Where's Waldo, Ummm...Sandy?

My big plans this week focused on one thing: I got to co-present a session at the National Art Education Association in NYC on Friday!  So of course I spent last weekend (the one prior to 3/3 and 3/4) planning, buying my outfit, arranging an outing with a friend, etc.  Exciting!  YAY!  Something positive!

On the home front, Peter, ever the procrastinator, hadn't packed for his trip to Michigan, and had several small projects on the burner, so I essentially fed him and stayed out of his way.  Unfortunately, on Wednesday morning after I left for school, he had a sudden health issue that he left unexamined until I came home and INSISTED that he go to the ER.  I'd rather not discuss it (if you know him or me personally, just pick up a phone or email), but the result was a 3 day stay in the hospital while they ran tests.  After the first few hours, they knew he wasn't in danger, so it was a matter of figuring out the "whys"; still, I was uncomfortable leaving him.  I took off a half day of work on Thursday morning to hear what his doctor had to say, then worked the afternoon.  The next day was my NYC trip, and since he wasn't in any further danger (and the rest of my research group was counting on me) I decided to go. 

It was awesome.  Everything went smoothly and my friend and I ate a brief Thai meal (my favorite!) before we headed home...to find Peter in the living room, packing!  He still wanted to go!  We "debated" the idea, finally settling on a compromise: he felt well enough to follow through on his plans, but I was too worried to say goodbye just yet...so I went along.  That's right.  I drove to Michigan this weekend.  And I flew home alone last evening. And I taught today.  And tonight, I'm clearing everything out of my living room so the contractor can fix the ceiling.  Whew!

A Restful Weekend.

Am I happy about leaving him there? No. There's a point at which you have to admit another person's right to their autonomy and put aside your fears, and that's what I was faced with this weekend.  And you move on the best you can.  These long distance jobs do take their toll.  Peter enjoys the variety though, and I can understand why: the people he meets on his journeys are amazing!  He's been having the most awesome multi-cultural experience of his already interesting life.  I actually envy him that. 

So, back to my trip; from home to NYC, then home again for a night; then across the state to Youngstown Ohio, where we had dinner at a truck stop and met some of the nicest truckers you've ever known.  The stories they have to tell!  It was a very interesting supper.  One trucker named Steve told me he'd been driving since he was 20 years old, and was just about to turn 60.  Imagine the places he's seen!  He was a well-worn character who couldn't have weighed much more than 120 pounds, and had a face lined with stories.  He was a truck-driving pirate, the Captain Edward Teague of the Hubbard Truck Stop.

Just Squint.  It'll Come Into Focus.

After a night's rest, we squeezed our generous selves into our little car and drove the last four hours of our trip into Ann Arbor, MI.  We encountered a few flurries on the way, but nothing more, luckily, as we were working with a tight time budget.  We met Peter's new roommates (he'll be eating food from India and Africa during this job, I think.  The house smelled wonderful!), and were left alone to unpack the little he had with him.  I'll ship the rest to him tomorrow.  Then we cried for a few minutes and in no time at all the shuttle driver was there to take me to the Detroit airport.

Detroit to Philly, Philly to Allentown...with all of the required waiting between flights and a taxi ride at the end, and I slept in my bed last night.  Alone. 

So, we put the tears behind us, and each of us embraces our separate reality, with hope and joy.  We savor our lives.  We both do.  It's just so much nicer when we're together.  And of course, I want to mother him...but I can't, so I consciously disengage my mind from those thoughts, and live in the present.  With faith in the divine wisdom of the universe, and all that she holds.

What happened here at home while we were away? Well, we have two angry kitty-cats, though they had ample grub for the two days we were gone.  Grandpa just slept through it, but he was happy to have his head scratched.  And on the farm, this is what happened:

Corrine's Picture of Dawn: Born Yesterday.

My "Words With Friends" buddy said it well: "Things change quickly".  For both the better and worse.  It's up to us to enjoy the ride.

Thank You, Alice.

Alice (front-right) and her Family, at Goschenhoppen

Suppose you did a small kindness 34 years ago, and forgot all about it?  And suppose that kindness meant so much to the person you helped that they never forgot it?  And suppose that the person you helped decided to do the same as often as was possible for her.

"Paying it forward" wasn't trendy in 1975, Alice, but that's what you did.  We were 18 years old, and had gone to high school together. You came to my door during one of the most desperate and frightening times in my life, carrying a bag of groceries.  I had been living on rice and tea.  Somehow, you knew.  You had given me a ride home from Kutztown University, that first semester away from home, before I had to drop out.  You came again, on your own...with a gift.

