Adventures of Cindy & Eden: Doing It Ourselves

Really Dude? Come on.

If you've followed our gripes on Facebook, you already know my and Eden's foray into the Do It Herself class at Home Depot was less than amazing. All we wanted was a little Saturday morning fun, not like we needed a new planter or just had to get our tool fix but we like to go out for activities together  - come what may.  

I'm pretty open to whatever but when I sign up for an hour and a half class, I expect a little more than "Mister Rogers Talks About Tools". We knew as soon as we saw our instructor's one little craft table, this was going to be lame.

"Okay, I'm going to tell you how I made this." He starts talking about 2x4s. "Now this is a 2x3, not a 2x4, see? It's smaller. A 2x4 is bigger." We're looking at him a little like this.

If you ever wondered what kind of relationship Eden and I have - you can watch this movie Baby Mama and pretty well get the gist of it. 

"And you've got your hammer. And your drill. This is a clamp."

In situations like this - I'm the polite one. We're inching backwards. I don't look to my left - Eden's there. I can't look at Eden in situations like this. I feel her energy next to me. I know what she's thinking and she doesn't hide it. If I look there, that's it - it's me laughing in someone's face again. She's nodding her head slowly as he talks, seeing just the speed of the movement - I know it's sarcastic.

After 10 minutes of soft talking us - our instructor gets distracted and looks away. My attempts to extricate myself politely are not working. I grab the brief reprieve to cast a glance to my side. She's been waiting for me to look over - eyebrows arched to the hairline. I press my lips together hard and try to look focused as he turns to me.

"Well, thanks for showing us that. I think we've got it," I say. He's doubtful.  - Dude, I knew how to do this when I showed up  - I came ready to make something not play "Building in the Land of Make Believe".

Eden's eyes are wide and her lips are pressed into a straight line as we walk away. 

"Well, that sucked. Do you want to make it at home?" 

"Yep," she says. "That was terrible."

"It was."

"No, Mom. You don't even know. Mason told me before I left that it would be. And I was all, "No, it's a workshop. We're going to build this cool planter." And he said the guy was going to hold up a saw and say,

"This is a saw. You can move it back and forth like this - see it's just like stirring your mixing bowl."

"Stirring your mixing bowl?" I laugh. "That's terrible. Oh, Mason."

"Yeah, and now I need to tell him he was right."

"He was," I agree, nodding my head. 

Eden picks up a saw found lying around Home Depot and pushes it back and forth. "See? It's just like your mixing bowl." We both laugh.

"I told Mason, my mom would never let anyone talk to her like that. Why didn't you tell him, "I have a Master's degree, don't talk to me like I'm an idiot." I'm not sure how much my MLS qualifies me for woodworking but library work has given me a modicum of patience with annoyances. 

We have the guy in the lumber area pre-cut the wood for us. Eden eyes the table saw.

"Oh, do you think he would let me cut it?" 

"Uh, no." I say. "You really need to know what you're doing there. I had wood shop in middle school and we used all of these large tools. The shop teacher was missing some fingers. They always hire those guys with missing fingers to teach shop so they can say, "You better follow the safety rules or you know what can happen." I waggle 7 fingers at her."

She gestures to the guy cutting our wood. "He has all of his fingers." 

"He must be new."

We plan to make something so much better than the example, picking a cool paint and getting creative with the hanging planter. We have to go to the garden center.

"Mom, no. I don't even want to walk by him again. I'd rather walk all around the store than go by him."

"We have to. He's between us and the garden center." He's still there, with his little white table. He and another man are looking at us as we walk that way.

"Oh, he spotted us. Yep, he sees us coming. He's smiling." Eden groans.

"You look like you have a question," he says pointing at us and nodding his head like he knew we didn't really know what we were doing.

"Nope," Eden responds.

"We've got it," I reply. "We just need the flowers." He notices we have the 2x4 instead of the 2x3 as we go by. Yeah, that's right, we're doing it the right way, buddy. We don't even slow down. In the end, we check out in the garden center to avoid another encounter.

