Today was our annual trip to the blueberry farm. The month of April has flown by and we almost missed our chance to pick buckets of berries to bring home. We didn’t make it to yesterday’s Bostwick Blueberry Festival, but Facebook assured us the bushes were still filled with large, ripe berries. We picked up our two Florida grandsons after church and made the drive out to the farm.
Last year’s picking was good, but since it was later in the season, this year was even better. The clouds kept the temperatures down, Saturday morning’s rain was mostly dried up, so it was a great afternoon to pick.
It’s fun to listen to all the conversations going on as families stand between the rows of bushes, picking blueberries.
“Whoa! Look at this one. This is the biggest berry ever!” (I heard that at least a dozen times.)
“I’m glad I wore my boots. I stepped right into that mud puddle.”
“Don’t pick the green ones. They’re too hard and sour. Only pick the purple ones.”
“Marco!” “Polo!”
“I’m going to eat all the berries.”
“Hey, stop throwing those.”
“I heard that someone picked fifty pounds of berries last week.”
“This bush is really full of them. You can just stand here and fill your bucket.”
“How many have you eaten?”
“Watch out; you almost dumped your bucket.”
“My bucket is way fuller than yours.”
The farm reported that one picker took home fifty pounds of blueberries one day last week. Our load of ten pounds seemed like a lot. Was it someone who owned a bakery? Or took them home to share with neighbors? Maybe they resold them by the side of the road.
Some friends of ours told us about another blueberry farm that forbid pickers to eat any. Posted signs said it was a federal offense to eat any berries before purchasing them. You won’t see us at that farm. I probably ate a pint while filling my bucket.
The bushes were filled with white and green berries yet to ripen, so the harvest will continue through next week. For now we’ve got all the blueberries we need for pancakes, muffins, scones, smoothies, and maybe some jam.
Ranch dressing was on my shopping list last week. My wife and I don’t eat a whole lot of it, but the grandchildren sure do. They don’t eat a lot of salad, but they love to put it on other things. Like pizza. I find this puzzling, but one grandson first sprinkles parmesan cheese on his slice, followed by red peppers, and then a healthy squirt of ranch dressing. A granddaughter loves to eat rice smothered in ranch dressing. Some dip a burger or grilled cheese into a puddle of ranch on their plate. Not to mention pretzels and chips. Before you know it, we need to buy more.
I never noticed it before, but Walmart and other stores have shelves and shelves filled with all makes and models of ranch dressing. I had my choice of the original Hidden Valley Farms, Ken’s, Kraft, Great Value generic, Marie’s, Newman’s Own, and a bunch more. I could choose lite, vegan, fat free, organic, or plant powered. Bonus flavors include cheesy, jalapeno, parmesan, pickle, and garlic. Next, what size do I want? They have them all from tiny dipping cups to squeeze bottles to restaurant sized jugs. I can take home a packet of spices and mix it up myself. Or sprinkle ranch seasoning on anything and everything.
I remember when ranch dressing became popular in the seventies. In 1992 it surpassed Italian as the most popular salad dressing in America. Now it occupies about half of the salad dressing section of the grocery store.
I’ll reach for it once in a while, but I’m not a huge fan of creamy dressings. I most often choose a balsamic vinegar or mix up my own Good Seasons Italian copycat recipe.
As we drove home from visiting my son, we searched every gas station convenience store for circus peanuts. Circus peanuts? Yeah, those sort of pink, half-way orange, stale peanut-shaped marshmallow treat. They have no nutritional value, little taste, and feel weird when you bite in. But some find them irresistible. So we keep searching.
Persistence paid off at a Keith’s Superstore in the middle of rural Mississippi. There they were in the candy aisle. Two for a buck fifty. One pack is enough, so let’s grab one circus peanuts and one…bag of jellybeans. Can’t go wrong with jellybeans.