Thank you, Alice.  I finally did get back to college, and like you, I'm teaching art. I found happiness and stability in my life. I've been doing what I can to feed hungry people ever since; your kindness has multiplied through me, and I hope mine will do the same.  One kindness...34 years ago...has made a world of difference.

Thank you.

Goschenhoppen Part 1: Women's Work

What have we traded for the long days of hard labor required for survival, just a century ago? I've been thinking about that lately; most of us don't spend entire days preparing a meal or putting up seasonal foods anymore.  Most of us don't spend our evening hours or our winter days stitching, sewing, and weaving. Most of us have more lofty things to do.  We have careers, we have places to go, we have movies to watch, social obligations, networking to do...

Alice (on the right), her sister and daughter; more about her (Alice) later.

We don't spend entire days weeks months lifetimes elbow to elbow with our daughters and sisters. We don't know each other as firmly and deeply as we once did. One might argue that the advances made in our industrialized world have freed us from domestic slavery.  One might argue that the drudgery of "womens' work" has been lifted from us, and we've been liberated of that burden. I understand those arguments, having lived a relatively independent and productive life.

That being said, I wonder what understandings were met over the open mouth of a steaming canner. I wonder how many soul-searching conversations occurred when the biscuits were being cut, how many family stories were passed to younger generations along with the apple peels, how many moments of compassion fed our hearts as we were making butter from fresh, raw milk. How much familial intimacy was put aside in favor of a quicker, "easier" life?

I don't know.  I've primarily spent my domestic times alone; those brief interludes accompanied by friends or lovers are the exception, and I've found them to be either heart-warming or annoying, depending upon the grace of the person sharing my space.  But what if it wasn't MY space?  If the kitchen (the heart of the home) was the place where the collective women of the family shared THEIR hearts and hopes, wouldn't it be a place of comfort, rather than drudgery?

Working with flax; that's a smile I see, and a younger woman learning from one with experience.

 How precious each item we created must have been; ours wasn't a throw-away culture when a week went into the creation of a shirt, or a month into a table.  That rough-hewn table was as precious as a Chippendale sideboard to the family that made it and used it daily.  Every bit of cloth was used and reused until it was all used up; every bit of cut wood became something useful: furniture, tools, fuel.  Recycling was the norm, rather than a choice to make.

Now, I understand that life was harder; we toiled under the sun, we died in childbirth, we suffered from medical conditions that are now curable.  Advances were made as our society freed us to do the intellectual work that was necessary to advance in the arts and sciences; but there's always a price to be paid, a trade-off. In my nostalgic moments, I still long for a simpler life; a life of connection and meaning. Of simple, honest hard work.

Every child is precious.

 What price, a large family?  In those days, the children were contributing members of the family as soon as they could walk.  They were taught the skills that held the family together: animal husbandry, food preparation, domestic arts, farming, building.  They were born into a tightly knit group that functioned (ideally) as a cohesive whole, each participating in the well-being of the other.  There were familial norms and expectations, and I'm sure there were times that were less than perfect, but everyone was a part of something (the family) that was vital and alive.  To leave a family must have been a very difficult thing, regardless of the circumstances, in those days. I consider my own flight from home at 18 years old, and what little difference it made in the daily function of my family; I'm sure it would have meant more if I had been milking the cow, canning, gardening and tending the chickens as part of my daily contribution. Perhaps, with all of those responsibilities, a young person might have more of a sense of belonging, more of a sense of "duty", and not desire so much to be "on their own". "On your own" would be difficult, if not impossible, without the technological advances we enjoy. 

Making pockets; ladies' garments didn't have pockets built in.  These were worn under the apron.

I long for a simpler life.  I'll admit it. I could happily live in more humble digs, and occupy my days with constant creation, whether that meant pickling or painting.  At this point in my life, I'm just about calm enough to enjoy the change of the seasons, and the warmth of a fire as much as I enjoyed a trip to New York or a Broadway show a decade ago. I'm sure my concept of earlier times is romantic; I'm sure there were desperate, difficult times.  But from where I sit, the smell of a cooking fire and a freshly baked pie would be wonderful.  The hours spent sewing a quilt, wonderful.  And the deep, healing sleep after a long day of honest work...wonderful.

