Emulsified Groundnuts

I'm one of those people who will see something and immediately say, "I bet I can do / make / try that!"

This thought applies to food, clothing, art, carpentry, animal care, medicinal items, cleaning products, etc. Just about anyting with the exception of things that have to do with electricity. It's not that I'm afraid of electricity (well, I really should be), but because I do not understand it. At all. But that's another story.

I like to think that my "I can do that!" attitude comes from my inate thirst for knowledge and empowerment, but mostly it comes from being a tightwad Polok.

Rhiannon and I went to the local health food store in town and treated ourselves to some fresh ground peanut butter. $5.98 a pound peanut butter. Which wasn't even really "FRESHLY" ground as the bulk bin section where the peanut butter machine is located is on "lockdown" because of COVID. So basically there are a bunch of little plastic tubs filled with already-ground peanut butter in stacks on shelves right next to the taped-off peanut butter making machine. Boooooo.

Not only did we have to use their tubs (we bring our own tub), but we didn't get to see the magic of the peanut butter machine in action. Bought a single tub anyways. Because, well, peanut butter.

Said peanut butter was finished rather quickly. With homemade jam and fresh bread, slathered on apples, dolloped on top of banana slices, mixed in with breakfast oat groats / wheat berries, eaten right off the spoon (did I say that aloud?).

So. I am out of peanut butter. Well, not really. We do have a stash of store-bought peanut butter in the pantry. And it is good. But you really can't compare store-bought to fresh ground. It's like comparing Little Caesar's pizza to a deep dish Chicago pizza; they are both pizza, they are both good in their own right, but they are not the same animal.

Out comes the aforementioned frugal person of polish decent.

I pillage our pantry and bring up a pound of dry roasted, unsalted peanuts. Do a quick internet search for "homemade peanut butter" and find out that yes, it is as easy as it seems; IF you have a food processor. Which I technically do not OWN, but I HAVE one that I have yet to return to my Dad's house. I'm thinking that my crappy blender would not have been ideal for this project, nor was I THAT stubborn to shun the use of electric chopping devices in favor of somehow smashing peanuts with some sort of mallet (which I did, indeed, entertain the idea of....for like two seconds).

After hefting the behemoth food processor out of the bottom cabinet, snapping on the metal blade and securing all safety contraptions to it, I was ready to make my own darned peanut butter! I dumped the entire 16 ounce can of roasted, unsalted peanuts, closed the top and pushed the button. The peanuts rattled around for a few seconds, then went from chopped to minced to a crumbly mass. Not wanting to be hard on the motor, I gave Ol' Bessie a minute off, then proceeded with the peanut processing.

After it looked like, well peanut butter, I plopped a couple of tablespoons of honey in there and zipped it again for about 20 seconds. Scooped it all out and put it in my hand-me-down glass container thingy.

I can now add "Maker of Peanut Butter" to my Curriculum Vitae!

Yes....growing peanuts is now on the list.

Empty Porch Syndrome

Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Yule, Happy Winter Solstice, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year!

There....did I cover it all? Hope so :)

And I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, however you celebrate it....or don't.

I've neglected my blog (again), as well as neglecting everyone else's blogs. I've been trying to do more non-computer stuff and making the most out of the spurts of nice weather we've had so far this Winter. Lots of hikes, lots of wandering through the back 40. Collecting lichens for tinctures, collecting mushrooms for eating. Taking down Christmas decorations, putting up grow lights. Moving marsupial mauraders, adjusting to Penelope moving to her own pad.

Penelope (our resident fart squirrel) had decided that it was time for her to go out on her own. She made this decision by now twice by jumping off the back balcony in order to get into the great wide outdoors. She had food delivered to her twice a day, she had a box house, toys, cat tree, blankets and a heating pad. But all that extravagance and comfort was no match for the call of the wild. I wrongly assumed that her first "fall" off the back porch was a mistake, and I found her later that evening wandering around the yard, digging for yummies in the ground. So I brought her back in. The second time, just a few days later, I had to admit to myself that she really wants to be off the porch. Even when confined to the (relative) safety of the back porch, we would take her into the woods, or walk with her down the trails or just in the front yard, but it wasn't enough. I reluctuntaly understood. My beloved fart squirrel didn't just leave the nest - she hurled herself off the back porch.

