I found something that's revolutionizing our pantry here at HomePlace. Making our own convenience mixes as preparedness planning takes a bit of time, but is well worth it. Why buy boxed and bagged dinners at steadily increasing prices when you can do your own and control your ingredients?
The idea took hold when I discovered Dinner's In the Jar by Kathy Clark. She explains how to create a 90 day supply of dinners stored in Mason jars. This book is not available at our library and Barnes and Noble doesn't carry it either. Drat!
What to do? I wanted to start immediately, not make an order to Amazon and wait. I searched further and found budget101.com and recipelion.com which have extensive lists of convenience mixes. I began with making seasoning mixes.
Understand I can't leave well enough alone and have to mess with recipes to suit our tastes. I read the ingredient lists and went to the local discount warehouse to stock up on onion powder, garlic powder, dried onion, chili powder, assorted boullions and parlsey in larger sizes. Other spices and herbs were in our spice box already, but I'd need to replenish them soon.
Secondly, you don't need to trot out and stock up on canning jars. Use what you have at home first! Chip dip jars, olive jars, salsa jars and the like are wide mouth jars with rubber where the jar meets the lid. Even freezer type baggies will do.
None of the following recipes contain sugar; if you want it, have at it!
Here's two spice mix recipes I modified:
Creole Seasoning
2TBS + 1 tsp paprika Mix and store in air-tight
2TBS garlic powder container. Use on seafood
2TBS onion powder chicken, fish, beans, or on rice.
1TBS chicken boullion Can be used in other mix recipes.
1TBS Italian seasoning
1TBS dried thyme
1TBS cayenne pepper ( HOT - may want to modify more)
1TBS pepper
Taco Seasoning Mix
1TBS dried minced onion Combine in air-tight container.
2TBS chili powder
2 TBS paprika
41/2 tsp cumin
3 tsp onion powder
2 1/2 tsp garlic
1/8 tsp cayenne or red pepper
Add 3 TBS to1# browned ground beef,chicken or turkey. Add 1/2 c water or 1/2 c salsa for extra zip. Use in other convenience mixes to follow in future blogs.
Stay tuned for more recipes and hints for preparing your emergency pantry supplies.
I've made up 37 dinner mixes in jars and bags in two "sittings" of 1 to 2 hours each. The project will continue for some time, complete with culinary experiments. The rice pudding dessert mix recipe needs a lot of tweaking, for instance!
Hope to live off these during the summer with the garden, home raised rabbits, venison,chickens, eggs and some purchased meat added in. Almost forgot the home cannned fruit and jams, too!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Crunchy Snacks
Folks love crunchy snacks -- chips, pretzels, pita chips, bagel crisps. To keep them crunchy you can use chip bag clips, jars, or even the humble baggie. The contents of a baggie would be self evident, wouldn't you think?
Roll back to my daughter's teen years, and her boyfriends, the demolishers of crunchy snacks in quantity. Wow, those boys could eat!
One day a boyfriend was rummaging through the pantry and found a bag with crunchy bites in shades of brown. Curious soul opened the bag, grasped a handful and chowed down. He choked out, "What's in this baggie? Tastes sort of weird!"
Roll back to my daughter's teen years, and her boyfriends, the demolishers of crunchy snacks in quantity. Wow, those boys could eat!
One day a boyfriend was rummaging through the pantry and found a bag with crunchy bites in shades of brown. Curious soul opened the bag, grasped a handful and chowed down. He choked out, "What's in this baggie? Tastes sort of weird!"
No kidding, guy. That baggie was full of cat food.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Embarrassing Memories of January Past
The officer pulled me over for driving five miles over the speed limit ( in a famous name day care van) on my first day employed as a director, over 25 years ago.
I drove that puppy, emblazoned with company name, logo, address and phone number, downhill into a school zone too fast. I saw the school zone sign too late, and Officer Friendly saw me. I couldn't deny it; so face burning, I begged mercy.
He sent me back up the hill in the van, and watched as I came down the hill at proper speed. He smiled broadly at me and waved as I went on my way.
Some teacher in his past must have yelled, "WALK!" one two many times, and sent him back up the hall to try again.
That guy was a great teacher himself.