Goschenhoppen brings me a taste of that, each year.  Goschenhoppen time-travel magic.  More tomorrow; a story of not-so-distant time travel, and a story of the ripples that one small kindness can create over time.

Drying Corn...FOREVER

Years ago, when I lived on the farm (pre-marriage, pre-college, pre-mostly everything), we heated the place with a wood cook stove.  I enjoyed the whole process of splitting wood, tending the fire, smelling the smoke; the surface was continually hot in the winter, so a kettle could be boiling, or bread baking in no time.  It was comforting, in the winter. Economical, environmentally friendly, wholesome, and earthy.  Life was good in the winter in the mid-70's.

In the summer, not so much.

We lived (briefly) on an old dilapidated farm, complete with farm house, barn, goat shed and summer kitchen; that's where I first fell in love with Nubian goats, and where I delivered my first set of kids. The owner of the farm, Ferris Patt, had acres of sweet corn planted, and would occasionally set us loose to pick as much as we wanted.  That's when I learned to dry corn for the winter. The main tool we used was a corn (or bean) dryer, like the one shown below:

Corn or bean dryer: old-school

It is basically an aluminum box, which you fill with water.  The water is heated, and boils, but is contained by the box, with only a small amount of steam escaping from the fill-hole. The passive heat dries the corn gradually, creating a nice dry kernel which can be stored in jars and rehydrated when you need it; the flavor is sweet and intense, just when you want it...say, February.

We started with 5 dozen ears of local sweet corn.

Here's my set-up; an inverted soup bowl becomes the base, and it's held in a large salad bowl.

The kernels are liberated (aka cut) from the cob, and collected in the bowl.  Repeat 60 times. Or more, if you have more corn. The corn is then transferred to the hot drier, and turned every 30 minutes or so (more frequently as it gets dry.

My ingenious husband created this outdoor stove for me, using a cook-top and a propane tank.  A portable summer kitchen, Allentown style! We began the process after we returned home from milking (around 7 PM)...

I read my current book ("Full Moon Feast" by Jessica Prentice) by lamp-light, and turned corn until about midnight.  I had a hose handy to wet myself down occasionally as it was seasonably hot and humid last night, but finally gave up around midnight. We covered the slightly sticky, wonderfully sweet, half-dehydrated corn, and carried it indoors for the night. Imagine this: me, dripping wet, carrying the corn dryer (one handle of it) in one hand, and my wine and book in the other.  It's not a pretty picture.

This is a prettier picture:

We gave a farm tour this morning instead of finishing the corn.

The group of young adults enjoyed the various farm critters. Nice group!  They made me remember why I enjoy teaching.

School-to-Work Farm Tour

After the tour, we returned to our corn, and we're currently in the process of finishing the drying.  You might see some progress in the photo below.

Or you might not...

I'll update later...if it ever gets done!  Kathy kindly gave me the evening off milking the goats so I could finish. Thanks, Kathy!

*UPDATE!

The Final Product: 4PM

Mission accomplished!  Now on to round 2!

I Think I Can...Can (Peach Canning Tutorial)

Despite my slower self these days, the garden is producing like crazy.  On our first visit back, we brought home an armload of goodies; even though I had invited my garden helpers to take what became ripe during our absence, "ripe" is a daily occurrence now. The farm markets are prolific and tempting as well; Peter loves peaches, so we bought a basket to preserve for the winter. Yesterday, in addition to the sweet peppers and corn we bought for our dinner (my peppers aren't red yet), I bought a bag of plum tomatoes for confit.

I love confit.  Can't get enough of it.

I'm dying to dry some corn for the winter.  I do it on a large, old fashioned corn drier.  I first encountered these back in my hippie days when I lived on the farm in Stonersville (no joke, that's what it was called...near Reading, PA. Google it.) The drier was meant to be used on an old fashioned cook stove, which we had then, but I don't have now.  When I found one at an antique store, I bought it anyway; and it works just fine on my gas range. More about that later; I'm saving my corn-drying for later in the season.

Today will be all about peaches!

* Your jars should be in your canner, getting a boiling bath!

Step 1: Wash those sweet peaches!

Step 2: Pull out the soft or bruised ones, cut them off the pit and throw them in your crock pot (on low). Tomorrow, this will magically become peach butter!

Step 3: Dunk your firm, ripe, luscious peaches into boiling water for a few minutes to loosen the skin  (approx. 3-5 minutes...experiment), then immediately transfer to ice water.

