"Like What You Like"

In relation to food, if you like what you like, what's wrong with that?

Outside of foods and practices that harm you or your family, why can't we like what we like?

If "food snobbery" has its way with all of us, we will all be consuming only that which others say is really good, or good for us, or even socially acceptable.

Were you raised with any food "oddities," foods that elicit the most winsome of memories for you, but others visibly cringe at? Often dishes like this are related to our ethnicity; they are connective to our cultures and families--they represent the best of what we knew as children.

In the midst of trying to relate the beauty of a revered food tradition, little is more dismaying than having it trounced upon and denigrated by someone who just doesn't "get it." Ten to one, this person has a precious food tradition, too. What makes his or her recipe fabulous, and yours just plain weird?

Much has to do with what we were raised with, and much has to do with how open we are to trying other people's ideas of what good eating is.

I'm willing as a baby is to taste new offerings. A bit hesitant, but mostly game to begin with. Unlike a baby, too much information might influence my taste buds. If I know that certain body parts (sometimes referred to as offal) account for a certain flavor in a meat dish, I'm affected. Why a chunk of beef roast has more "social acceptability" to me than a pile of beef brains or a pig snout seems obvious to me. But really? After all, that beef roast very well came from the cow's behind, so how classy is that?

I'd like all people to understand the appeal of "menudo," and not insult me with derision of it. In a Mexican household, this main-dish soup is practically sacred. "Menudo por los crudos" essentially translates  to "Menudo for the hungover" but you don't have to be a drinker to love it. "Crudos" is pronounced, with a rolled r,"crew-dose," not crud-os which is ironically probably more accurate; it helps rid the body of that cruddy hangover feeling.

People make big pots of menudo on Saturday evening, and dive into it after mass on Sunday morning. One (who has indulged) drags one's self out of bed to attend church for the cleansing effect of religion, then to home for the cleansing effect of this cultural mainstay. Good menudo is bold and bolstering, spicy and richly flecked with fresh garnishes like chopped crunchy onion, cilantro leaves, and a dried herb blend of oregano and crushed red pepper. It is always laced heavily with squeezed lemon for tang, and all of this put together gets the pores flowing. All is right with a bowl of menudo when it makes you sweat--and sweat as we know, does detoxify.

Menudo may be touted as a toxin releaser and a good cure for a hangover, but most everyone who enjoys it enjoys it for the flavor.

What makes for the flavor? Admittedly, it's offal--kind of awful offal: tripe, if you must know. The same word used synonymously with garbage, trash, refuse.  To thicken the plot further (oh, I mean the soup) a soup "bone" is added.

This doesn't sound as bad as a pig snout, does it? Alas, the truth is it's a pig's hoof, or foot, and that sadly DOES sound as bad.

But a pig's foot it must be. Not too long ago I trekked to an authentic Mexican market for menudo fixings, something I hadn't made in many years. In Wisconsin, I have become far removed from the idea of pig's feet in my soup, so I asked the friendly butcher if good old beef soup bones wouldn't do as well.

You'd have thought I asked him if I could made a burrito out of Wonder bread. No, Lady, he smiled. It's always been a pig's foot and always will be a pig's foot, if you want true menudo.

So menudo as I've always known it is comfortable for me, but I sense your skepticism. I get it. I decline many "foreign" dishes myself, especially when too much information is given. But I like what I like, and you should with ease like what YOU like.

"Foraged foods" are not foreign to any of us because they are a part of our collective ancestry. It's how the earliest life cycles were sustained and it's a history that belongs to all of us. Time and the ages have removed us from the constancy of need to forage, but many people are doing it now more from enjoyment than real need.

Foraging doesn't honestly appeal to me, but those who love it should love it openly. A friend of mine so successfully owns the tradition that he's become an expert at it. He has been sought out by a publishing house and of late has been making the rounds to lend publicity to his wonderful book, "Trout Caviar." He is innovative with his ways of preparing wild foods, and fearless even about his "accidents." Some of his finest moments come from things he didn't intend.

I once enjoyed a foraging jaunt with a friend who has always used the wild to complement her cooking. She explained that a creek-bank near her home harbored fresh watercress, and we were going to have a salad from that. I remember my mother adding watercress to our salads, and&n;the thought of experiencing that picquant freshness again just had me excited no end.