I drove that puppy, emblazoned with company name, logo, address and phone number, downhill into a school zone too fast. I saw the school zone sign too late, and Officer Friendly saw me. I couldn't deny it; so face burning, I begged mercy.
He sent me back up the hill in the van, and watched as I came down the hill at proper speed. He smiled broadly at me and waved as I went on my way.
Some teacher in his past must have yelled, "WALK!" one two many times, and sent him back up the hall to try again.
That guy was a great teacher himself.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Annual Letter
Greetings from Central Texas!
2010 was another action-packed year on the farm. We know you’re anxious for the details, so here’s our annual letter.
January began with the 2009 taxes. We brought our usual large box of assorted receipts, oddball explanations, and a jumbo bottle of antacids with a bow for Jeanne. An experienced tax preparer makes all the difference when filing taxes for the farm.
An e-mail from the hatchery sent us into poultry fever in February. Assorted ducks on sale!!! We can save nearly two dollars per bird! Are we prepared? No! Off to town for feed, bedding, hay, heat lamp and new waterers; then across town for a wading pool to use as a brooder. Don’t forget the mileage to town - 52 miles, another 50 to the hatchery, and 45 miles back home. The first receipts drifted into the 2010 tax box.
March dawned with duckling escape. We heard the splat of ducky feet exploring their new world, the porch bathroom. Something else went splat on the floor as a by-product of duckling exploration. It was followed by the anguished shriek of our son, Matthew, who had designed and built the extra bathroom on the porch. The very floor he laid on all fours in 100 degree heat was now defiled, he ranted. Brood the ducklings at your house again, we suggested. Recalling last year’s experience, suddenly the floor was less of an issue. Baby duck odor is as breathtaking as skunk essence.
Who else but Art could borrow a bulldozer? As April drew to a close, the rumble of the diesel could be tracked as it crunched over small trees and dodged the larger ones around the property. Testosterone levels rose as the menfolk regarded the driveway. “Needs scraping,” Matthew said. He roared down the drive and back, blade lowered. “You left bumps!” Art pointed out. “Let me do it the right way!” Good thing the headlights didn’t work. They’d have spent the evening turning the drive into a canyon.
In May one of the porch cats had eye problems and needed a vet. My soft-hearted hubby packed it up and took it to the land of gross indignities. Its temperature was taken, and the nurses laughed when it weighed nothing. It changed from a half wild farm cat to a clinging baby in one traumatic visit. Vet visit, meds, special food and a toy (for trauma) made that kitten as expensive as the ducks of February, so it moved inside. Art’s beard was Momma, and Momma got to itching. Surprise again! Tiny kitten; tiny fleas! Flea shampoo for two happened in the kitchen sink, and Brighty’s trauma was nothing compared to Art’s.
First cat, Ock, was appalled at our decision to add a junior cats to his kingdom when their Momma disappeared. Kitten chow was tasty though, and he became plumper and sleeker daily. Explosive hissing declined, and Ock began to lick the babies. Watching a particularly blissful grooming session I had a horrid thought: do you suppose Ock is tasting them? How many licks before he decides to go for the chewy center?
July’s scorching heat saw Art out in the duck pasture planting excess pumpkins. “I have an idea!” He said. My right eye twitched for the next hour. I wasn’t soothed by the strains of music from the duck pasture / pumpkin patch either. The ducks had become addicted to the country music we used to chase off night predators. If you turned off the music, they squawked and quacked mightily. They also stopped laying eggs as a form of feathered protest. “No music? No eggs! Turn up the volume, too. We can’t enjoy it unless you can hear it clearly from your bedroom!” I hope that jumbo bottles of aspirins are on sale this week. I’m nearly out.
I found something disturbing during a raid on the new workshop in August. You might recall how Art blew up the old one in 2007 making “Ethanol”? The plans for a catapult lay half-hidden on his desk. ”Surprise!” he said, “Think of it as an easy, fun way to spread fertilizer,” he explained. “Enough fertilizer spreading is happening right now,” I retorted. I am frequently accused of being no fun.
