Month: March 2024

Adaptations and options for future

I have been struggling to becoming less consumptive because the scientific world has been saying, no yelling, that in order to bring the natural world back to good shape, we must consume less stuff. The word is we need to focus on some options and adaptations to confront the damage we appear to be causing to the environment. The great biophysical economists say we have to focus on the more spiritual rather than the material, possibly those close-at-hand more natural things right in front of us.

Not by my own sustainable doing , but due to a clandestine act of urban gonzo farming, meaning my grandson tossed various self-selected seeds hither and yon just for the sheer excitement of seeing what might come up. As a result, I found myself with a single gourd plant coming up among the potatoes. Initially, I thought it should be pulled because it would compete with the reds but realized it would only get going by the time the potatoes were already in the pot. Plus, what a great opportunity to explore the growing and harvesting of a plant that has been in common use world-round from the beginning of time. Gourds were dried and used for storage containers. They take up no energy except from the sun, were durable, very light and simply, if I was clever, make it possible for me to save energy by not buying energy intensive glass, plastic or metal containers.  They would have no impact on the environment and might be a viable option.

Rather immediately, the single plant took ‘wings’ and ran with the wind so to speak. Within a week or two, but after the reds were consumed, it became apparent a superstructure of some magnitude was now in store because the vining monstrosity was heading for the woodshed. I was starting to see why this was a beloved plant in the more simple world. It was a growing machine and was now heavily encumbered with young gourds all intent on making storage containers for folks living a simpler, less consumptive life—my future objective.

The superstructure made of mostly white cedar poles began to stagger and needed some support from metal fence posts and stout rope. This imposing project was starting to look like a supply source for a good portion of the surrounding community. Sure as trout used to admire my fly presentation, the gourd loved my effort and by October I was in procession of over twenty-five so-called bird house gourds, the same gourd used for centuries to make containers and scooping tools.

The question then came how to deal with still-green gourds—the gourds I had not even planted but were presented to me by the green-thumbed kid. It was then it became evident that maybe he wanted to prod me into action for always talking about simplifying my life. Luckily it turned out there are even gourd societies on the interweb, so searching for my next move was not real difficult.

They had to be dried, then cleaned out, possibly decorated and made into those sustainable bean containers. This is where the work began. It seems if there are any cracks, the bugs also moved into the new home, but the pristine, dry gourds become durable after a number of weeks of hanging about.

After trough drying, and in truth we are talking some months (like a winter project), the gourds can be fashioned into useful, and very sustainable containers. For the creative they might be viewed as an artistic platform—-as the gourd societies pointed out. At this juncture, I am poised to turn all my dried food storage containers into organic, self-sustaining, environmentally preserving items of great beauty. While in some countries they are also used for storing liquids like olive oil, water, and maybe fine liquor it would appear that I am not ready to go there—well, maybe the liquor.

I suppose in the end this may just be a thought experiment, not that I didn’t try this, but for right now it must be admitted that moving away from our delightful lives of plenty, maybe a world where too much is not enough, is difficult and not without its trauma. Still, it is sure looking like we need to begin thinking about some new options and adaptations as the world shifts. Not sure the clandestine gourd is a good place to start but—-.

Nixtamalization   a Food Adventure

        Some days I think about food, maybe realizing that much of it comes from many miles away. Other common staples are modified and processed by sophisticated methods. I wouldn’t have these goodies if it weren’t for modern technology, or global systems of transportation. I suspect I was conjuring, if you will, what it would take for me to have some of the things I enjoy if those present day contraptions and transportations were taken away from me because I was bad, or someone else was bad.

       That would surely put a halt to many foods that I have grown to like, even savor. Oh, I like to savor. Why just tonight I had some ‘cuties’ those small mandarin oranges that come in bags at the grocery, the ones that really make a great evening snack. Like many things, including fresh broccoli, shrimp, almonds, olives (I hate them) come from thousands of miles away. As a child, and yes that was some time ago—-at least chronologically, we were lucky to have oranges at Christmas—it was a big deal. That list goes on and on as we are told most of the food Americans eat travels over a thousand miles, at least on average. Yes, I know all of my potatoes came from just around the corner, just like my maple syrup, and even sunflower oil I just learned.  

        Then there are the food products that have to be heavily processed, and I don’t mean, and I don’t count the frozen products like pot pies that are filled with all sorts of processed ‘thingies’ maybe from the moon or Outer Mongolia. I actually mean things like oatmeal. Ever try to make oatmeal from the actual grains? It is almost impossible to get the hull off—-and that is why they feed oats to horses. However, somebody is doing it and there must be a trick. Turns out there is and that is why only a couple of places in Iowa make it and you have to have special machinery not just a couple of grinding stones.