She plucked a bunch of the found greens, and we went home to assemble the meal. As we talked and worked, she mentioned her process of ridding the greens of "critters." The plates we were eventually presented with were beautiful, and her grilled salmon divine. Still,  with every approach of my fork to the salad, I was pretty sure what should have been cracked peppercorns was not--too much squirming going on there.

I suspect "critters" are part and parcel of foraging. Anyone who practices it  might only suffer amusement at those who would be bothered by these little natural "details."

"Live and let Live," should be practiced when we think about the foods we enjoy the most. I have a feeling my friend, Brett Laidlaw (who wrote "Trout Caviar") would not condemn my menudo, would even relish it, but the both of us (I am sure?) frown upon macaroni and cheese that requires orange powder for its finished state.

But isn't orange-powdered mac 'n cheese considered an American mainstay in many homes? Is my food snobbery about this as wrong as someone's else's ripping on my menudo or his foraged delicacies?

Live and let live....and if we want to LIVE well, enjoy it all in moderation.

Final comment on this: Just saw a Food Network episode where Guy Fieri was tasting someone's enchiladas topped with barbeque sauce. Some things are just WRONG and this would be one.

Pictured: Classic red sauce enchiladas....haven't made menudo lately.

"Haven"

A walk in the woods

Sometimes country living just means taking a walk or enjoying a little green space.

Leaving one's inside quarters to experience blue skies, fresh air and the growing things that are determined to thrive anywhere can be plenty, depending upon how one looks at it.

I feel I live in a haven (rural Wisconsin), but it's easy to see that everyone everywhere experiences haven.

I think of  my mother-in-law in her neighborhood in Santa Ana, California. Santa Ana is like any American town--divvied up into sections, some more "desirable" than others, depending on who is doing the considering. It has a richness in cultural diversity and particularly so in the Hispanic population.

One might observe that my mother-in-law's neighborhood never held a gated community status, but she was up every morning with the birds, tending her shrubs and flowers so artfully established by my father-in-law in the early years of their marriage.

How fresh and inviting her haven always felt. With benches and chairs amidst the multi-layering of vivid colors in plant life, her yard was so inviting I remember that friends often drifted in to while away a few moments of their day. Her sense of belonging to a neighborhood that thrummed with vibrancy in sight and sound held great appeal; although that district definitely had issues, I never heard her note any of it with adjectives like "noisy," "congested," or "dangerous."

For the most part, people who live in an urban environment do so by choice, and wouldn't have it any other way. For the flavor of nature, a walk to a local part or a back-yard oasis makes it all good.

For ourselves, we went the extra mile (actually two thousand miles) to create our backyard oasis. Our neighbors, most of whom were born and raised here, are of true rural stock. They raise chickens, milk cows, go hunting and fishing, and grow gardens and hundreds of acres of crops. We take walks, ride bike (my husband), go antiquing (me), watch old (and new) movies, tend the grandbabies, and sit on the porch with lemonade and magazines.

Hmmm....come to think of it, we live like more like city people than rural folk. But as any person envisions their idyllic surroundings, we dreamed this and count our blessings that it's come to pass.

It's not that we haven't tried to extract more from the land. We have lived "country" for most of our married years, here and in Colorado. We have raised chickens for eggs, tapped trees and made maple syrup, picked our wild fruits to make delicious jams, gathered morel mushrooms to enjoy with our steaks (homegrown by friends who raised the cattle) and grew gardens to can extensively.

It was all rewarding, and it was all work. Now don't get me wrong--we're not afraid of hard work. We don't lead sedentary lives and it's hard for either one of us to sit unproductively for long, at least during the daylight hours. It's not usually until night falls that watching a movie even feels right, although the hour approaching dusk often finds us with the magazines on the porch.  And well that should be.

We have learned as many do, that when enthusiasm for any project runs its course, DO THE MATH. Most self-accomplished endeavors pay both monetarily and spiritually. When they cease to do both, it's time to pick another venture.

How then DO we extract from the land that feeling that we are living a country life?

As anyone does. We look at what we have as precious, and we nurture and tend it.  In Garden Grove (also in California) my mother grew a spectacular bougainvillaea shrub along one side of her house. Out back, my dad grew tomatoes, chilies, lemons and nopales (cactus paddles).

