Botulism in a Bottle

There's something about the pressure canner that scares me. It probably is related to heating glass jars in a 240 degree, pressurized receptacle. If that thing blows, you're dead. But say it doesn't blow. Say you do get these beautiful jars of green beans. You're still in danger. Those innocent looking green bean may not be so innocent. If you happen to ingest an invisible toxin, then wham! You're dead. It all just seems too risky. Growing up, my mom always canned stuff. But pressure cooking? No way.

The Doomsday Divas and Dudes (a Food Storage and Emergency Prep group) decided to face our collective fear of pressure cooking. Carrie, one of my heroes, nonchalantly demonstrated the process. Admittedly, my fear of pressure cooking was not based on ever having seen it done until this night. Turns out, the whole process is straight-forward. However, I was still scared to try it on my own. The next day when I was making another batch of beans, I made two panicked phone calls to Carrie before the pressure cooker ever left "0" psi (solution to problem #2: screw the lid on tight to "closed"). The beans look okay. No. They look beautiful! I'm still nervous to eat them, though. And my respect for the pressure canner remains intact.

Now that that is all said, I must say there is something supremely satisfying about seeing rows and rows of fruits and veggies you've preserved yourself. I feel like it ties me to generations past, not to mention what it does for feelings of self-reliance. Not that I'm going to start making my own clothes or anything extreme like that ... but ... hmm ... a small sheep in the backyard would be quite picturesque ...

If your friend gives you a ride in his airplane ...

... then he'll probably want some blackberry jam to go with it*.

Such was the arrangement Grandpa K and his friend Mike made. They'd fly from Utah to Oregon in Mike's homemade plane as long as Mike could pick blackberries while he was here. The only stipulation was the blackberries had to be free from wild bushes and they wanted the novelty of walking home from the local airport. Not only were both objectives accomplished within an hour, but we also upped the ante on the freebie scale by stopping at Costco on the way home for a lunch of samples.

What a wonderful and productive two days with grandpa and Mike! We visited a couple U-pick farms to supplement the roadside blackberry supply. Grandpa also picked the last two pints of available blueberries in all of Oregon for grandma. Together they plucked 10.2 pounds of green beans . Continuing the harvesting theme: at home they also graciously accepted the backyard apple-picking assignment. They picked 10.2 tons of apples which yielded 7 jars of applesauce. Grandpa fixed the drainage problem of the bathroom stink, so it doesn't. Mike helped hold fussy babies. Amidst all this, good stories and conversation swapped back and forth.

We hope to see Mike again next blackberry season (or sooner!). And grandpa? Talmage woke up the next morning wondering, "Where'd grandpa go?" My sentiments, exactly. It came and went way more quickly than we wished. Thanks for the fly-by. And Mike, if you read this, "bon appetite!"
(*"If You Give a Moose a Muffin" by Laura Numeroff).

Peer Pressure

"Come on, Sydney...everybody's doing it."

A Sunny Saturday at the Seaside.

Heidi and crew ran Hood to Coast this past weekend. I babysat her kids. That is, I let them do whatever they wanted, including eating ice-cream for breakfast and playing the Wii all day long. Shouldn't every kid have such a dream day? They for SURE should if the babysitter has three kids in diapers. On Saturday, I drove the kids out to the coast to meet up with the runners. Briton drove The Bogus with our kids, and after leaving the Bruno clan, we spent the rest of the afternoon at Cannon Beach. Clear skies. Warm. Mmmm. Inspiration for future beach trips.

Syd's particular about solids at this time in her life. She won't eat carrots, pears, peaches, green beans, peas, avacados, etc. Sand, though, is another matter. The beach was a new sensory experience.

"A ram-sam-sam."

Drawing some "ABC's"

That's Talmage in the middle of this pic, off in the distance.And up close.

Jack Johnson

It's been lively around here, lately. We went to the Jack Johnson concert with "A", "C" and "N" (wink, wink). Very fun. It was so cool to hear him in real life. We didn't really see him that well, what for the sea of people (around 25,000, I heard).