Step 4: Skin and slice the peaches, then put in a citric acid bath.  Plain old lemon juice with water works fine; just 1/4 cup of lemon juice. Or you can use a commercial fruit freshener.  I used citric acid because I have some for making fresh cheese. This will keep your fruit from discoloring.

Step 5: Make your syrup.  I chose a medium syrup, which was 1 part sugar to 2 parts water.  Here's a good chart (and site) for you if you want more details. When your syrup is just barely boiling, put in your peaches.

* Your jars should be removed from the canner at this point, so they stay hot and sterile.

Step 6: Place peaches in the sterile jars.  See the site for canning details (I'm typing with 2 fingers of my left hand.  I'll explain why in tomorrow's post.) Add syrup to fill jar, leaving 1/2" head space.

Step 7: Clean rims and place sterile lids and metal rings on jars (finger tight). Place jars back in canner.  See website for processing times.

Step 8: Remove and let cool.  Don't fool around with the jars until tomorrow; then check the tops.  If the little dimple in the middle is down, you have a seal. Like these:

Yum!  Open whenever you want a taste of summer...like in February!  Or even next week, if you're greedy!

Tomorrow: Peach butter!

(P.S. All your peach scraps and any leftovers except for pits can go in the crock pot. Leave it on low overnight; stir occasionally.  My crock was full.)

The End of the Year

The school year, that is. As usual, I'm looking forward to a few weeks off to do those things I couldn't do while I was working.  However, as I stood in my classroom yesterday wishing my seniors luck for the last time, I was struck by the bittersweet emotions I was feeling...yet again. 

Twenty three years of good-byes. It makes my heart ache sometimes. 

This made my heart ache too: a gift of Haiku from three of my favorite (OK, it's true) students:

This class went too fast

I can take what I learned home

I'm glad you taught me.

-R.T.

I'm gonna miss art

Cause this class was super fun.

You can draw good goats.

-P.T

P.S.- R's lame

(They're sisters)

Art class is funny.

Ms. Eckert makes it better.

Let's go recycle!

-D.B.

.....................sob....................I'm all verklempt.........

Self-Portrait with Yams

I took this picture, thinking it would be the "before" to my post-cooking "after", but when I viewed it, it occurred to me that it's a nearly perfect self portrait right now. If you look at the items in the picture, it tells a good story. The first thing you see of course, is the Model Magic bin full of lettuce. I'm an art teacher; I was a consultant for Crayola for several years, and I NEVER throw away things that might be useful. That lettuce pot is actually two nested Model Magic containers (thoroughly washed), with holes punched in the inner one, creating a mini-reservoir for the plants. I have several more growing in the sunroom upstairs, though less developed.

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The vegetables in the middle are a combination of home-grown broccoli raab, basil and par-cel, with Pure Sprouts kale and sweet potatoes. I know I called them yams. "Self Portrait with Sweet Potatoes" just sounds silly. The strainer to the left holds a pile of sprouts: mung beans, alfalfa and radish. Sprouts are the easiest thing ever to do on your own. I've been "sprouting" since the 70's. If anyone is interested, I'll do a tutorial. Let me know.

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Do you see that little green bowl to the right? That's the remains of my woods walk the other day. In it are chickweed, wild garlic, turkey-tail fungus and some pretty green that I found under the snow (and I need to identify). I saw a herd of deer that evening, right near me. Their fluffy tails were the only hint I had of them running away, as they were absolutely silent. It was breathtaking.

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If the goats are kidding, the deer should be too. They're so closely related. A friend once said (during hunting season) "If I was a deer right now, I'd find a herd of goats and try to fit in." Absolutely. Deer are like the ballerinas of the goat world. Graceful, light, high-jumping; otherwise, pretty similar. But I digress.

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Back to the self-portrait...you can see the objects around the vegetables; Mexican canisters from a yard sale in Easton, goat chachkas, retro measuring cups and linens, herbs, oil, funnels, knives; the paper towel dispenser is empty (I'm trying to wean us of that habit; I made a pile of towels and napkins from scraps of cloth). I got the gas range for $40 from Craig's List. I think that covers it.

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It's not all I am, but it's a big part of me now. The farm and its animals, organic food, a history in art and a sensitivity for cultural heritage; culinary and medicinal herbs and a locavore sensibility. The funnels are used for making cheese and making soup; the soup goes to The Caring Place, a wonderful local support center for inner city kids. I do these things every week. It's interesting to me; there's a dance between the cycle of the seasons and the cycle of our daily lives. It's synchronized; things revolve around each other, but not necessarily in sympathetic time. As I get older,I can see the pattern of these things, and it's beautiful to me. Now...I need to make dinner! If it turns out well, I'll post that "after" picture.