September’s gardens were lush and the chickens were laying well, even in the heat. Art noticed agitated chickens, and moved the plywood sunshade from the nest in an isolated pen. He was surprised for a change. No chicken, but a furry, black and white striped critter lounged on an ice bottle we’d left for chicken comfort. Eggshells were scattered about. Empty. “#$%*%#!” Art yelped, and fell backward into a water bucket. He threw everything loose in the pen he could find, including the eggs from the basket he was carrying. The skunk, startled, began to dance his special dance, then considered the madman before it, and ran for the woods and the highway beyond. I can’t believe he didn’t get sprayed. I’m grateful; tomato juice is getting pricey these days.
I woke up one October morn to the gleeful shouts of men and loud thuds. Peering out the window I flinched as a pumpkin flew by. Men clustered around the completed catapult; my husband, son, friends and a few strangers were toting pumpkins. “Remember you wanted to explore value-added produce?” Art yelled. “Buy a pumpkin and launch it free! You can’t believe how many we’ve sold! Now the catapult is tax deductible!” I chewed two antacids from the bottle I was saving for next tax season.
November first I threatened to take a chainsaw to the catapult, fearful of frozen turkey launching following a special we’d watched on satellite TV. Art turned it over to the custody of our local historical museum instead. I recognized the curator as an enthusiastic pumpkin flinger. I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this latest manly scheme.
Art started his letter to Santa early in December. A better lock for the workshop topped the list. If he thinks a lock will keep me out, he’s mistaken. He also wants two tiny flight suits, a book on the Hindenburg, seven cylinders of helium, a remote control, and a do-it-yourself crop dusting DVD.
Remember you have a standing invitation to visit. Bring a set of lock picks, and crowbar in case the picks don’t work. I didn’t like the list Art wrote to Santa, and my gear from Spy, Inc. is on back order. Anyone have a source for bulk antacids?
Love,
Helene and Arthur Burnett
2010 was another action-packed year on the farm. We know you’re anxious for the details, so here’s our annual letter.
January began with the 2009 taxes. We brought our usual large box of assorted receipts, oddball explanations, and a jumbo bottle of antacids with a bow for Jeanne. An experienced tax preparer makes all the difference when filing taxes for the farm.
An e-mail from the hatchery sent us into poultry fever in February. Assorted ducks on sale!!! We can save nearly two dollars per bird! Are we prepared? No! Off to town for feed, bedding, hay, heat lamp and new waterers; then across town for a wading pool to use as a brooder. Don’t forget the mileage to town - 52 miles, another 50 to the hatchery, and 45 miles back home. The first receipts drifted into the 2010 tax box.
March dawned with duckling escape. We heard the splat of ducky feet exploring their new world, the porch bathroom. Something else went splat on the floor as a by-product of duckling exploration. It was followed by the anguished shriek of our son, Matthew, who had designed and built the extra bathroom on the porch. The very floor he laid on all fours in 100 degree heat was now defiled, he ranted. Brood the ducklings at your house again, we suggested. Recalling last year’s experience, suddenly the floor was less of an issue. Baby duck odor is as breathtaking as skunk essence.
Who else but Art could borrow a bulldozer? As April drew to a close, the rumble of the diesel could be tracked as it crunched over small trees and dodged the larger ones around the property. Testosterone levels rose as the menfolk regarded the driveway. “Needs scraping,” Matthew said. He roared down the drive and back, blade lowered. “You left bumps!” Art pointed out. “Let me do it the right way!” Good thing the headlights didn’t work. They’d have spent the evening turning the drive into a canyon.
In May one of the porch cats had eye problems and needed a vet. My soft-hearted hubby packed it up and took it to the land of gross indignities. Its temperature was taken, and the nurses laughed when it weighed nothing. It changed from a half wild farm cat to a clinging baby in one traumatic visit. Vet visit, meds, special food and a toy (for trauma) made that kitten as expensive as the ducks of February, so it moved inside. Art’s beard was Momma, and Momma got to itching. Surprise again! Tiny kitten; tiny fleas! Flea shampoo for two happened in the kitchen sink, and Brighty’s trauma was nothing compared to Art’s.
First cat, Ock, was appalled at our decision to add a junior cats to his kingdom when their Momma disappeared. Kitten chow was tasty though, and he became plumper and sleeker daily. Explosive hissing declined, and Ock began to lick the babies. Watching a particularly blissful grooming session I had a horrid thought: do you suppose Ock is tasting them? How many licks before he decides to go for the chewy center?