From his own imagination, he dismantled an old wood cookstove and built a stone framework to reposition its various sections into a beautiful outdoor barbeque unit. One side boasted an uprising, stone-encased grilling rack complete with chimney stack, and the rest of it was stove--four burners with a utility/spice shelf above and a warming oven below. In readiness for this unit, Dad poured a concrete floor, set down a long picnic table and a permanent canopy overhead. He added a refrigerator nearby, stocked it well, and waited for the family gatherings.

With a garden-like backyard and all of that going on, I like to think this haven in the late 60's and early 70's was an early outdoor kitchen and that my dad was a man ahead of his time.

My grandma Rosa (Dad's mother) also created her piece of paradise in Placentia, once more in California. Her small acreage harbored many kinds of fruits and florals, but it is the likes of her geraniums that I have yet to see again in my lifetime. Grandma trained and nurtured her red geraniums so that they flourished skyward on both sides of the fence.

Both sides of the fence belonged to Grandma, because her little namesake restaurant was next-door. The eatery bragged an outdoor patio with a stone floor, my dad's work again. The fabulous geraniums and other flora lushed the setting into a tropic-kissed haven for diners. Such a haven it was that although small, I couldn't think of a prettier place to hold our wedding reception in 1973.

Grandma too was ahead of her time. She created an appealing outdoor eatery with European-like flavor (which was in actuality reflective of her own Mexican heritage) in the 1960's, and I think now that no bistro I've ever seen has held a candle to it. It was a haven for many people, including herself.

I have to say that our haven in Wisconsin bespeaks almost purely of God's handiwork. Yes, we "tweak" it all the time. This involves alot of detail and many hours of tweaking at that.

But it was presented to us as a generous piece of natural land, and as you know, nothing is prettier than what God creates as nature. Keeping with its flow can't be a bad thing. If we don't use the land by planting it, raising animals on it and so on, we can still feel we are living a country life in the simplicity of just ENJOYING IT.

With this thinking we (my husband) scoped the place to expand on its natural flow in trails. For country-living pleasure we (this means we) take walks, many of them. We breathe fresh air and see wildflowers and wildlife, we get exercise and always come away with never-failing gratitude, even awe.

Less in land would be plenty I'm sure, but more is what came with when we found this place. About this we've always felt that the place more likely found us, and maybe it is because it knew (God knew) that from it we would create HAVEN. Here on earth, that's pretty close to HEAVEN.

Lemonade!!!

"Marty"

Everybody loves a winner--but do we really?

Seems like alot of times we just want to tear a winner down. Sure, we wish our friends and families well enough to support their dreams and ventures, and help them approach the entry halls of success. Especially with our children, we hope mightily to see them ensconced in their dreams, no holds barred.

But when we see someone peak at success, making for a sphere of happiness that eludes our own selves, are we as generous-minded as we know we should be?

Most of us can acknowledge a modest level of envy toward others who seem to "have it all."
After all, we're only human and our own lives may feel plenty full of stress instead of a richness in attained goals. So this envy is purely natural. We can be reasonably happy for others and still lament for ourselves; this we know is the way of the world.

None of us wants to admit (even to ourselves) when envy has turned a corner and the realm of bitter jealousy has been entered. When we not only can't be happy for someone but are secretly peering for signs of a downfall, this is a shame on us and not a status we want to own.

Selfishness is an interesting thing. We pounce upon the trait in others and disown any fragment of the quality for ourselves. God forbid we be accused of selfishness; it is a crime worse than almost any other. Thinking of all the judgmental possibities that could arise from such a subject, I nearly halted blogging about it. Selfishness is not a topic warm and fuzzy, and any one of us can potentially find it another of us. (While not seeing it in ourselves.)

Thus, on the day I scratched the surface of the subject, I also scratched it off my list of possible blog entries. It was a cool and blustery Sunday afternoon, and I decided to watch an old movie instead.

The movie playing on the old movie channel was "Marty," a fifties-era classic wherein the title character (an Italian-American male in his thirties) so moves his audience with his life of loneliness that the actor (Ernest Borgnine) won the Academy Award that year, 1955. This was no small feat against contenders like James Dean, Frank Sinatra, Spencer Tracy and James Cagney. It is said that Borgnine's audition for the part put all present to tears, and cinched the role.

If ever there was a movie that impresses upon us the tragedy of selfishness, it is this one. And so the subject again became mine--meant to be.

Have you ever seen "Marty?"

Marty and his widowed mother live together in an urban house, where Mom's life centers on church and Marty. Their home is a nest she has feathered like a pillow, something also known to smother.