Luckily for me, she decided to make herself a home underneath our storage shed. We provided her with several polar fleece blankets and she drug them to her little burrow under the shed; close enough for us to still see where she made her home, but far enough under that we cannot get to her if we chose to. Sneaky little girl.

Fart squirrels do not hibernate in the winter, but instead enter a period of "semi-hibernation" called topor when it gets too cold. Internal body temperature drops, respiration slows, and they basically just take really, really HARD naps, sometimes for days at a time, but nothing like what grizzly bears do. I'm not sure if she's gone into this state of rest yet as our lowest temperature has only been 19 or 20 degrees at night and we have seen her for supper every day since her emincapation. I'll have to read up on that. Maybe topor is just something like I go through during the winter. You know. It's freaking freezing outside and you're cold and sleepy so you go to bed really early and just sleep like a rock and nothing can wake you up. Except the smell of bacon. Bacon I would wake up for. And she does wake up for her nightly suppers so apparently her olifactory senses are not dimmed during this lightened state of semi-hibernation.

Late Night Skunk-er-cise

I got a Paddling

I bought some ducklings about, uhm, a while ago. On a whim, of course. Saw an ad in the local paper & I'm like, I'M ON IT!

About an hour later, $27 lighter, and nine ducklings heavier, I was home with my new Pekin charges.

We had hatched out two mallard drakes from the neighbor's duck eggs earlier this spring and I was hoping to get some duck eggs for eating / incubating. Not so much happening with two males. So at least now I had the missing female piece of the future duck eggs puzzle.

We raised Pekin ducks about 12 or so years ago. I remember them fondly. Well, I was fond of the way they tasted. Smoked duck with an orange / cranberry sauce is absolutely delectable. I think I ate the entire crispy smoked skin from one of them myself. Heaven. Wonderful. Lip-smacking good.

So you may ask why, if they were in fact so delicious, that I waited 12 years to grow out more Pekins?

Because they are freaks.

That first batch of ten Pekins were hand raised by yours truly. I didn't bring them in bed with me, or have tea parties with them, but I was nice to them, even tried (unsuccessfully) to win their affection with special treats. But they hated me. Absolutely, positively, undeniably hated me. Every time I went into their outdoor enclosure they would run as fast as their little flappy feet would take them, right into the corner of the fence, all ten of them vying for the place farthest away from me.....and practically sufficating each other in the process. I fed them. I watered them. I brough them fancy snackies. But they were just the most nervous, noisy, scardy-ducks I have ever seen.

So I was hoping that THIS batch of Pekins would be different. I don't know why I bother hoping for anything. Because they are just as excitable, freaked out and neurotic as those first birds. Except these guys (and hopefully gals) have the run of the entire farm. Paul let them out of their outdoor enclousre one day and they never went back in. How they've escaped becoming coyote or hawk or bobcat meals, I have no idea. We've never had a white hen last more than a few months here.

But all nine of them have survived from Spring, to Summer and into Fall. And they are still freaks.

They do, however, provide a very nice lawn-keeping service. I haven't seen a cricket or grasshopper in any area that they have access to. Not a one. I've watched them for some time and they all stick together and waddle, bills down, across the lawn and suck up anyting that is moving. And they don't scratch up the plants like the chickens do nor crow all freaking day like the roosters. When they get spooked they make Crazy-Kazoo noises, but not so often that it becomes a migraine. Four of the nine ducks are drakes, so all but one of them will become the centerpiece of the upcoming Holiday Dinners. The lucky survivor will have the five Pekin females to look after and hopefully be Ducky Daddy to more ducklings in the near future.

I don't think that we will switch over from chicken to duck (for eggs & meat), but I'd like to keep them around if only to give the gardens an all natural, organic, flappy-footed and kinda-cute insect control team.

By the way, if you're still confused about the title of today's blog post, a "Paddling" is a group of ducks in the water. You're welcome.