July’s scorching heat saw Art out in the duck pasture planting excess pumpkins. “I have an idea!” He said. My right eye twitched for the next hour. I wasn’t soothed by the strains of music from the duck pasture / pumpkin patch either. The ducks had become addicted to the country music we used to chase off night predators. If you turned off the music, they squawked and quacked mightily. They also stopped laying eggs as a form of feathered protest. “No music? No eggs! Turn up the volume, too. We can’t enjoy it unless you can hear it clearly from your bedroom!” I hope that jumbo bottles of aspirins are on sale this week. I’m nearly out.
I found something disturbing during a raid on the new workshop in August. You might recall how Art blew up the old one in 2007 making “Ethanol”? The plans for a catapult lay half-hidden on his desk. ”Surprise!” he said, “Think of it as an easy, fun way to spread fertilizer,” he explained. “Enough fertilizer spreading is happening right now,” I retorted. I am frequently accused of being no fun.
September’s gardens were lush and the chickens were laying well, even in the heat. Art noticed agitated chickens, and moved the plywood sunshade from the nest in an isolated pen. He was surprised for a change. No chicken, but a furry, black and white striped critter lounged on an ice bottle we’d left for chicken comfort. Eggshells were scattered about. Empty. “#$%*%#!” Art yelped, and fell backward into a water bucket. He threw everything loose in the pen he could find, including the eggs from the basket he was carrying. The skunk, startled, began to dance his special dance, then considered the madman before it, and ran for the woods and the highway beyond. I can’t believe he didn’t get sprayed. I’m grateful; tomato juice is getting pricey these days.
I woke up one October morn to the gleeful shouts of men and loud thuds. Peering out the window I flinched as a pumpkin flew by. Men clustered around the completed catapult; my husband, son, friends and a few strangers were toting pumpkins. “Remember you wanted to explore value-added produce?” Art yelled. “Buy a pumpkin and launch it free! You can’t believe how many we’ve sold! Now the catapult is tax deductible!” I chewed two antacids from the bottle I was saving for next tax season.
November first I threatened to take a chainsaw to the catapult, fearful of frozen turkey launching following a special we’d watched on satellite TV. Art turned it over to the custody of our local historical museum instead. I recognized the curator as an enthusiastic pumpkin flinger. I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this latest manly scheme.
Art started his letter to Santa early in December. A better lock for the workshop topped the list. If he thinks a lock will keep me out, he’s mistaken. He also wants two tiny flight suits, a book on the Hindenburg, seven cylinders of helium, a remote control, and a do-it-yourself crop dusting DVD.
Remember you have a standing invitation to visit. Bring a set of lock picks, and crowbar in case the picks don’t work. I didn’t like the list Art wrote to Santa, and my gear from Spy, Inc. is on back order. Anyone have a source for bulk antacids?
Love,
Helene and Arthur Burnett
Friday, December 24, 2010
Night Before Christmas--Art vs. the Rooster
'Twas the night before Christmas; no peace in the air.
The rooster is coming; Art waits in his lair.
The broomstick is hung, waiting there by the door,
While Art listens quietly, waiting to roar.
The clucking starts coming from under our feet,
Antonio's coming, to the rafters to sleep.
Why can't this rooster sleep over the porch?
He paints the things under him; Art's language will scorch.
Antonio the Rooster, last name Banty-deras,
Has found the best way the humans to harass.
He's painted the trash cans and Art's very own truck,
My husband says words that rhyme the sound "Cluck."
Last season the rooster spent a night in the rafters,
He painted the washer and dryer, and for afters,
He painted the workbench, the sink and the stove,
The porch is off limits, no rafters can he rove.
Roosters don' t come encased in Depends.
Art's waiting to ensure this activity ends.
There's flapping and clucking, as the bird lands on deck.
He leaps to the rafters and settles to rest.
Art bolts from the door, brandishes the broom
While 'Tonio freaks and decends from the gloom.
He's left a deposit, but Art doesn't care.
The deposit has missed Art's shiny white hair.
The first lap's accompanied by the pounding of broom,
And the screech of the rooster as they both lap the room.
Art's shouting quite strongly as they start the next round
Till the rooster leaps shrieking from the porch to the ground.