When I popped a couple jellybeans in my mouth, I knew something was wrong. I was wrong. These jellybeans were terrible. No flavor, strange texture, sickeningly sweet. In a word, blech.
The circus peanuts weren’t much better. “These are nasty.” And very disappointing. Styro-bland. Once again, bleach. We tossed them. At the next stop we found real jellybeans, Brach’s. But sadly, no circus peanuts.
A container with nothing more than one jelly bean.
A bag containing one tortilla chip.
A single cookie in a box.
One slice of bread in a bag secured by a twist tie.
One Cheezit in the bag.
We have an unwritten rule: “Don’t eat the last one.”
That rule evolved over time, emerging from questions like, “Did you eat all the jellybeans… cookies… bread… Cheezits?”
Yes, it was me. Too often I ate the last of something, just moments before I heard the question, “Did you eat all of those?”
It took me a long time to learn the principle of “Don’t eat the last one.” It doesn’t matter how long it’s been in the refrigerator. It doesn’t matter if it’s past the expiration date. It doesn’t matter if the package is unopened. It doesn’t matter if it’s generic or a brand name. As soon as I eat the last one, someone will ask, “Did you eat that?”
Yes, it’s me. I ate all of them. I ate the last one. I finished the bag. I ate all the jellybeans. I finished off the box of cookies. And the banana bread. Ice cream. Cashews. Peanuts.
So I no longer eat the last one. Why is there one jellybean in the container? Why is there one cookie left in the bag? Why is there one slice of bread left? Why is there one segment of an orange in the fridge? Why is there one cashew in the jar?
I will not eat the last one in a plane or a train, in a house or with a mouse, in a box or with a fox.
I noticed more trash than usual out for collection day today. A lot of bike week festivities meant a few extra bags and lots of recycling this week.
After tugging the dogs away from this stray donut, I snapped a few photos, wondering what the story is here. If you look closely, you’ll also see half a bagel trying to escape from a white kitchen trash bag.
I can imagine a shrill voice saying, “You said you were going to take care of the garbage!” A hungover dad stumbles down the driveway with brunch remnants. He doesn’t even notice the donut that bounces out onto the driveway. Even if he did, I doubt he’d pick it up. You’ll notice he couldn’t be bothered to pick up last Thursday’s local merchant newspaper.
This glazed bad boy will soon discover that life on the outside is treacherous. I didn’t let my dogs near it, but deer, cats, birds, dogs, and insects will be interested. Mom will probably nail it when she backs the car out of the driveway to take the kids to school. A gentle rain will melt it into the ground.
Whether consumed or discarded, a donut’s life is brief. Mama, don’t your babies grow up to be donuts.
While walking the dogs the other day (we take them out about twice a day), my mind wandered to some of the meals I ate while visiting new members and homebound folks. Coffee and cookies were pretty common. Sometimes good. Sometimes not. Sometimes out of a package. Sometimes homemade.
And sometimes I got a meal. Kathy was one I visited many times, while she was taking care of her father at home and then later when she couldn’t get out and around. But she could cook.
On one occasion, I had a vicar (pastoral intern) in tow when we went to visit her at lunch time. She roasted two whole chickens for us. These were surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and rolls. All this was followed by a Klondike bar for dessert. She always had six or seven varieties of Kondike bars in her freezer. That’s why you couldn’t find many in the store. It was enough food for a dozen people.
Pastoral ministry tip: just take a little bit of everything. Pace yourself. When pressured to get seconds, take even smaller spoonfuls. And, of course, leave room for dessert.
The day would come when Kathy couldn’t prepare meals for me. So she would have me take her out for lunch. We hit Olive Garden, Red Lobster, Alfie’s (on the beach in Ormond Beach, FL), TGI Fridays. She always paid, even though she was living off an impossibly small monthly income. She never ate much, but took home leftovers for the rest of the week. She also took home all the packs of butter on the table to go with the rolls.