Marty is a humble meat cutter who works hard and spends his leisure time dutifully enjoying Ma's homemade meals and then regularly walking downtown to meet up with his equally single, Italian-American buddies. Marty's crowd looks to be a tad on the "loser" side, nice enough boys who stay out of trouble-- but each lacks the charisma to ever come close to the persona of a "chick magnet." Women are not an easy part of their scene, and when they are, that scene is often fraught with rejection.

One evening on the dance floor, Marty musters his wherewithal to ask a girl to dance and suffers acutely the rejection he fears. In a scene away from his scene, a young woman suffers a competing blow of rebuff when the man she has been "set up with" decides he wants to ditch her. This fellow seeks out Marty and offers him five dollars to take responsibility for his unwanted date and somehow get her back to her home.


Despite inferences from his pals  that the girl is not attractive, and quite to his surprise, Marty and the girl, Clara, (played by Betsy Blair) "click." They enjoy long, heartfelt conversation and learn of their differences but also experience undeniable camaraderie.

Clara is a teacher to Marty's butcher, but this is just a momentary deterrent to Marty's psyche. The evening ends brimming with promise and in no time at all we witness Clara's introduction to Marty's mother, and we marvel at his plans to ensure a better future by opening his own meat market.

Alas, this is where envy, jealousy and selfishness rear their ugly heads. The people in Marty's life cannot wish him well. They all point to Clara's homeliness; the fellows straight out call her "a dog." Clara is not a dog. She is average looking, just right for the average Joe, or average Marty. She is a dear girl, smitten already with Marty, able to see their differences as contrasts rather than reasons for discord.

Marty's mother, who has lamented that her son has yet to marry the perfect Italian girl to provide her with grandchildren, cannot abide Clara. She points out that Clara is not good-looking, is not Italian, and what was she doing anyway in a dance hall--one step from the streets? I don't like her, she pronounces, and suggests forcefully that Marty not bring her home again.

Marty's friends find themselves roiling in agitation that their co-hort is on the brink of a new life--one that will end their lonely boys society and one that guarantees Marty a happiness they fear they will never have themselves. In their covetousness they can do nothing but try to coax Marty away from all his promising possibilities. This they do by endlessly ripping on Clara. Poor sweet Clara is called "a dog" so often that sadly, heartbreakingly, we are horrified to hear Marty cave into the pressure of his peers and refer to her as "a dog" as well.

And thus we see both Marty and Clara lonely again. Their respective scenarios are pathetic; those of us watching want to shake some sense into Marty, for while Clara longs for the phone call he also longs to make, he instead reverts to a pointless session of "hanging out" with the guys again.

The selfish entreaties from those who most care for him convince Marty that going for happiness is not for him. Pulling their pal back into their familiar void puts them back onto equal ground, and all (except Marty) feel better this way.

Do we all feel better to keep those in our circle on equal ground, more for the worse than the better? Does
misery really love company? Can we really only be happy for others as long as their happiness and success don't exceed ours?

And what about jealousy and resentment over physical traits (beauty), personality and charisma?

On a recent "Dancing with the Stars" segment it was revealing to hear one of the male judges effusively flatter a male (heartthrob type) dancer, then declare his hatred toward him--said in friendly humor, of course. How many times have you heard (or taken part) in admiration of someone's physical persona only to realize if that person were just a little less gorgeous, you'd feel better?

Happens all the time, with most of us, I venture to say. Like the inherent good in people, we are also given tendencies toward failings, too. Our struggles with generosity of spirit are perhaps tougher than the ones we have about money. If good will doesn't usually cost a dime, why is it sometimes so hard to give?

I don't know the whys and wherefores of this, but I'm pretty sure the sentiments are universal if not shared by all. Is there a sense that there can't possibly be enough good to go around in this life?

For a great ending to a somewhat tortuous (but engrossing) story, Marty (back to Marty) gathers his wits and declares emancipation from his loneliness. He boldly stands up to his friends and literally bolts from their presence to race to a phone booth to call Clara.

We are left to consider their lives will be lived happily ever after.

I can't imagine anyone seeing this movie not feeling blissful for Marty and Clara at this conclusion. And here lies the question--if we can be happy for strangers, and fabricated strangers at that, can't we do the same for all in our own real lives?