We head home with our wood and other sundries. There is an arsenal of tools and supplies at our disposal - not from our own doing, of course, but because we have no use for a man who isn't handy. We readily raid Mason and Craig's garages.  We discuss sanders. She says it's easy, let's just do it by hand. When I can't find the portable sander, I almost agree, but then I find two.

"Oh no, let's use these. Sanding by hand is for suckers." My sander - pictured here is lady friendly. Craig's, which vibrated out of my hand and took a stroll by itself, is a misogynist. 

Eden wields the drill like she grew up on Bob the Builder and tells me all about torque.

"I think we should pre-drill the holes." I say. She does one and it goes well. Then she thinks we can skip the step and just go for it. False confidence - we strip the screw. 

Craig's on the farm but he's getting regular texts from me.

"Where's the wood glue?" No response.

Eden finds the wood glue.

Late response - "On the shelf, by the fridge, in the garage."

"Yep got it. Where is the hacksaw?" No response. Eden finds the hacksaw and we cut off the stripped screw. 

Sometime later Craig texts where the hacksaw is. 

"Yep, got it. Where's the wood putty?"

"Wood putty means you screwed up," he replies. Oh, Craig.

This bad boy is put together and now it's time to paint. We didn't make a mess or nothing! Honest.

Home Depot man wishes his was this good. He should have used the 2x4. I send Craig a photo of the finished product. It's good for him to know how lucky he is to have a handy wife. Speaking of Craig, if you're wondering about the farm...

He's been out on it all week using the rock picker. We learned quickly that farm machinery breaks all the time. Day 1 - fix the plow. Day 2 - Fix the rock picker. Day 3 - Fix the tractor. Day 4 - Fix the rock picker again. Sigh... I note that we are putting them through their paces - there are tons and tons of rocks out there.

I was thinking today about what marriage teaches you. I noted earlier that I like a handy man. Heck, 20% of our marriage is me saying, "I have an idea." and Craig saying, "Oh,great." He's very enthusiastic that way. 

When we were first married, I used to share all of the wonderful things that crossed my mind. I would just love this. Wouldn't this be cool? We should do this one day.

Poor Craig. He's a planner. And unbeknownst to me, he was trying to take note of all of those ideas I was throwing out so that he could give me what I wanted. Heck, no one had ever cared what I wanted before, so I was just talking. But he never knew in what direction to plan because I was always with a new idea and he'd start one path and then I'd throw him down another.

Once he got upset with me as I was sharing yet another epiphany. I was thunderstruck at his response. Then I realized, the poor guy took everything I said so seriously and he was trying to give me everything. It was really sweet and I was touched. Through all the times we've had in 18 years, ups and downs, that always came back to me. I've said, Craig is the only person in this world that asked himself - What does Cindy want? and tries to make it happen. Like how I missed the country and wanted a little farm and here we are. I learned to share only those things that really mattered to me and he learned how to weed out fickle nonsense. Marriage.

This is a mild case of our rock problem.  Of our 11 acres, about 5 look like this and worse. He ran the rock picker over the front part until it looks pretty good. Well, only small rocks, anyway. We can mow and that's huge.

This is just after the first pass with the rock picker and it already looked so much better.

This was taken today. We need a rock rake to get the small stuff but we just about have our blank slate. We are blank slate people. Our current house was a blank slate when we bought it and now we don't have room for one more plant. Not an issue on the farm. We're getting closer to building our dream. 

Have a great week!

Adventures of Cindy & Eden - The Canning Lesson

Back Down the Country Road

Let's go back down that old country road to when I was 14 years old, in August, in West Virginia. The sun scorches the rolling hills but the air conditioner stays off because it's not quite 100 degrees and dad says we can do without it. Mom is home from the local orchard with peaches by the bushel and she has the annual canning of the harvest in mind. I'd like to have a conversation with teenage Cindy. She's sitting with arms crossed, lips curled, on the couch. Mom rests a giant basket of peaches in front her her, hands her a knife and says, "Get to peeling." A sigh of loathing rolls out so deep from within her I can smell the sulfur. 

"Hey Sunshine, how's it going?" I ask. She barely lifts an eyebrow and looks at me with a judgmental air of superiority. 

"Who are you?" she asks, not really interested.

