Goodbye, garden

Hello, root cellar?

Okay... I can't take credit for the popcorn. 

Okay, not quite.  First off, this room is much too warm and dry to be a true root cellar.  Furthermore, it wouldn't be prudent to store jars in a damp place.  However, with a few modifications, such as adding a second door, insulating the inside walls, scooting the shelves out a couple of inches, and installing an air-intake pipe for ventilation, this room would be well on it's way to becoming a root cellar.

Funny that I know this kind of stuff.  Seems I've recently become obsessed with root cellars after reading this book: 

 My husband says this obsession makes me weird. My father says I was born three generations too late. I'd probably agree with both of them.  But how cool would it be to fill this basement storage room with bushels of apples, pounds of potatoes, heads of cabbage, and crates of carrots? Or is it just me?

How I've spent my summer vacation

If everything at the store came in such pretty jars as these, I'd be tempted to buy more canned foods.  Alas, since they insist on covering the beauty with ugly screaming labels, I'll just have to keep making my own!

 

 

From left: peach jam, kosher dills, chunky applesauce,
spaghetti sauce, plums, pear halves, pickled beets

Baby Season

And thus it begins.  Everyone is giving birth, or announcing a pregnancy, or about to give birth, or about to announce a pregnancy.

At least, that's how it feels.

To a woman who is desires to feel her womb filled with life, Facebook is an unmarked mine field.  If she spends enough time there, she's bound to stumble on something that triggers a flow of emotions, regardless of how hard she tries to keep it together. The longer she stays, the more she feels the weight of her own cross pressing into her shoulders, and the grief welling up inside until she feels she is alone in her sadness.

Lord, have mercy.  For in my ignorance, I heedlessly posted pictures and updates of my own pregnancy and newborn child, unaware of the effect they may have had on my own dear brothers and sisters in Christ. 

Lord, have mercy.  For now I understand.  Now I feel that weight and that grief, and now I struggle to do the very thing our Lord commands of us: rejoice with those who rejoice.

Lord, have mercy. For centered in myself, I want only the things of man, not God.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy.

Great Big Gobs

Generally, I'm fond of all things living.  I cringe when I have to kill an earwig, as creepy as they are.  I smile as the young calves frolic in the pasture behind the house, and sigh at the thought of eating them after a year of growth. 

But yesterday, I bought traps.  Vicious two-teethed traps designed to spring into action at the slightest trip.  Indeed, these things will probably rip a small creature in half, or break the leg of a dog- and I'm okay with that, even if that creature is somewhat cute.

Greasy, grimy, gopher. . . guts.

That creature is destroying my garden.  That creature is going to eat the roots of all my beans, tomatoes, and cucumbers; and they've only just begun to set fruit.

So I bought traps, and I learned how to set them.  I will put them in those nasty gopher holes, and I will flush the thing out with water.  Should I choose to come a hole that has no trap, I will be waiting with a shovel. 

For Ewe

I made a new friend. In fact, I made several new friends. We met at a lovely retreat, hosted by two dear women who write here.  What a blessed reminder of the life that is ours through Christ both here on earth, as we join together as His body to encourage and build one another up; and there in eternity, where the crosses we bear will be exchanged for robes of righteousness.

More seeds

In a moment of self-doubt, I planted more seeds.  Figuring I had killed off my germinating tomato seeds after forgetting to water them for a day or two, I decided I better plant some back-ups.  Exactly two days after I planted the second batch, the first batch started sprouting.  

I started twelve more tomatoes, and four more ground cherries. For those of you doing the math, that's twenty-eight tomatoes and eight ground cherries all together. If I'm doing my math correctly, that's about eighteen more tomato plants and four more ground cherry plants than I'll need.


Hopefully mason jars go on sale soon, because I'm going to need quite a few more for all the tomatoes I could be canning this summer.  Provided, of course, that the little plants do as well in the garden as they have on my kitchen floor.

Sounds like an idea for a 1960's horror flick. 

Broken again

I'd like to think that I'm mature enough in my faith to join with Mary in saying, "Be it done unto me."  That is, that I would accept the gifts God gives as they come, and not desire any other gift or blessings in life than the ones I have been given.  After all, I have been blessed richly with many gifts, including a child-a son!  A healthy, well-behaved, intelligent, polite son.  He brings joy to me and my husband; he is the delight of his grandparents.  He charms the elderly and young alike.   I'd like to think I am content with this, my family, and spend my days rejoicing in the blessings of the Lord.  Most days, I am content.

Still, so many other days, the longing for another child overwhelms me in a flash, and my joy is turned to mourning.  The grief is so deep my stomach caves in on itself, and I am consumed.  I yearn to bear life again, to feel the quickening and eventual weight of a child in my womb, and to memorize the features of a newborn child sleeping in my arms.