   Milling wheat to make flour? Who does that? A few big mills around the plain states and a handful of artesian operations make the product now, none real close. I have tried making whole wheat flour with my own mill—but could I make bleached flour? Or bug-free flour? Some of this stuff is hard and if I were left alone on an island just what would I do?

     Well, in a fit of down home desire to see if I could solve a simple problem of feeding myself, I chose to make a simple corn tortilla because after all those round puppies are, in one form or another, a staple food around the world, To top it off, they were also a food for the native Americans who have successfully lived here about 19,750 more years than we have. They had ground corn goodies for some thousands of years.

      I am sure I could shoot, trap animals, and dig roots, plus skillfully catch fish like I do, but if I wanted to go truly wholesome and local, I would have to process corn, if for no other reason than to have a tasty covering for my fish.

     The first problem was the hard corn, the dent corn was rock hard and can’t just be chewed like a cow might. It could be ground up and made into cornmeal but if put in baking it had to be mixed with wheat flower to make it workable. Plus, I had heard that rough corn was hard to digest and taxed my system. Still, we all know it is a staple all over the world. That is when I ran into the word nixtamalization, which in and of itself is a mouthful, but to be expected from the Aztecs who seemed to like Xs.

     This process involves soaking hard corn in calcium hydroxide for a day or two to weakening the hard coating and loosening up the contained nutrients (bioavailability in the nutritionist lingo). Calcium hydroxide, which is the stuff we used to mark football fields with was also called lime. I’m not exactly sure where the Aztecs got there nice clean calcium hydroxide but they did have wood ashes and that turned out to be the ticket because they produce a convenient caustic solution much like calcium hydroxide. Muster up a couple cups of wood ash, boil it up and add the hard corn and let it relax overnight.

     So I did it just to make sure the Menominee were not kidding and if successful, I could use local corn, or my Indian corn, to make some dandy corn tortillas. I wanted to go native just to see if an old fisherman/hunter/gardener could be a contender if I didn’t have groceries from a thousand miles away.

    On the modern gas stove, I boiled my oak ashes and added the Indian corn all in great fanfare. After a good washing, I had nixtamal, the now soft and edible grain. Unfortunately the next step required physically grinding the corn with a manos and metate, both made out of stone. The resulting ground product is called masa. Once a perfect masa is produced, it can be pressed into tortillas and cooked on a flat pan or hot rock. As near as can be told, or passed down in the oral tradition, this grinding was “woman’s work”.  It appears this tradition will not go far in my world as I do not need my life threatened again. While not enjoying this subtle threat, the next step will require me to step up with the stones and prove my worth. Fortunately, I am easily entertained and truly want to know if left alone I can provide a decent tortilla. Only time will tell.

PS. If I do not watch my tongue, I will be left alone by a certain segment of society.  

 My excuse for being who I am

  On a cold winter’s night I write, and there on the opening page of a book I am trying to assemble is an introduction that might explain my present day ramblings—and maybe answer any questions as to my sanity—or lack thereof. It goes as follows:

_______________________________________

       It all started back then, maybe in ’53 when the world was turning a little slower and a little more innocently. At least that is how I see it. “Things were not falling apart and the center was holding. There was no blood-dimmed tides loosed up on the land. The ceremony of the innocent was alive and well.” Yeats was wrong—not that I knew him then.

     Maybe in a Scotch-induced, half-dream some years ago I related this memory as a way of seeking out my father’s view of me and how my young life was progressing. 

     My old man hinted I had gone feral, but when he said it, he didn’t really seem to mind. It was more as if he was just making note of it. After he said those words, he slowly lifted his pursed lips and squinted as if to concentrate on the possibility that maybe it was really true. Then he posted the question to me, “Do you know what it is to be feral?” I let my eyes drift up to him as if I was giving it great thought, but in truth, I knew. I knew because I was with him when he emptied has twelve gauge at a terrified ratty cat we had seen in the pheasant marsh. As his Wingmaster came down, still engulfed in wisp of gun smoke, he had said, “I hate those God damned feral cats.”

       Before I answered the question, I hesitated not knowing where this was going. At twelve, this didn’t seem to be a question with promise. With a look of hesitation and probably puzzlement, I glanced up at him and with a hesitant sideways grin, responded that I recalled the episode at Ebert’s last week. His head fell backward, as he couldn’t hold the chuckle.

      “I missed him ‘cause I wanted to. Just wanted to scare the hell outa him. Get ‘em outa my huntin’ spot.” He said with a grin that portrayed maybe a statement of some questionable truthfulness.