"I'm you in 30 years. Ta da!" I spread my arms and present myself.

She coughs a laugh. "I will never be that old and fat." 

"Yeah you will," I say. "I see you're getting ready to spend the next three days peeling peaches." She looks like she could spit. I smile at my own suffering. I sit down on the coffee table and lean close to her to whisper.

Into her ear, "I just came to tell you, that later on, when you're sweating over that sink of hot water, washing jars and rings and Mom has the canner roiling with steam in that tiny kitchen and you're hating your life, planning your escape to California, you should know that one day - you'll be doing this for fun." I smile. "And I've never lived in California and don't want to."

She looks at me like I've just stolen all her hope and then she hits me.

All that canning with mom didn't teach me how to do it - I was too busy hating it. But a few years ago, I decided to teach myself from a book (can you imagine?) how to can produce. I've had fun with it here and there. I don't can things by the dozen like we used to -  not liking to take the fun too far. Canning 4 jars at a time makes it easy and pretty enjoyable, enough to be satisfying.  Recently, Eden asked me to teach her how. WOW!

She grew okra in her tiny backyard garden and asked if we could pickle them. I don't eat pickles so I've never made any kind of them, but I've still got my book - actually I have 3 canning books (Don't tell 14 year old Cindy - she can't handle it.) So she came over to make okra pickles and rose petal honey (that's cool!).  I only really make strawberry preserves these days, so I picked up enough strawberries to make 6 half pint jars.

The first rule of canning is cleanliness, starting with our hands. As you can see by her polish, Eden's hands have just recently come off their tour of Vegas.

My canner only holds up to 4 pint jars - I'm a small scale cannery. We have washed the jars, rings and seals, but we need to sterilize the jars. The rings do not require pre-sterilization (per the book) but I'm for boiling everything. The seals have simmering water poured over them and they sit in hot water waiting for their chore.

We are making 3 pints of pickled okra, 6 half pints of strawberry preserves and 1 half pint of rose petal honey. While the jars are sterilizing, Eden slices the okra, hot peppers, and garlic. I boil together water, vinegar, fresh dill and pickling salt. 

"I don't think you need to crush the garlic, just put it in whole,"  I say, after she has crushed it. 

"Oh, well..." she responds. 

"It's okay, put it in, it doesn't matter." 

"Okay, I'm just going to put all of the garlic in."

"Well, don't make them too garlicky."

"Yeah, I don't think that's a thing," she says. They're her pickles...

Time to get the jars. Proper canning equipment is essential. Dealing with boiling water and glass can be a dangerous business, if you don't have what you need - and sometimes even when you do. I have never canned without pouring boiling water on myself. I've determined it's part of the process.

The okra and other goodies have been stuffed into the hot jars, we ladle the hot vinegar mixture over them, leaving 1 inch air space at the top. On go the hot seals and the rings. They are ready for processing. 

The filled jars go back into the canner to boil for 15 minutes. Then we pull them out, let them cool and listen for the seal to pop. We had some trouble with the seals that came with the jars - they didn't pop. We twisted our mouths and stared at them. 

"Well, you could store them in the fridge to be safe." 

"Yeah, I mean, I'm going to do that anyway." 

"Then it doesn't matter," I say. 

"No," Craig chimes in. "Just botulism if you do it wrong and everybody dies."

"What?" Eden asks, face frozen in shocked terror.

"Oh Craig," I say. "Nobody's going to die. I mean - it needs to be done right. Otherwise, yeah, that's bad. But we can just put on new seals and process them again." So that's what we do. For good or for bad in flavor - they are sterilized.

Next we do the strawberries, which look beautiful and pop perfectly. We used all new seals and threw out the seals that came on the jars - just in case. I am a safe, if not frugal, canner. Strawberries are washed, cut and sliced the night before. I cover them well with sugar and leave them in the fridge overnight. The next day they are boiled for about 10 minutes and the foam gleaned from the top. Hot, sterilized half pint jars are filled within 1/2 inch of the top and processed for 10 minutes. Bertrand, my kitchen chef, finds this all very amusing. 