Home Again

Recipes that demand many steps are not for me, but what's not to try? Improvising and adjusting simplifies things, and the results are pretty simple, too. You either put to ruin good ingredients, or discover foods that you want to make again and again. I do both all the time.

Sifting flour sounds archaic and isn't a step I've taken since I was a teenager. My maturity in the ensuing years has never deemed the task sensible; it's delaying, messy, and requires the act of measuring--something I'm averse to.  I won't have any of it, and while I know alot of women who measure, I don't know of any who sift. Do they even make sifters anymore?!

It's curious to me then, (but completely predictable) that I recently became caught up in a search for vintage flour sifters. Like the antique rolling pins, cream whippers, wire whisks and nut choppers I already don't use, I feel that flour sifters (and other kitchen collectibles) will further put me in the mood for cooking and thus make my time spent in the kitchen a total joy. There you have it. There it is--my explanation why I mightily indulge in vintage kitchenware.

The craziest thing about this (yes, there's a crazier part) is that everytime I find something new (that's old) I want to make it a focal point of the room. Making it a focal point of the room means something has to make way for the new (old) thing, and then where do I put THAT (old) old thing? A couple of months ago I loved THAT thing so much it had to be the focal point, so now what?

Thus, the room gets turned upside down, every time. So does my porch pantry, which is the entry to our old farmhouse, a place I consider an extension of the kitchen.

Some would say I have too much time on my hands, but this is what I do. This is who I am. I have plenty to do in my days, but if I don't nurture the homefront then I don't nurture myself.

Speaking of nurturing the homefront, in the midst of all the disarray, aromas from the oven and stovetop blindsided me toward a hankering for homemade tortillas. Drifts of bubbling beans and garlicky, chili-crusted pork roast insistently reminded me that I was working up an appetite, and wouldn't from-scratch tortillas and a pan of traditional rice make the whole meal a feast?

Blame it on visions of flour sifters dancing in my head. Must have been the correlation between flour and tortillas, but I just added another glitch into getting my kitchen back in order.

Oh well. Some people thrive on the pressure of the corporate boardroom. The kitchen IS my boardroom. It's where I rule, at least in my own home. So on this day I was making a mess, and I was making tortillas.

By suppertime the room was pulled together save for the finishing touch--the actual flour sifter. Actually flour sifterS--I purchased two after a weekend shopping online from the comfort of my home. It's the start of a modest collection inspired by a woman whose shop I once visited in a small town near my home.

A quiet, unassuming sort, she nonetheless was prideful and possessive of her collection of old flour sifters. The stunning gems sat up high on a built-just-for-them shelf, and spilled into a locked glass cabinet underneath--appropriate for the jewels they were. Try as I might, she would not sell one.

I also by suppertime had fresh tortillas snuggled into a warmer, and a full meal inspired by another unassuming woman--my mother. She always made food like this. In her later years she, as many Californians do, came to rely on the good tortillerias that are prevalent everywhere. I watched her make tortillas often enough that I was able to imitate her when I came to live in places where only "lesser" tortillas were available. (In the world of tortillas less quality is never plenty good.)

It seems the passions we have can most usually be attributed to impressions once made, invited unknowingly to deeply sink in. We have little awareness of what is occurring and little say. It just happens. We might know we should strive to cure cancer, but we can only hope that someone else will. Not everyone wins a "doing what I love" career, but in our private lives it should be a given that we pursue in good measure that which (in positive fashion) moves us. And with no apologies to those who differ.

We respond to the inspirational models in our lives. Conversely and not-so-strangely, we at times extract the most inspiration from negative impressions made. We see the intolerable and determine: "That will not be a part of my life."

Sometimes our most affecting impressions result from long-term witnessing in our sustained relationships. Others result from momentary, fleeting exchanges. The woman whose flour sifters I coveted did not appear to be "wealthy," but she owned a wealth of resistance to caving in over a few dollars some might have said she appeared to need. It turned out that this building was also her home; one with inadequate private quarters and so while her shop was open to the public, not everything in it was for sale. Her treasures were her treasures, come what may.

I know the lesson well that an inanimate object (like a flour sifter) is never precious like a family member is.
But enlightenment did occur to me when I faced the reality that I had previously owned and (and then let go of) one of the flour sifters I recently purchased. Years prior, when opening my own little shop, I tentatively put this object out on the floor. I priced it high, hoping no one would buy it. I wrestled with wanting to keep it and wanting good stuff in my store. Darned if someone didn't quickly think it looked good enough to buy at my asking price, and away it went. For a few extra dollars than what I paid for it, I parted with it.