      “How does that play for me?” I asked with twisted grimace. He laughed again, this time with a little more intent. His well-known sly and almost mischievous grin crept over his face as he looked straight at me as if to do a more thorough study of this question asked. He paused, pondering his next move, wanting to know if he should lay down the worthless deuces or try to play the pair of jacks. His mouth fell slightly open with intent, but the touch of humor still trickled from his eyes. “I think,” he said,” if I can use a thin metaphor, that you, as young as you might be, are weaving your way through the tall grasses and oak forests trying to capture just one more stinking God-damn mouse“

    “You ain’t gonna shoot at me, are ya?”

    “You little fart. There’s no way I could hit you if I tried. I been watching you for years now not really carin’. You’re feral I think, but you’re not after my pheasants or at least not the pheasants I’m after, but you might be after pheasants of a sort.”

    I grinned knowing there were some birds out there I admired.

    I think that was the first time I noticed I was heading in a different direction, but probably not the first time he noticed.

     While this distant anecdote might be an accumulation of a number of outings and a slight exercise in artistic license, it does sum up his many-times expressed thoughts on my constant wanderings and seeming lack of responsibility toward the mainstream of behavior. He used the word feral for cats and if I recall cats only, but it was the looks he gave me that made me think this man of chosen words was pondering applying it towards me.

   The years have flown from this first encounter but tucked away are memories of the mangy wild cats, the marshes, the fatherly exchanges, the years of rambling, the smells of wetlands, and the pheasants of each fall. It is all there. It has never left me in the years passing, nor drifted off like the smoke of so many fires.

    My old man, with all his backwoods insight and sly grin has quietly disappeared as ashes into his duck pond and is no longer here to draw any conclusions on his earlier observations of me having gone feral.

So while the rest of my intended book deals with this loose concept of being feral—-and society’s chasing of the Red Queen, the one that had to go faster and faster just to stay even, this little tidbit is my excuse for now.

The hand-made Architecture

I will admit I am a fan of what might be called antiquated architecture. Of course, we all marvel at the work of the Greeks and Romans who, by means hard to understand, assembled magnificent buildings of carved stone, many of which are still standing today. Certainly, they used slaves and did have animals in bondage to produce them but in reality they have seldom been matched by the masters of today with all of our technology and fossil fuel ‘slaves’.

The Incans of South America also were able to produce mindboggling structures of stone that defy reason as the cut stones were so tight, a knife blade can’t even fit between the seams. The structures are elegant, timeless and without match by modern man. All of this was done by hand and the simplest of tools. Without a doubt the time taken was long and the lives played out were many, but still, the work is profound.

The world’s structures devoted to the worship of gods are also noteworthy as every small town in this country can profess to at least one magnificent church, many made over one hundred and fifty years ago with only the hands of man and draft animals— with the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris coming to mind.

Now, some will say that while these structures are a testament to our great abilities, most folks in the past have lived in structures bordering on squalor, I prefer to glorify the apex of achievement. Yes, there are also wondrous buildings being made today but all of them have been constructed with the use of energy slaves—in the form of fossil fuels. All that concrete, plastic, glass and steel are totally made with massive amounts of that lovely one time allotment of stored sunlight energy.

Handmade is my point of admiration today. Right here, close at hand we can see the elegant Victorian homes built largely by hand around 1900 and earlier. While the lumber was no doubt processed in a mill powered by either water or steam, the homes were made by hand, with tools without motors.

Then of course, we have the hand-hewn, dovetailed log cabins that still show up now and then, usually under some more modern covering. But what beauty, and execution of carpentry skills all usually done under primitive conditions and situations. There is something about the log cabin that brings out the history, maybe the struggles, but still the skills of the average man so many years ago. Maybe it is a touch of our romantic vision of pioneers. Whatever it is I am drawn to these efforts.

Recently ran into an example of a handmade structure that incorporated the skills of past years and the creative thoughts of our ancestors. No slaves were used, some concrete maybe, and yes a salvaged metal roof, but mostly it was handmade and functional, clearly a structure for the ages.

Let me describe this structure with the understanding there may be some that question the intentions of the “architect”. Never the less, it’s impressive and I’m sure a delight to any one fortunate enough to actually use the service it provides. It is an almost hand-hewed log outhouse. While it may not compare to the Sistine Chapel or the Parthenon, it stands tall appearing to be a solid fifteen feet and capable of withstanding a F4 tornado or a fascist revolution. The half dove-tailed logs are both functional and decidedly robust adding a touch of masculinity only Justin could muster.

The presentation of extra height adds to the regality and puts the user in a vaulted position suitable for a king or queen. It is like a throne. While the hopper itself is not gold plated as noted in some New York apartments, the naturalness, like the lack of heat, puts a person more in touch with the naturalness of it all. In the local Architectural Digest it was rated a 9.8 for thoughtfulness, lack of pretentiousness and noteworthy in artistic presentation making any local country bumpkin like me proud to say I know Justin the builder. I have yet to hear a response from Lynn his equally creative, always smiling wife. It will be suggested for inclusion in the national registry of fine building.