Perhaps I ought not be taken by surprise at how quickly a pregnancy announcement or newborn's photo can bring on this sudden change; and yet, I am.  Just when I think I have learned to be content, I find myself desiring more, weeping over my brokeness, and wondering why.

New Tricks

Had you told me three years that I'd be playing the piano for one the services during Holy Week at the church of my husband's first call, I would have laughed.  Three years ago, I didn't have a piano. Three years ago I couldn't play a single hymn. Three years ago, I wasn't able to envision a life without an infant clinging to me.

How things have changed.  Last year, my cousins gave us great-grandma's upright piano.  A few months ago, I started practicing hymns.  Somewhere in all that time, the infant grew up to be a much-less needy preschooler.  So I let him sit with someone else during the service, and I played for Good Friday.  And I'll play again for Sundays.  Maybe once I stop hitting so many wrong notes, I'll even learn to get my feet in the mix and give the organ a go.

Seed catalogues make me drool

In an effort to ignore all the snow I've seen in the last two weeks, I've planted seeds.  132 of them, to be exact.  One seed for each pod of an egg carton.  Mostly marigolds, but also several tomatoes, and a few ground cherries. 

I've also planned my garden plots, ordered (more) seeds, and started thinking about gathering all the recipes for all the canning I'll be doing this summer. 

Next week, I'll be building a trellis for peas, and sowing carrots.  Loads of carrots.

Preschool avarice

During one of his days at preschool, my son was prompted to make a New Year's resolution.  The teacher wrote up each child's resolution on a special paper, and posted it on the bulliten board.  Curious to know what he had said, I spent some time reading the board.  All of the kids decided they wanted to learn something- perhaps tying their shoes, writing their names without help, helping mom and dad with dishes or laundry- all of them, that is, except my son.  He doesn't want to learn anything.  He wants to "read more train books, and buy more things."

Sigh.

Advice from the other side

I met a dear woman at a pancake feed this past Sunday.  I am grateful to her for sharing with me some of the wisdom she had learned from her days of child-rearing.  I would do well to remember it.

"When your children are doing something that makes you want to die, turn your head; you'll feel better."

Indeed, I will feel better.   We all will feel better.

Merely bragging

As much as I'd like to have another kid running around my house, there are some good things about only having the one- such as having the time to work on something so amazingly awesome I'd play with it myself when he wasn't looking.




And I thought the guitar I made was cool.

All of the buildings were hand appliqued, the rest was done on machine.  I even attatched a pocket so when it's rolled up, the cars have a place to be stored.  Of course, there's a train depot, because in this house, trains rule.

I suppose I ought to point out that the gas pumps and car wash (the red strips in the bottom left are the "brushes." They didn't get smoothed down for the picture.), were not my idea.  I found them somewhere (or everywhere) on the great world-wide-web, but I can't determine where they originated.

50 Shades of Weird

Well I've gone and done it.  I took time today to write out preschool objectives for math and language arts, and started drafting lesson plans for next week.  Guess this means I've officially joined yet another "weird" circle- "The Homeschoolers."

Feel free to ignore me next time we're at the grocery store together.

X is for Xantham Gum?

I won my husband through pie. Buttery crust stuffed with thickly sliced apples, cinnamon warmth and a touch of nutmeg.  I suppose the pork roasts, mustard chicken, and meatloaves played some roll in all this, too, but I'm certain it was the pie that finally won him over.  Even now, I can win him over with some culinary delight- handbreaded fried chicken, the perfect taco seasoning, a winning rib rub, a steak sandwich with goat cheese, a pecan pie. 

I'm not about to claim I'm the next Iron Chef, or Pioneer Woman, or Martha Stewart, (though I have been called two of those on several occasions).   I just like to cook.  I know enough about the ingredients that I rarely follow a recipe as it's printed, but subsititute and modify with abandon, even creating new dishes according to my whims.  I've subscribed to a magazine simply for the five or six new recipes I would get each month, and stuffed a binder full of my favorites.

However, I've recently been paralyzed when dinner rolls around.  I find myself longing for a muffin, but too nervous to mix anything up.  Suddenly, everything I knew about baking has become null and void.  Things that would have been simple- casseroles, meatloaf, cookies- are suddenly overwhelming.  I'm scared to make a pie. 

I found out I have a gluten intolerance.  No wheat, no barley, no rye.  No breadcrumbs, no croutons, no pizza crust, no cans of cream soup, no spaghetti, no tortillas, no pie crust.  While I'm usually up for a good challenge, in many ways I feel like someone has handed a cookbook written in Ænglisc.  I'm suddenly looking for products whose names I've only seen on the ingredient list of dressings or packages of birdseed, and following directions that feel so backwards and wrong.  So flop after flop (think cranberry-orange muffins with an uncooked garbanzo bean aftertaste, and cookies gritty enough to have come out of the Dust Bowl), I'm slowly figuring it out.  I think.  I'm nowhere ready for pie crust.




Why must you be so disagreeable?