In paying a few dollars more than THAT now to replace it, it's hard to admit I've paid the price of ridiculous again. But could I really see the point of this new lesson any other way? Collectible THINGS will never be the treasures that people are, but a page from my flour sifter mentor's book should definitely be taken.

Lesson learned. And I can hear my husband swallowing THAT.

In My Own Backyard

It's starting to feel alot like spring here in Wisconsin.

The apple blossoms are struggling to fight off some lolly-gagging morning frosts, but the days are emerging radiantly warm and sunny.

This time of year exemplifies that "hope springs eternal." Despite its troubles, life never seems to give up on trying to renew itself. Appropriately, all the new growth of the season marks the time as a harbinger of the many good things to come.

Like babies of every species, and trees, fruits, flowers, plants and grasses. No withering now; everything is smoothly-skinned and pliable, because life is just beginning and it's all good.

The inhabitants of a country property should know enough about the plant-life on their place, but twenty-some years into here we are still pretty clueless. We know enough to avoid poison ivy and stinging nettle on the skin, and we've successfully tapped maples for syrup and transformed wild plums, apples and berries into yummy preserves. We recognize a great many birds and critters, and some of their calls and sounds. Mostly, we enjoy what we see and hear and use what we're certain of to modest degrees. After all, wild creatures need to eat too.

One berry bush that we failed to identify is the source of a funnily ironic story. Until recently I was the proprietor of a shop and cafe, "Corner Cupboard," where we worked hard to establish a small but strong following for handmade, from-scratch pies. One customer, Tom, often drove in from his outlying town to have a light lunch with us and a full wedge of pie. We always loved to see Tom--such a dapper guy, friendly and conversational always in a most appealing way.

A great promoter of my place, Tom poked his head into the kitchen one day to tell me that he would soon be treating a special friend to lunch at Corner Cupboard. This friend had a quirky inclination to always ask the server at any restaurant for one particular pie--gooseberry.

He had yet to receive a "Yes, we have gooseberry pie," answer, but this never deterred him from trying wherever he went. Tom's request to me was that whatever it took, he was willing to pay any price for a gooseberry pie on board when that lunch took place.

None of us had ever made a gooseberry pie, or even tasted one. I'd never noticed the fruit in a store and of course when I looked, it wasn't there--not in the frozen or canned aisle, and not in the fresh produce section either. 

That next Sunday my husband drove me to an eastern "burb" of the Twin Cities. After a few stabs in a melange of stores, I did find gooseberries in a high-end gourmet grocer's market. I was worn out from the trek through various unfamiliar stores, so the fact that they were only available in cans did not stop me from grabbing the only two that were on the shelf. I realized beggars can't be choosers, but I certainly didn't pay a beggar's price for them.

When the big day arrived, my pie-maker turned out a beautiful speciman, even if we were all put off by the filling that had gone into it. Do you know what gooseberries look like? They are round and green and look like slimy globules in questionable goop (in a pie)--not an appetizing sight whatsoever to any of our eyes.

But we figured Tom's friend knew his gooseberry stuff. He would happily expect them to look this way, and not be able to contain his gushing over the thrill of it all. The three of my whole staff were so excited we all managed to place ourselves in the vicinity for his, "Do you have gooseberry pie?" inquiry.

The question happened as predicted, but his response couldn't have been more different than we had imagined. No light sparked in his delighted eyes, no beaming smile of disbelief crossed his lips. Instead came a flat and to-the-point "Okay, I'll have a piece," statement, one void of all the enthusiasm we had so braced ourselves for.

The crescendo of our anticipation descended its incline so abruptly we could almost hear the "whoosh" of deflation. The fellow quietly enjoyed his pie, and asked for another piece to take home. Tom purchased the remainder, and our adventure was over.

We weren't so big about it that we didn't mutter a few expressions of disappointment over our anti-climatic experience, but we agreed that it probably paled compared to Tom's. We were sorry to see that his gleeful plans and benevolent plotting went unrewarded.

A few weeks later, my granddaughter was trail-hiking our place with the neighbor boy, a knowledgeable little guy when it comes to identifying creatures and plants of the natural world.