When Kathy couldn’t physically get in and out of my car, she would have me stop and bring lunch. Her favorite was Chinese take out. While I would get General Tso’s chicken and fried rice, she would always request a large container of egg drop soup. When I arrived, she would drop a whole stick of butter into the soup container, and stir it until it all melted. I know, I little rich for me, too.
She also got meals on wheels each week. I got to try one of those meals. The microwavable meal was some kind of meat (the label didn’t specify), green beans, mashed turnips, and a roll. As I ate the meal she graciously shared with me, I remembered that I had eaten goat in Haiti, and banana soup and ugali in Kenya. I’ll live.
When she could no longer cook, Kathy offered me a pork roast out of the bottom of her freezer, underneath all the Klondike bars. When I asked how long it had been in there, she said, “I think it’s from last year.” It was over a year old.
That I said, “No thank you.” I wasn’t sure I’d live through that. One needs both faith and wisdom to survive in this world.
Another member I went to visit, S., had grown up in Cambodia. She escaped in the 1980’s, found refuge through a church in Michigan, and there met her husband. For my visit, she prepared enough food for twenty people. She deep fried two-dozen homemade spring rolls over a small backyard burner. To this she added multiple vegetable, noodle, and sesame seed side dishes. All for me. She didn’t even eat. She just watched me. I brought home a nice container of leftovers from her house.
And then there are many visits to ninety-eight year old B., who lived with her daughter, B2. Before Covid, B. would be awake most of the night and sleep late into the day, so she didn’t make church very often. It was a three-hour event when I came to visit. B2 always prepared a wonderful meal. I had chicken parmesan, tilapia, short ribs, meat loaf, pork loin chops. The sides were all kinds of vegetables, potatoes, rice, and bread. And of course, a dessert, most often some kind of cake or pie, with a scoop of ice cream. B. and B2. had lived in Bolivia back in the seventies, and had an arsenal of South American cuisine to draw from. Yes, it was always delicious. But it was also enough food for eight to ten people. I never had to worry about supper on the days I went to visit this family.
Every once in a great while, I would visit a family who offered me a beer. One such family thought I was German, so I had a choice of six imports that day. I only had one, since I still had to work that day and I also had to drive home.
P. who was a non-drinker, had the most extensive selection of beer and liquor in town. Whenever I visited him after his wife died, he always offered me a “bump and boost.” I think he meant a shot and a beer.
For me, the coffee (strong and black, please) was the best part. Caffeine is an essential part of an afternoon visit, if you catch my drift.
If I think of more snack and meal reviews from my time in ministry, I’ll be back to write a sequel.
With Valentine’s Day a week away, it’s time for decorating cookies! My wife made a nice selection of cut out sugar cookies which we packed up and took to my daughter’s house along with a nice selection of sprinkles. She made a batch of royal icing and her girls helped us decorate them.
Royal icing, made with confectioner’s sugar, meringue powder, water, and vanilla is a little different that the buttercream icing we’ve used before. It’s a little runnier at first, but then hardens nicely in less than an hour. While it’s still kind of liquid-y, you can dot it with another color or shape it with a toothpick for special effect. The sprinkles sink in nicely, too.
We had four colors of icing to work with: white, light pink, dark pink, and purple. The girls, aged five and three (the one-year-old was taking a timely nap), were more concerned about quantity than quality. They piped on plenty of icing and heaped on piles of sprinkles. Along with traditional miniature hearts and pink sugar, you’ll notice we had some unicorn heads.
Not every cookie that we decorated is pictured above. Some were eaten as soon as they were decorated. A few broke, so I had to eat them. I have no idea how that happened. A whole bunch of those teeny tiny little decorating balls rolled onto the floor. I have no idea how that happened either. But I know the family dog quickly took care of them.
We popped most of these cookies into the freezer to make sure the icing was hardened. Separated by sheets of wax paper, many but not all of them will make it to Valentine’s Day.