So far, so good. I always have towels available to rest hot jars, the book says that is a good thing and it works well - if you ignore the husband in the background making comments about your daily overuse of hand towels.

We had a lot of time to wait and chat.

Talking about dogs...

"You could tell by looking in Dolly's eyes that she wasn't smart." said Eden about her Chihuahua, who died earlier this year.

"Yeah, she was a bimbo," I agree. (These comments are made in love - like all critical motherly comments.)

"But you can see there's a lot going on behind Maddie's eyes." she beamed.

"She's a smart dog. If you can get past her looks and how she smells, you have to admire her intelligence."

"Oh, I think she' pretty. She is in the house all the time now. I started calling her My Princessa and now Jude call her Princessa. She used to have a lot of white in her beard but since she's been inside, it's started growing brown again."

"She's living the easy life." I agree.

"She looks younger to me," she says.

"Hmmm... I need that," I say.

Eden and I are both avid rose gardeners, so when she found this recipe for Rose Petal Honey, we were both delighted to try it. Cooking with roses - it's so sophisticated. I am certain Beatrix Potter (our shared spirit author) regularly nibbled roses - like ladies do.

Rose Petal Honey

In a heavy saucepan, stir together 1 cup of water, petals from six medium roses (organic) and 2 TBSP of fresh lemon juice.  Bring to a boil and simmer until the petals lose their color.

Strain petals reserving as much of the liquid as you can in the sauce pan. Add in 6 TBSP of sugar and one 3-oz. pkg of liquid pectin.  Stir well, bring to a boil and boil rapidly for 1 minute. Pour into a hot jar and store in the refrigerator. 

It was sweet, lemony and pink! Now that's lovely. Because Eden wanted it for display and not eating, we processed her "honey" for 10 minutes to seal it. Otherwise, you do not need to do that - just refrigerate and eat.

We chat a bit more.

"You know that tingle you get when someone is touching your hair?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"They have these ASMR videos on Youtube that are designed to stimulate that response and help you relax. They are really cool because you can feel it."

I'm skeptical.

"They will act like they are putting makeup on you, brushing your hair or just making sounds like opening packages - it's very relaxing."

"It sounds weird but I'll check them out."

(Author's note) Later via text at bedtime. 

Me to her: These ASMR videos are weird. I don't like their whispering, it freaks me out.

Her to me: Check out Whispersredasmr  - she's good.

Me to her: I've been watching her brush her cousin's hair for 12 minutes. I am both relaxed and uncomfortable.

She texted me a photo of the Rose Petal Honey in its new home on the "shelf of homey goodness" in her house. I'm happy it was good enough to go next to the Apple Butter Sauce she bought in Sulphur Springs. 

Side note - the okra pickles are for Mason's birthday, so if you know Mason, don't tell him. He thinks they did not turn out - which may or may not be true. Until next time...

Children's Parade

A Children's Parade

Here is an idea worth sharing. A 4th of July neighborhood children's parade. It's not a new event but new to us and one I thought made this day extra special for our children and our neighbors. Pass it on.

A call went out for participants in our neighborhood on Nextdoor, the social media page for neighborhoods. It was all very informal and anyone who wanted to participate could dress up their bicycle, wagon, mini motorized vehicle or themselves and join the march.

Jude and I decorated his "float" the night before. The reality is, I decorated the wagon and Jude undecorated the wagon. 

I said, "Look at me, Jude." He said, "This is the way to look handsome." Oh dear. 

The view from the street. We had a mini police escort (a little boy in a police car) a drum leader (a volunteer from the high school), and a daddy leading the line and playing music in his car.

The parade route ran through two loops of residential streets and only this short sidewalk jaunt along the busy side street.

Waving to Mommy, Mason and Grandpa on the sidelines. Neighbors sat in chairs on their front lawns or gathered together on the sidewalk, clapping and waiving to the children, many of whom were in their first parade. 

At the end of the line there were pinatas and cold drinks. Kids made quick work of the pinatas, filling brown paper bags with dumdum lollipops and tootsie rolls. 

And a cool, refreshing bottle of blue made the day extra special for little patriots.  On to the next celebration!

Happy 4th of July!