They stopped to pick small berries I'd never noticed before--or if I had, had probably avoided in a "better safe than sorry" mode.

But on this day my granddaughter was encouraged to try these "perfectly safe" GOOSEBERRIES--a tried and true fruit the boy knew well.

Gooseberries

To think: we'd traveled a distance we didn't commonly go, and paid a price we found ridiculously high--all for something that grew right in our own back yard. Now THAT'S ridiculous.

There's alot to learn on a country place, and it really pays to learn it. I like to think that the waste and cost of that experience was still an experience, and one that taught me a lesson: Know what you have, or pay the price of ridiculous.

Prepper Pantry

I have a more serious pantry, but this is not it!

Like the prairie pioneers who filled their pantries to get through a long winter, modern day "doomsday preppers" are more extremely stockpiling for the end of our days as we know them.

So much speculation takes place about this "end." Alot of it is based on biblical interpretations; much of it is analyzed from occurring world events without connection to religiosity. When people have only themselves to believe in, the measures taken to survive have nothing to do with a reliance on God.

How does anyone really prepare for any tumultuous "end" without hope given to us by a Higher Source of power than what we can muster for ourselves? If our whole world becomes riddled with the effects of war and disaster, and all of surviving mankind proceeds in dog-eat-dog fashion, what sort of living will that be? And for how long can it be borne?

I'm not a numbers person, but I'm pretty sure if you take the number of people ever in history that have lived and died, that number exceeds the number of people living today. All the former have died; all living today will someday die a physical death. None of us has ever had say about this, or even how we will die and in what state of readiness.

To add to this truth, we will never be handed carte blanche about commandeering every detail within our lifespan that affects personal well-being.  BUT--we have been handed an inherent will to make the most and best of our lives, and come what may, we will try to take charge of the details.

When we have children, it seems our will is then directed largely to making good lives for them and towards securing their futures. This is about protecting the species, and especially our own offspring. Once you are a parent your life is no longer your own. You think your heart pulses in one steady beat, but when your child suffers a life blow or a threat to their being, a section of your heart seizes up. You are not good to go again until all is well. This sensitivity is most usual in the nature of the beast of parenting.

Considering this, "doomsday preppers" are only (in extreme measure) doing what they are hard-wired to do.
They are stockpiling for a "long winter," but if this "long winter" occurs it will involve much more than isolation brought on by cold temperatures and impassable snowdrifts.

"Preppers" are arming themselves for warfare WITH warfare. They are securing fortresses with surveillance capabilities and building elaborate bunkers with tunnelways. They are establishing ultra-expensive systems to generate energy for powering modern conveniences our pioneer ancestors lived without. So too are huge arsenals a part of these scenarios; weapons to protect and defend and if necessary, destroy.

Destroy who for what? I don't say this in mockery, but I am afraid it is their fellow man, and over a box of Cheerios. In the sphere of taking care of your family, you're going to want food for your family first. Have you seen the tremendous amounts of food inventories amassed by preppers? The thinking is to carry loved ones through as long a time as possible, presumably to better times. Not knowing how long this might take,   every box of Cheerios is going to matter. If one is spared for one neighbor, where might that lead?

The amounts of money we invest in watching out for our families is really always huge, be it in preparation for college or doomsday. But "doomsday loans" are not available the way college loans are. It is hard enough for some people to stock the cupboards for a coming week of groceries, so it is not like the industrious ant versus the slacker grasshopper. We do what we can according to our means, and most of us regardless of the times strive to have moderately extra in our pantries.

Money though, isn't the real or only issue when some people dare to not over-ready themselves for this "long winter." Some people actually rely on something called "FAITH," and I don't mean faith in the power of one's self.

It may be that the biggest "preppers" out there are those who go door-to-door speaking in their faith about "the end times."  They are not laying up their treasures (survival items) here on earth; their treasures are revealed in sentiments of belief.

Sentiments of belief are available to anyone. You don't have to belong to a church to have them, but it seems to me that they need to involve a larger force than our small selves, or even a community of small selves.

The hard-wiring within ourselves tells us always to "line our ducks in a row" in preparation for what is to come. How many people do you know readied extensively for retirement, paid off the mortgage and booked that European trip or found just the right motorhome, only to learn they had cancer, or were affected with some other daunting, life-altering circumstance?

It happens all the time that we find we weren't in charge of anything. We ready for one thought-obsessed part of our life, and then get run over trying to cross the street. Sometimes we get run over trying to help our child get to the other side safely.