Snow Day!

I'm a 52 year old kid when it comes to snow days. You would be too, if you were a teacher! If you don't get a call the night before (and that rarely happens), you wake up full of expectation in the morning. There's a routine to it: wait for the call, check the weather station, listen to the radio, check the web-site...and then, the moment arrives, and you breathe a sigh of relief: SNOW DAY! Now, this is where the child in me retreats and the adult in me comes out to play. My shoulders relax, I find a warm robe, I put on my favorite socks, and I either grab a few more winks or start my leisurely day. Heaven!

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This one started with tea. I'm learning so much about herbs that I can't help experimenting. Today's blend was chamomile, white willow, mint, feverfew and rosemary. I also cut a lemon into the teapot. I have the beginning of a sinus infection; if I'm right, these herbs should sooth me. And hot tea on a snowy day? You can't go wrong.

I like to hang out in the sunroom to watch the snow fall. It's incongruous up there, and I enjoy that: colorful, growing orchids, cacti and garden starts indoors, cold white blizzard outdoors. Kind of like the juicy center of a chocolate covered cherry. Oh my.

Then the best part of all: a book, a computer, a drawing, a movie: something that engages my mind, while I watch the snow fall, with my feet up on the soft, fat sofa-recliner. Today it's this blog and a scary movie (my guilty pleasure). And my tea, of course. And my socks and jammies, and the afghan my mother crocheted for me a decade ago. You can't beat it.

Well, a chocolate covered cherry would be nice....

A Blast from the Past

Is it any wonder that I love farm life? Check out the date on this photo. That, my friends, is me and my Grand-Pop Gottier.

You can take the girl out of the country...you know the rest!

Valentine's Day / Anniversary

OK, it's sappy. But it's the truth: it's our anniversary. Everyone should be able to celebrate anniversaries. I spent the morning cooking. Nothing new there. Heart shaped omelets were new, though they were a small part of the morning's cooking. The 4 cards that Peter gave me with sweet messages were new. The wine setup he bought for our home brewing hobby was new. The regular kitchen activities, however, were decidedly commonplace. So was Peter's morning nap on the couch, under the crazy quilt. Comfortable. Just like the smell of beef barley soup. We shook things up at about noon, when we headed for Easton.

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This is the view from the end of Julia's street. She had offered us her vintage gas range, and we went to take a look at it. It was sweet: stovetop griddle, rotisserie, ample surface space; too ample, in fact. It won't fit, so we had to turn it down. But Easton was beautiful in the clear light. I miss the river, MY river. I knew every inch of the Lehigh throughout the length of Easton, and I've paddled every inch from the headwaters to the Delaware. I learned how to paddle there in Easton, when I wasn't being taught on more active water up north. Pretty bridge, isn't it? There are more.

After Easton, we went to the Sands casino in Bethlehem. It was a lark...a day of play. We were determined to quit when we were ahead, and we did. We left about $100 ahead of when we arrived, after playing for a couple of hours and having two glasses of wine and lunch. Just so you know: the music there was hypnotic. SCARY hypnotic. The place was beautiful, with an industrial theme and hanging bars of light, but I'd love to see a study of the effect of that music on the patron's inhibitions and ability to think rationally. At any rate, I cut myself off when I began to lose, and Peter followed suit. We ate lunch (I indulged in carbs: pizza), then left for the farm.

I've been missing my girls, and apparently they have been missing me too. I got lots of velvety goat kisses. I got dog kisses, cat kisses, and people kisses. It was a pretty wonderful day.

PASA Pictures

I attended this year's PASA (Penna. Association for Sustainable Agriculture) conference last weekend. In the blizzard. On a whim. I'm SOOOOOO glad I did. What I found there was profound; in the midst of the season's first actual blizzard, alone, I found something wonderful. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE! Peter once said that, when we were walking the street of New York, and I understood. He felt at home there, like things made sense. I felt that way at PASA. The unselfconscious women, the long hair, the plain clothes, the bearded men: there were MY people. Funny it should happen in State College, PA, but there it was. A little piece of my soul.

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I had to take one of my previously planned vacation days to get there before the snow. I'm glad I did; though I managed to get there before the afternoon lectures on Friday, by the time I was ready to return that evening (my motel was a few miles away) the roads were too snowy to navigate in my light truck, so I had to take a cab. But I digress.