Briton and I were right up next to the stage at a Dave Mason concert way back when and it was, um, earthy, being close enough to see the individual beads of sweat streaming from his face and feeling them splattering on our bare arms. I wanted the same experience with Jack Johnson. So "A", "N", and I made a patient, valiant effort to wiggle our way forward through the packed bodies up "close". I think it would have taken the rest of the evening to make it right up to the stage. I gave up after three songs' worth of strategic maneuvering and staring at the back of heads of Tall People. Plus, I was nervous about leaving Sydney so long ... like, what if she was crying because she was hungry? And does second-hand marijuana smoke get absorbed into breastmilk? She was just fine, of course. We enjoyed Bubbletoes and more from a distance. See the lighted area to the left-hand side of the picture? That's the stage. It's too dark to see the clouds of marijuana smoke.It was slow getting to the concert due to stop and go-an-inch and stop again traffic. The 40 minute drive took over 2 hours. Briton, who should have been with us, but wasn't because his flight out of Dupont, Washington was canceled, ended up arriving at the concert gates about the same time we did, even though he had a 2 1/2 hour drive. Thankfully, the concert started late, in consideration of the bad traffic, and none of us - those coming from the North and those coming from the South, missed a single JJ song.

The Claw

Like he just stepped out of a salon...

Having a Ball

Syd and Sonya

Slippery When Wet

This is one of those days where you think you are going to post about this:(read: hot weather bed-time attire)

but end up posting about this:





Talmage found this giant chocolate chip cookie on his pillow when we came home tonight. It’s a “get well” smiley face cookie from Sonya and clan (thanks, guys). You see, moments after the first picture was taken, Talmage was whisked to the shower for a pre-church washup. However, he ended up missing worship as the wash-up went down the drain. He slipped in the shower, the back of his head hit full-force on the metal lip of the doorframe. Immediate gushing of blood. So scary and painful. Since the gash was wide and long (about an inch), Briton took T to the ER where talented doctor and nurse cleaned out the wound, numbed it up, and shot in five staples, without nary a peep from the T-ball. He was very brave and came home happy as a clam, pointing out the “ant-bug” sticker on his admission wristband. He napped well, played happily the rest of the day, and then to find the Smiley Face Cookie was, well, icing on the cake. You'd think he didn't even remember the morning's trauma. You can learn a lot from a kid.

Wildwood 2008

Exit 203

Coincidentally enough, we left Idaho heading west about the same time Dave and Jo left Oregon heading east. We crossed paths at the Middle-of-Nowhere Exit 203. Witness two ecstatic two year-old boys running in circles around each other in the parking lot of the creepy "hotel". No doubt part of their glee was the chance to get out of their carseats. The meeting was made possible by tracking each other's gradual approach via regular cell phone notifications. I wonder how pioneers on the Oregon Trail managed without cell phones. And Wendy's.

Improv

Driving around in the car tonight, I hear this song coming from Talmage in the backseat:

"Where is octopus? Where is octopus?
Here I am. Here I am.
How are you today, sir? How are you today, sir?
We love you. We love you."

Adventures in Babysitting

Santa Fe Chicken for dinner. Chicken, corn, black beans, salsa, and cream cheese. Yum. A sure-fire winner. But not for four-year-old Stevie. He covered his mouth with both hands and sent his entire body into heaving convulsions. "I'm not going to eat that!" he moaned. Then, in plaintive tone: "I'm going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Lucky for me, I've been reading "Parenting with Love and Logic." Unlucky for Stevie, he is the guinea-pig recipient of it's principles. "OK, " I say calmly, completely unruffled (yeah, right). "This is what's for dinner. We'll see you at breakfast." Stevie looks at me and squints his eyes shut in an attempted glare. Both fists curl into tight balls of shaking anger. He stomps to the couch, starts jumping on it and hucking pillows in the general direction of the dinner table.