Rain, Rain

The Umbrella Brigade

"Pitter patter!" falls the rain

On the schoolroom windowpane.

Such a plashing! such a dashing!

Will it e'er be dry again?

Down the gutter rolls the flood,

And the crossing's deep in mud;

And the puddles! oh, the puddles

Are a sight to stir one's blood.

But let it rain

Tree toads and frogs,

Muskets and pitchforks,

Kittens and dogs!

Dash away! plash away!

Who is afraid?

Here we go,

The Umbrella Brigade.

~ Laura E. Richards

Once upon a time, it rained and rained and rained. Puddles formed in places where the people didn't know there were places. Snakes were seen to don brightly colored rain slickers and gather together under overhangs to discuss the weather. Birds complained openly and some flew to the Pacific Northwest in search of a drier climate. The people, who were lost without their constant companion the Sun, grew pale and squeaked when they walked.

So, we've had a little rain and looking at the forecast above, we're expecting it, oh, every day for the next 10 days. I awoke at 3 AM to a din of thunder. By 6:30 AM, I cared enough to see if there was a spectacular lightning show, which others, who care less about sleep than I do, had described. All was quiet but for the steady drip of morning drizzle.

The sun rose on dripping leaves and puddles of brown. Our pears, looking freshly showered, gave me a hearty hello as I passed. They have gathered in groups this year, to our delight, seeing as the past few years were we lucky to be visited by more than one. 

Green is in this season. All of the plants are wearing it and shades vary from the red-green of blossoming youth to a haunting grey, usually only fashionable in moors. There are few accessories, short of a brightly colored blossom here or there. They are holding out for a spotlight.

There is a buzz opportunity for growth and expansion in our area, so new residents are sprouting everywhere, lining up and looking for a chance to put down roots in a place of their own.

Some of our residents are too entrenched in their way of life in this location to make a move northwest. The fresh, wet environment has allowed them to branch out and expand their holdings. Today, I mentioned to Cypress and Redbud how I truly enjoy their work together to cover an entire area and create the atmosphere of a secret garden. Cypress lifted with pride and swept the sky like a graceful dancer, his heavy arms lifting and falling in the wind. I have a wonderful spot, low in the field where water gathers in droves to put his children. One day, I will sit on a porch and watch them also dance in the rain, remembering this place.

Lily, a contemplative girl, has the joy of the secret garden to herself now. She has invited friends but she was the first to arrive at the party. I asked her how she was doing. "Just peachy," she replied and went about her business.

The roses put on an intoxicating show this year but they have all gone except for one. Despite bringing a few buds with her, I think this is the last rose of the season. Rain brought disease and many have been cut off for their own good. This one is disease-resistant and I will be taking her on a trip to give her a new start.

"How's the farm?" you ask. Green. Muddy. Pond's full. Walking across the property requires rubber boots to the knee and a wench to pull you out at the end of the day. There has been no movement, except for that steady flow of water across the surface since the snow melted.

We've been waiting to put this baby to work. It's our new rock picker. (New to us.) I'm our old rock picker. (As in former.) Two things need to happen. The land needs to dry out and Craig needs to recuperate from his 5,000 surgeries in the last 3 months. (We can rebuild him.) 

Some things are changing - the last baby bird is leaving the nest. {{Boot}} Sawyer is moving to college station in August to attend Texas A&M and study engineering. My writing room is overrun with housewares. "Look at all this stuff," Craig says. "You live in a pigsty." I noticed. "But," I say to him and Sawyer as we discuss college plans. "Let us not forget the most important point of all of this. I'm finally going to have my own bathroom." Woohoo!

So will Sawyer, in his college apartment. It's good to be Sawyer.

All grown up and ready to say, "So long, suckers," to the old people who pay his bills. It's all good, honey. We'll come see you when we really are old. Make lots of money, we'll need it. Bwahahaha

I happened to mention to Bertrand, the French chef who oversees my kitchen and a big fan of my orchids, that I wasn't sure Craig and I would know what to do with ourselves after the baby moved out. He said it would look something like this.

"Wait a minute", I say. "Wasn't I going to get my own bathroom?"

Happy Spring!