The Flavor of Fall

If I were to ask someone what Fall “tastes” like, no doubt the number one answer would be, “Pumpkin-Spiced-Such-n-Such”, closely followed by, “Apple Cider”. I strongly disagree. My immediate answer would be, “Persimmons!” as I rolled my eyes back in my head, made a faintly erotic sounding “mmmmmm” noise while dreaming of the taste on my tongue and licking the sticky sweetness from my fingers.

Wow. That was a little weird.

Moving on......

Persimmons are what Fall would taste like, at least in my tiny corner of the Ozarks. But not the store-bought persimmons; Oh no, no, no. Those huge, shiny, perfect looking persimmons that you find at your local grocer are not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about those squishy, rotten looking orange and brown’ish globs of goodness that you find on the ground underneath the holiest of holy fruit trees.

My first encounter with a persimmon was about 20 years ago, off an old dirt road in the Missouri Ozarks. We were driving along with our friends, Mark & Rita, and they suddenly swerve over to the side of the road and Rita tells me to follow her out of the car. She is picking up a bunch of dark orange, squishy golf ball looking things and popping them into her mouth and then hands me one. She is the person who introduced me to poke weed (and I didn’t die), so I trusted her. But if it were anyone else but her handing me one of those things, I likely would have recoiled from them thinking they were trying to poison me or something. So I follow my mentor’s lead.

1. Take the top cap off & toss it away
2. Pick off any obvious dirt or debris
3. Pop the entire thing in your mouth
4. Squish it around in your mouth to extract the pulp while taking care not to swallow the large seeds
5. Swallow the good stuff
6. Unceremoniously spit the mass of seeds out onto the ground (hopefully away from everyone)
7. Lick fingers clean
8. Repeat

And from that day forward I looked forward to freezing nights and falling leaves.

Persimmon trees are not uncommon around here, but there are only a few large trees that I know of that produce the largest fruits and biggest yields…none of which are on our property. We have several younger trees in the goat yard, and a dozen or so in the woods that I have found, but none that are really my go-to harvesting tree. And the trees that the goats have access to are pretty much a zero-yield for me as they know exactly where those trees are and congregate around them waiting for the fruit to drop. Besides shaking the bucket of grain, the other sure fire way to get the goats to come a-running is to shake a persimmon tree and they are on it like fruit flies on your kitchen compost bucket.

So how did I acquire my latest haul? I left the woods and went to Taco Bell.

A friend and I went into town this weekend to do some thrifting. On the way out of the parking lot, she tells me to pull over towards the road (but still safely in the parking lot). In the narrow grass strip between the road and the lot there is a large persimmon tree just filled with persimmons. I almost pee’d myself I was so happy. I jumped out of the car and proceeded to pick up as many fallen persimmons that I could cram into my Salvation Army plastic bag and shoveled no fewer than ten ripe fruits into my maw. What a scene for the line of cars in the Taco Bell across the street to behold! Slightly overweight, pony-tailed, middle-aged lady in barn-chore jeans and t-shirt, squatting & waddling underneath tree on the side of main road, tossing squishy & sticky overripe fruits into plastic bag and licking her fingers. My friend stayed in the car and opted for a more civilized lunch from Taco Bell. So while she ran in to get a chicken taco thingy, I sat in the car…..eating more persimmons. When we pulled out of the parking lot, the spot next to me was heavily littered with persimmon seeds. And I had a bellyache. But oh sooooo worth it.

Save a Life. Buy a Donut.

Occasionally I will drive into town before work to get donuts for the office.  Well, more than occasionally.  But not like every week.  Maybe twice a month if I'm in the mood and not running late.  Today was one of those days when I was actually up and around earlier than normal so I thought I'd make a run to procure some diabetes inducing snacks.

The road into town is a two lane state highway.  And when I say highway, it's not crazy-city-madness highway, just the main thoroughfare.  Houses on the side of the road, businesses as you get closer to the town center, and cattle pasture with wooded acreage scattered throughout.  