"You idiot rooster! You'd just cover a cracker!"
While inside the house I explode in loud laughter.
"Go sleep in your tree, you're too stringy to eat!"
Art did exclaim as Antonio beat feet.
The banty kept shrieking as he sped out of sight.
Clucking and ranting from his tree in the heights.
Husband returned with a smile and the broom,
He'd saved our porch from "excremental doom."
As Antonio clamors outrage, a pain to the ear.
We wish you Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
Monday, December 20, 2010
Technology Tirade
Phone Manners? Where’d They Go?
Phone manners sickened when computers came into vogue; multi-tasking sent them to the hospital. Computer gaming added a nail in their coffin. They died when texting became a national past-time. I long for the return of phone manners as I suffer confusion when someone with a “thingie” in their ear addresses the air. I think they’re talking to me. It’s embarrassing for me; poor manners for them.I’m on the phone chatting with a friend and I hear “tappety-tappety-tap.” A bubble of offended feelings begins to rise. What? I’m so boring you need to do something on the computer while we talk? The tapping continues, and so do my hurt feelings. Maybe I should hang up if I’m interfering with your project? I’d like to feel what I have to say is as important as what you’re saying to me. Am I old-fashioned? Is the home training drilled into me in childhood passé?
The next offender is distracted by slashing an elf in some alternate universe when I call with a question. Can’t let the evil elf spoil your record as a warrior-mage? Pu-leeze! I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t need to know how much paprika to sprinkle over dish from YOUR recipe. Can’t you pause the game? Should I hang up? Nuh-Uh, I need the info. I hope the “Elf of Evil Legerdemain” has a pack of nasty friends who kick your mage-y butt! Pardon me for acting like a two year old, but I need your attention.
Hello??? We’re in a meeting, and a junior staffer is busily texting under the table. He must be moderately concerned with the reaction of those speaking to be so covert. Another is texting right out in the open showing the speaker how valued his/her input is. I’m squirming in my chair, embarrassed by the impression they’re making. You’re both reflecting poorly on everyone else here! I want to corner them for a lesson on they’ve missed, but then I might offend.
The flashing blue light in a stranger’s ear disturbs me. Is she a Borg? Does she address the Collective, or perhaps the Hive? What’s said makes no sense, but I’m the only person nearby. I answer, and the Borg has the nerve to glare at me. I was being polite, thinking she’d spoken to me. “ Bluetooth? I’m invading your privacy? I think not; if I can hear you it isn’t private.”
The technological distractions of others certainly annoy me. However, this week I found myself on the computer when the phone rang. Did I devote my entire attention to the call? No… I played a game.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Two Men and a Bulldozer
Who else but Art could borrow a bulldozer? Memorable? You bet, especially when two men get down to work with one of the kings of men's toys! In the picture, Matt is moving my office building/guest house to a new location. Anyone can get guys to move furniture; I want buildings moved!
Vehicle trails through the woods needed clearing. The rumble of the diesel engine could be tracked over the property as the dozer crunched over small trees and dodged the larger ones. After several days, however, Homeplace had as many trails as it really needed. According to me.
When it threw a track, the guys had to buy some esoteric pry bar specifically designed to muscle the track back on to the bogies. As they worked, the rise and fall of cursing turned the air smokey until the track was snug in place again. The local hardware store made more money when a mysterious glass bubble shattered as Matt backed up into something. More elaborated language. More diesel fuel. More reciepts for taxes.
Testosterone levels rose as the menfolk regarded the driveway. “Needs scraping,” Matthew said. "One day
Mom's going to high center on that puppy!" He roared down the drive and back, blade lowered.
Mom's going to high center on that puppy!" He roared down the drive and back, blade lowered.
“You left bumps!” Art pointed out. “Let me do it the right way!” Down the drive and back he rumbled in a cloud of dust.
“You call that smooth?” asked Matthew. He hauled himself into the seat and growled down the drive and back again.
“Hah!” said Art as he climbed up once more. They traded insults and turns on the dozer all afternoon. Good thing the headlights didn’t work. They’d have spent the evening turning the driveway into a canyon.
The dozer has returned to its rightful owner. I have a pile of reciepts and memories of two men and a bulldozer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)