After 10 days in Utah, I came home to a 5 day babysitting job at the H's home. There were six kids, plus our two. That equals 100. Including our kids, the age range was 13 years down to 6 months. Stevie's eating aversions aside, they are great kids - they readily posed for this picture in the "eagle nest" at the zoo. However, I think this will be the last year I babysit them. 100 kids is just too many.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Eyes on the ball, and watch your bank statements. When I refi-ed the home, I was apparently signed up for a Premium Line of Credit and Checking Account (the best available from Wells Fartgo, I was assured). I've keep $0.00 balance in there ever since, ie. never used the thing. Yesterday's statement showed an Overdraft Protection Advance of $300 from my el primo line of credit hee ha to the checking account. That's interesting. Oh, there's a $25 fee for not maintaining a minimum balance this month (why not the 3 months previous, I don't know). To boot, throw in a $2.25 finance charge for the $25 fee.

At least the phone call at lunch today got me to a real person in less than a minute (as opposed to Verizon FIOS's non-highspeed customer service lines). After getting everything sorted out, they decided to “downgrade” my account one level, from el primo to el sub-primo. The lady assured me that by downgrading I wouldn't lose any of my current benefits, but I wouldn't have to have a minimum balance either [sic]. Subtle. I glady accepted el sub-primo. When said and done, all charges were reversed, and I was allowed to keep the $0.01 of interest I earned on the $300 that they pulled in this month.

Vicarious Living

Sometime during my early teenage years I got the idea that my true identity was that of a great gymnast. After all, I've got great calves. It wasn't until college that I took my first (and only) gymnastics class. Gymnastics 101. As it turns out, it wasn't as heavenly as I thought it would be to realize a life-long dream. In fact, it was down-right awkward. We had to wear leotards. I also learned I was pretty clumsy on the bouncy floor, entirely lacking in rhythm and grace. I wasn't very flexible, either. Obviously, my only recourse was hoping I had kids one day and then giving them the chance to become the great Olympian I was meant to be. The second Talmage was old enough, I signed him up with a Parks and Recs program. We go every Monday morning. I spend the whole time gazing reverently at the uneven bars.The Balance Beams. That's pure, raw talent.

A larvae stage hand-stand.

Walking "like a "bear, as Teacher Kirsten puts it.

"The Market Is Open"

Do you ever play Pit? Then you've experienced this scenario: You go back and forth between a couple of different commodities until you make a lucky trade and one particular commodity gains prominence. In this scenario, let's say your hand tips toward soybeans. After fast and furious trading, you now need only one more soybean to complete your commodity stock. You proffer your solo coffee card facedown on the table: "One! One! One! One!" A willing broker appears amidst the trading frenzy, flashing a single card at you in return. You make the trade, sucking in air to provide wind for the inevitable forthcoming announcement, "Corner on Soybeans!" Only it's not a soybean. It's the bear. Simultaneously, someone slams their hand down on the bell. The market is closed. The sly trader gloats as he fans out his completed commodity collection. Coffee. And you've got that dang bear. Economic ruin.

I might get shot for writing this, since I live in Oregon, but I'm starting to think organic food is like Pit. Seriously. Commodity=organic=bear card=poorhouse. I've dabbled with different organic produce and products because the idea and image of organic is so wholesome. I've left it at dabbling because the price of organics scare me as well as the unconvincing health claims. I have never purchased organic meat or milk. To make the leap into dairy would spell sure-fire economic disaster. Like getting the bear card.

Lemme explain. Because I guess this isn't like Pit at all. Last night I attended a discussion group about organic food and walked away convinced that organic milk was the way to go. Even if your family burns through milk like an SUV through gas. Even if organic milk costs over five dollars a gallon. I mean, can you put a price on your family's health? Knowing organic would be a tough sell to the main bread-winner of this household, I went online and read some more stuff. After reading this article my stance on organic milk did a complete 360 so the conversation didn't even need to take place.

You should know, by the way, that my organic opinions are like my political ones: they depend on who I last talked to. I am like unto a ship without a rudder, tossed to and fro. Or like a terribly confused consumer. I am curious what your stance on "organic" is. Please use references. You do not have to write in cursive. Nor do you have to try to make a parallel to Pit.

Happy Birthday, Nathan

He's still a funny, funny boy. Thirty-somethin' years later ... Happy Birthday, Ke Nan Tang. Sure love you.