If a doomsday prepper speaks of faith, is the quality of that faith diminished by his/her big-time prepping? I'm not the one to say or know. We all do what we are hard-wired to do. We love our families and we want to secure their futures. We want to "be ready."

But it seems we need to be ready with more than material items of survival in our possession. We need to have something bigger than ourselves to rely on, and sometimes that means saying this much: "Less (items of physical survival) will be plenty for me."

"Letting The Chips Fall Where They May"

I trust least the marriages wherein couples profess their intentions to frequently renew their vows.

Most do not, but some do this even on an annual basis. What for, I ask. What union needs that pressure?

The idea that peace, harmony AND romance MUST accompany an impending date every twelve months or so seems very problematic to me. Certainly when the early blush of matrimonial bliss is at peak, this all appears very do-able. After all, formal promises in a witnessed ceremony have just taken place. Usually, the whole "to-do" involved great contemplation and anticipation accompanied by passionate hopes for the long-term.

It's a bit like embarking upon weight loss. You have energized yourself with all this positive karma about a change-up in your life; a vision of yourself obtaining longlasting overall well-being. You're pumped up, and you're finally serious with the right mind-set. Once you reach your goal, it will be all about maintenence--the until-death-do-you-part kind.

You know what it feels like to lose enthusiasm over a diet, an out-of-date, broken-down car, a town or a job you've outgrown. Good though each may have been to you, sometimes it's just good to take pause, mull things over and sometimes even move on. Marriage is a little more serious than these things, even in these times. Most people still do not take the commitment lightly and most do not enter it without meaning for it to LAST.
A promise is a promise is a promise. If you believe marriage is a promise and you were one of the two central participants speaking the vows, the deal is sealed. Repeating them every so often doesn't make it a stronger promise; it may even cast doubt on the validity of the original promise.

Can you imagine being several years into a marriage of frequent renewals and finding that the next approaching one seems a bit much to muster enthusiasm over? Any honest marriage worth its salt has times when just getting through dinner and a movie together is a blessed achievement. It may just be a hill or a valley--a time to get through without alot of hoopla. The less fuss the less muss, and the beat can go on.

But to be several years in and one year abandon a renewal in discord--what does that do to the psyche of a union? Wouldn't the absence of what seemed such a vital tradition provoke thoughts as to the soundness of the partnership from then on? Once a renewal doesn't take place, can a couple ever go back? More importantly, can the twosome dial back and count their original, singular anniversary as good enough?

It should never be otherwise. The original date of your promise has always been good enough. Muddying the waters with too much emphasis on regularly getting into a celebratory and reconfirming mode invites a time when it's just not going to happen.

You didn't ask, but I'll say it anyway: If you are an idealistic one who thrives on the romanticism of vow renewals, STOP IT NOW.  If you're not, but your daughter (or sister, or niece) is, STOP THEM NOW.

Conserve your emotional energy. Except for the occasional milestone, go your celebrations alone. Wasn't it supposed to be just the two of you in this marriage anyway?

Not very long ago a good friend spoke daily (to a number of us) about her upcoming renewal of vows. She and her husband had been doing this for years, she said. They invited near to a hundred people, and as planned a fairly good party took place. Friends and family showed up to enjoy cake and celebration, a bonfire and even trail (horseback) rides--the couple's favorite pastime.

Their tenth renewal went off without a hitch. (Except for the horses at the hitching post. Oh, and the fact that they essentially felt "newly hitched" again. Okay, sorry, enough.)

But not for long did they feel newly hitched. A couple of months later, my friend had her childrens' and her own bags packed with a "heads up" to the kids that if she gave the signal, they were to follow her, no questions asked.

Not a funny time at all. It took awhile, but thankfully differences seemed to get ironed out and the family is still together.  But who needs to go through a renewal one month and a near-dissolution the next? Keeping a marriage on the bright side is tough enough without adding pressures that reach a breaking point by self-imposed expectations.

When it comes to the bonds of matrimony, take them seriously. Work at things, and understand that there will be times when "muddling through" is about the best you can do. These are the hills and the valleys. Usually, you'll laugh together again, if not about your hills and valleys, about the grandbabies antics or the way you both still can't sing but like to try.

When it comes to the idealism of vow-renewals, stop romancing that notion now, and let the chips fall where they may.