Part two of Valentine’s cookie decorating is coming up next week. The grandsons are up next. I have a feeling they’ll have a little less patience but a much bigger appetite.
We were going to travel. I had a few loaves in the freezer. My sourdough starter didn’t need daily feedings. All the Instagram experts advised, “Just put it in the refrigerator and it will go to sleep. When you take it out and feed it, it will be fine.” I believed them. I just stuck my two mason jars way back on the bottom shelf with about 25 grams of starter in each. “I’ll see you when we get back.” (Yeah, I talk to my starter. Don’t you?”
Anyway, I left it in hibernation for about two and a half weeks. When I retrieved it and looked in the jars, the starter looked like hardened paint in the bottom of an old can. Or the cracked, barren ground of a drought-ridden farmland. I guess I should have put lids on the jars rather than just a coffee filter and rubber band.
Of course, I Googled “dried up sourdough starter.” Everyone said, “Don’t give up on it. It will come back to life.” I believe in the resurrection of the dead, but this was a whole different ballgame. I chipped out pieces of dried starter with a knife and soaked them in some water. If I could soften it up, I could mix in flour and water. If. Hours of soaking later, I had a bowl of dried up pieces floating in water.
So I tried to mash them up with a spoon. The pieces were a little softer, but still hard to work with. I decided to go for it. I poured them into the bottom of a jar, added fifty grams of flour and water, covered them with the coffee filter and pushed them back in the corner of the kitchen cabinet. If nothing happened, I’d just toss it and start over. If they came to life, I would be amazed, but would be baking bread soon.
I was skeptical when I peeked at them the next day. I was amazed. The starter hadn’t doubled in size, but I could see little bubbles on the side. Like Dr. Frankenstein, I shouted, “It’s alive!” I discarded a bunch, fed it again, and left it to fully revive.
The next morning, it had doubled, was filled with little bubbles, and had fully come back to life. I fed it in preparation for making dough that night, and the next day I was baking bread.
Some approach sourdough bread as a science project. Others would call it an art. For me, it’s mysterious and magical. I use a scale to measure my quantities. Visual cues tell me when it’s ready. But I am always astounded when I put a ball of dough into the over and pull out a crusty loaf of bread.
If I were still preaching, this would have made a great Easter Sunday illustration.
Since then I’ve learned that some dry out their starter on purpose, to store it for long periods of time. One person kept theirs for fifteen years! It came right back to life with a little flour and water
I believe my grandchildren ask themselves this question every time they come to our house. From the minute they walk in the door they are foraging for snacks. Immediately before and after supper, they stand and look in the pantry or refrigerator in search of a snack.
“Can I have a cheese stick?” Cheese sticks have always been a popular snack at our house. But you better have the right ones. If I offer them cheddar, they will want mozzarella. And vice-versa. The swirly combination cheese sticks are usually a safe bet.
In different seasons of life they have preferred different snacks. Mini Oreo cookies were popular for a while. Sometimes they wanted chocolate, other times vanilla. One granddaughter would eat the cream centers and leave the cookie shells behind.
Trail mix is another popular snack. It’s not as healthy as it sounds, since their version of trail mix was mini marshmallows, chocolate chips, and Craisins. Of course, they would eat the marshmallows and chocolate, and leave the dried fruit behind.
Fortunately, the grandchildren all liked fruit. They often choose an orange, apple, or banana. Apples used to be a good grab and go, but now it has to be peeled and sliced up for them. If the kids find out we have strawberries, they will consume them in a sitting.
Chewy fruit snacks have always been popular, too. The word fruit justifies eating a little bag full of sugar.
Me? More than anything else, I reach for nuts. Cashews, peanuts, or mixed nuts are often my snack of choice, especially in the evening watching television. During the day, apples and oranges are the first thing I see when I open the refrigerator, and I might reach for one of them. A few Christmas cookies are still calling my name from the garage freezer, and it’s only fair that I indulge them as well, right?
Waite for it... 