The Clutch Can't Get Joe Cool

There are a few benefits to owning older cars. No monthlies, cheaper insurance, lower blood pressure over paint jobs vs. two year-olds' Matchbox cars, and the privilege to say, “I'll take the Bogus” when heading to Winco. Another one is the exciting learning activity and get-yur-fingers greasy with some wrenches... oh, are those my muscles bulging out of this old T-shirt? sorry I'm just holding the crankshaft in place...

I've only been a mechanic in my mind, and at that, only feigning some knowledge of internal combustion and more imagining, from high school shop and college physics, what might be going on under the hood. I felt reassured when super-mechanic brother-in-law (school) whom I'll call Ahab, ur, uh, I mean, Michael Henchard, concurred with my diagnosis that the '94 Ranger's clutch was worn out. Since he was in town and willing and able... alright, let's replace it ourselves.

Ordered parts, had a manual, Michael's bro's tools, cuz yo, with my amazing screwdriver collection on traveling exhibition with curator Little T, my remaining crescent wrench –though mighty-- seemed somehow insufficient. Anyway, a few bolts and screws off later, I called up neighbor Benchpress Bremer who's lent me wrenches in the past –needed a 12point something. Bremer didn't want to miss a clutch party and immediately joined the team. With M & B's skills (and tools) we dumped the truck's bowels on the garage floor in no time. Wow, so that's what a clutch looks like, and that's how it works. I was soaking it up.



Night #2 - putting it back together. Benchpress Bremer, you're the man! He benchpressed the whole transmission and held it in place while Michael and I tried fast fingers on the bolts.

Everything zipped right back together. Only one step left: “bleeding the clutch.” That's where you have to get all the air out of the hydraulic line. It involves a coordination ritual with me on the pedal, Bremer on the bleed valve, and Michael on the reservoir. The incantation goes something like this: “push it in” “in” “let it out” “out” [repeat, over and over...] Despite our darndest faith and observance, the ceremony did not put any pressure on the pedal. We puzzled and puzzled, and pried and puzzled. Then my sister cell-phoned Michael for the second time that night, and we knew the curfew bell had sounded.

Night #3 – blogs revealed that the early-90's Ranger series had a very poorly positioned master cylinder, at an angle where air could get trapped. So, we took off the whole clutch line system... Bremer aptly referenced the classic Far Side of the Native American holding up an oddly shaped organ with a few tubes hanging here and there, saying: “[We don't have a clue what this is, but it's the only part of the buffalo we don't use.]” Anyway, we got pressure in system off the truck, put it back on (no small task!), started bleeding the slave cylinder and... whoosh. No pressure! ARG! Took it off again –couldn't get any pressure in it this time. Well, what do you do when you can't figure something out? Yes, you start hitting it with a wrench! That's exactly what Bremer did, and lo, pressure!! Once again, we mounted the hoses and cylinder to the truck, but no pressure by the time it was back on. Well, let's hit it with a wrench again. Hey, pressure! Ok, don't touch anything!!!

First test drive was scary, but it worked. We have our own little theory about the hydraulics, and why it's ok that I'm driving the truck now. I must say there's a great feeling of satisfaction to pull off a job like this on your own, and to picture in your mind exactly what's going on now when you push in that pedal. Thanks Michael and Bremer!!

Going on a Bear Hunt

I can still hear my mom’s voice reading Horton Hatches an Egg. I loved, and still do, the illustrations in Gyo Fujikawa’s Oh, What a Busy Day! I used to stare at the page that had the secret spot picture and imagine myself in there. It’s fun to see what books Talmage enjoys. One of his favorites is We're Going on a Bear Hunt. He’ll often quote the repeated phrase, “Oh no! We’ve got to go through it!” (except his version is like this – in hurried, panicked meter: “Oh no! Go through it!”). Today, we went on an actual bear hunt at a local park. Here is a picture of him approaching a cave...

“A narrow, gloomy cave..."

"...Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe."

What book do you wish you could live in real life?

Summer Concerts

Tonight we grooved to "Groovin'", a live band playing at a local park (no bears here). We happily found the infamous A and her family in the crowd and had a good time chatting. I mean, listening to the music.

Stuck On Sydney