I got my twelve-pack of glazed goodness and proceeded to work.  On the right side of the road, just on the line between shoulder (btw, our road "shoulders" are more like a 4" strip of crumbly gravel) and main strip, is a hunched up lump of floof.  That almost gets blown over when the cars in front of me blow past it.  I know what the lump of floof is.  Don't ask me how, but I can pick out the type of creature with surprising accuracy even at 55 mph.

An, "OMG!" immediately passed my lips and I pulled into the first spot on the side of the road that wasn't 1) a cliff 2) occupied by a large brahman bull or 3) a farm pond.  I jam the car into park, fling the door open and run like a crazed maniac down the side of the road, hoping that I do not end up like the carcass of the long deceased deer in the ditch.....down the hill....probably hit by a car....while running like a crazed deer-maniac down the side of the road.  

There, sitting hunched up, and still as could be, is a barred owl.  There was a pellet next to her, as well as some poop.  I'm assuming that she got hit by a car during a "swoop" and managed not to get run over.  Yet.

I slowly put my hands around her wings just in case she wanted to flap away, but she offered zero resistance.  I went back to the car as quickly as one possibly could with a small raptor in one's hands while trying to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic or slipping down the embankment.

We make it to the car and lucky for me, there is a donation bag sitting there.  My procrastination in getting to The Salvation Army paid off!  I hurriedly grab the first soft item in there and wrap the owl up in a pair of sweat pants.  Since my vehicle is in a relatively safe spot, I gave her a quick once-over and there did not appear to be any broken bones, blood or missing chunks of flesh or feathers.  She was quite still, blinked at me a few times, but not once tried to claw or bite.  I wrapped her back up and put her on the front seat while I called the local vet that takes in wildlife.

A little dazed.  See those talons gripping at the fabric??

 

Is that look a "Thank you" or "I'm about to rip your face off" ??

 
Luckily, they were going to be open in just twenty minutes so we drove over there.  As I was waiting for the vet's office to open, she slowly righted herself and just kind'a stared at me.  Of course, I couldn't help but do the babytalk crap all humans do to cute little creatures and pet her sooooo very, very soft feathers.  

Once the office opened, I brought her in, but not before she gave me a good "Clack-clacking" of her beak.   I "relinquished" her to the vet and made my way back to the office, donuts in hand. 

What a great morning.

I'm kind'a hoping that Karma recognizes this small act of kindness by negating the calories in my donut.

Little Steps & Little Chicks

We ran out of the Creepy Meats in the freezer about three months ago.  Dad comes over for Sunday Supper every week and roast chicken is by far his favorite meal.  We’ve hatched out two batches of chicks from our flock and we butchered the roosters for the freezer, but they are nowhere near as fleshy or large as those Cornish cross meat birds.  But you know what?  We’ll survive.

I won’t lie.  I love to have a big chonk’n bird on the table with gravy made from the oh-so-yummy drippings.  But I also love knowing that I can raise my own suppers without having to rely on a hatchery to provide me with those chicks.  And if you purchase chicks yourselves, you are well aware of the fact that they are getting pricier each year.  So this Fall, we decided not to place our normal September order for fifty Cornish Cross chicks and will instead make do with hatching out our own.  Will they be as plump and juicy as those from Cackle Hatchery?  Of course not.  But they will be good nonetheless and we will appreciate each bite even more so knowing that we raised it from the incubator to supper plate.

Speaking of raising chicks…….

That is Pirate (named for the fact that she survived an opossum attach, sans one eye).  She hatched out a single chick last year (Sparkle) from her nest oh-so-inconveniently-placed in the bulldozer seat.  And she managed to hatch out another single chick this year plus was kind enough to do so in the nesting box.  Hen & chick will stay in the pen for another few weeks then be let out into the Great Wild Open of the barnyard.

Earlier this year, in the cold months of January, we were gifted some hatching eggs from the neighbor down the road.  I believe there were about twenty live hatches.  We butchered and ate the roosters and just recently started getting eggs from the ladies.   

 

Green eggs!  

 

 And an occasional double-yolker!!

It’s the little things that make me smile :)