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The first lecture I attended was by the author and keynote speaker Lisa M. Hamilton. Her stories of farmers that buck the system, that transcend the agribusiness machine and maintain their connection to the earth on an intimate level were wonderful. She read excerpts from her book, "Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness" which I'm currently reading and enjoying, and explained the relationships she had made and the insights she had gathered. Her experiences further validated my own; the farm I've been working with and the people I have met have become that much more noble in my mind since hearing her stories. Here she is:

There were so many wonderful presentations. I bought audio Cd's of those that I was unable to attend, so I could still learn what they had to teach me. It was a wonderful conference. It was so fulfilling, and even though I live in a small city and have limited land, my experiences at Flint Hill Farm, my urban gardening and my past experiences were all enriched by what I learned there. Below you see the silent auction and raffle. I was amazed by the variety and quality of the artisanal products offered by the farmers in Pennsylvania. We are a very fortunate and fecund state.

I bought some hand-painted, hand spun wool, and some multi-colored roving to make a scarf on Friday. On Saturday, after digging out my truck in street shoes, I returned and bought a pair of hand knitted socks. I spent the rest of the weekend in those socks. I wasn't the only member who walked the halls on the Penn Stater in my stocking feet that weekend. My people...

The other keynote speaker, Michael Reynolds, was wonderful. He was brilliant, real, thoughtful, fun. He was someone I'd like to spend time with. He is an architect who has a vision; he uses the materials available to him in a manner that makes them most useful to the final inhabitants of the homes he builds. His sustainable houses are the solution to the world's problems of both energy consumption and material conservation. I bought a copy of his movie "Garbage Warrior", which I first viewed on Friday night at the conference, in a snowstorm. He was there that night. I was too smitten to speak to him. ("I'm not worthy..."). I love old hippies.

Here's what I woke up to the following morning. Long story/short: I made use of the city's taxis. I shared one with a couple from Bermuda who had come in just for the conference. I met a former Penn State alum who was driving in his retirement. I met a mom who was supporting her family. I met a nice neo-hippie guy who knew about PASA through his girlfriend. And one guy didn't talk much, but that's OK. He got me back alive. Those roads were a mess! We got 18 inches of snow that weekend. I was really happy to have my 62 degree, no frills motel room (knowing Earl has made me appreciate shelter, no matter how humble). That coffee pot was my best friend (along with my new socks and my wool blanket from home!) (More stories of the presentations to follow).

The moral of this story is this: follow your heart. I found a little bit of my lost self at PASA. It's easy to push back those parts of your soul that are inconvenient when you're raising children and paying bills, but they won't go away. And when they whisper to you, you need to listen. I listened. And I found them despite the snow last weekend. It was a good experience. I'll go again. I'll keep listening.

Food for Thought

Hubby's hands, ingesting.

Broccoli Raab, asparagus, onion, mushrooms, sweet peppers and beef strips and gravy. The raab had to go (and I love it!)

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Back to the food conservation issue: I have kielbasa and tomato sauce. It'll be a meal soon. I'm glad I didn't use the kielbasa yesterday in my eggrolls (which were yummy, by the way...but my kitchen is trashed). I had an epiphany today. A Scooby-Doo Swirly Memory Moment.

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Memory: Zerns, ca. 1976. (Zerns is a local farmers' and flea market. Part of my LIFE. BIG part). Very hungry. VERY, like I'm going to faint hungry. Sausage sandwich with fried onions, peppers, and tomato sauce on a roll, smelling oh, so belly-rolling good. Got one, through the grace of God (and my flea market friends). Hot, sweet, filling the void and giving me strength wonderful. Heaven. Like I was going to expire, and now I'm not. Heaven. Roll up in a ball and purr afterward heaven.

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Here's a question for you. I know there are people out there who have lived their lives, and have stories to tell. Tell me...tell us...have you ever really been hungry? Really, scary, where- will-it-come-from hungry? Has that shaped your life? In the wake of the tragedy in Haiti, in the shadow of the economic crisis here in America, with thoughts of Darfur and so many souls facing famine, disease and death in our world, have you been hungry without a source of nourishment nearby? Do you know there are little kids who live that way in our own neighborhoods, right now, every day? Forget guilt, and accusation aimed at their parents. Those babies are hungry. Those few lean times I've experienced have served me; they've taught me to help. We are so blessed. This issue of waste reduction is a travesty, in a way...the solution should be a given. Help others. It's what we're here to do.