrated with our existing flock or the older hens will literally tear them apart. We know this because our friends tried such a thing and now have a few less chicks. We’re supposed to move them into the elder hens’ house one at a time, at night when the old ladies are roosting. Supposedly, when the old hens wake up in the morning, they don’t realize the new, young hen doesn’t belong. I want to write “I wonder if the same thing would work with wives?” but know I can’t because not everyone would know I’m not doing it to offend but simply because I had to. It’s like dropping spit from a bridge or from up in a tree. You just got to do it. Right?

Frugal Tip of the Week
Don’t waste your money on shaving cream. Simply lather your hands or washcloth with a favorite soap and then add a dollop of body lotion. Not only does it save money, but your skin will be less irritated—and you’ll know exactly what’s in your shaving potion. I even think I get a closer shave this way, too.

Posted in Extreme Frugality, Gardening | 1 Comment »