Tuesday, July 03, 2007
I wonder sometimes why I’m so fascinated by the nature of faith. Or maybe not. I really know why I stand gape-jawed before the example of people like Jimmy or Miz Kayreen. It’s their ability to stand strong in the face of hardship.
Maybe I think by being next to them a little of that rock solid resolve will rub off on me. That unflinching knowledge that things will always be alright because God is so firmly on their side. They put their trust in something so intangible, so completely ethereal and yet remain confident that all will turn out in the end.
I guess I just want a bit of that sort of peace. Their hardships are monumental compared to mine. I feel ashamed and guilty for being so undone by this whole thing with the pump.
My water now smells strongly of burnt PVC. The fumes are so strong they would probably put my friend Erin, who has MCSD, in the hospital.
The pump guy was here most of the morning. He put a new pump and sunk it an additional 60 feet down into the 400 foot well. The good news is that I had that extra 60 feet to go and that he doesn’t think, as he originally did, that I needed a completely new well drilled. The bad news is the 1000 dollar bill I keep looking at with unbelieving eyes.
But this is nothing compared to outliving your child. Or being one of the last of your kind and watching the demise of your religion like Jimmy. Or waiting for death with the ghost of your husband, twenty years gone, like Mizz Kayreen. Each of these people will tell you how blessed they are.
I drove the jeep up to Hall’s Top where luckily, that spring had not dried up, this morning. I stood there weeping softly as the water slowly filled up my two 6 gallon tanks and two gallon jugs. I wonder to myself how many women with real cause to weep stood at this spring or some other in these hills. Women who did this every single day of their lives and carried that water on bowed shoulders swinging buckets on yokes made for people, not oxen.
So I’m running my taps in the house on full trying to get the dreadful stench from my pipes and water heater. I still have the water I collected from the spring for drinking and hopefully the smell will be gone enough soon to water the livestock. They have a half a bucket left up there, but the geese are starting to get cranky.
So, I feel a little foolish for feeling like I’m forever scrambling to meet the lowest tier of my pyramid of needs. I think water is down there somewhere. I’m just not worthy of women who came before me here.
Someday I’ll tell you about Libby. She and her husband scraped together a meager existence cutting firewood. He would cut it in the deep woods and then pile it on a pallet. Then Libby would harness herself in and drag it up the mountain. She never had enough to eat and the two of them didn’t seem to have the same sort of survival skills others seemed to have here. Skills that enabled them to put together a life in these hills from practically nothing. They were probably a lot like most of us.
But, I’m feeling a bit pitiful. And embarrassed for feeling so.
I wish I had the sort of faith that let me take this all in stride.
I’m such a wimp.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
This was taken last year when my sweet boy and service dog, Aegis was still alive. If you haven't read "How to Dig a Hole"...well, it's my best writing from that period. I still have a hard time going back and reading it myself. Damn, he sure did love Tractor Man.
So, Tractor Man came today to plough the garden. He's coming back tomorrow to do the discing. So, I'll be planting on Friday.
Am still cleaning. Did the woodstove today. It's all shiny and clean and pretty. Took all the antique dolls down and cleaned the outfits. Man, I have a lot of stuff. Dust collecting stuff.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Southern Style Biscuits
Betty is recognized on the mountain as the best scratch biscuit maker in these parts. Everyone says so, and having had these mouth-melting treats of the Southern table at her house, I must agree. I've had the best. These biscuits Betty makes rival and surpass Mrs. Wilkes famed biscuits from The Boarding House in Savannah, Ga.
Betty learned to make biscuits from her Granddaddy Hall sixty something years ago when she was 10 years old. Her mother was laying-in pregnant and Grandpa Hall was living with them after the death of her grandmother. He learned to make them from his wife who was also a famed biscuit maker.When she learned how to make them, and up until the 1960's, she was making them in a wood-burning cook stove. Even after she switched to electric, she kept the big stove to cook on during the winter. It would warm the house up really nice.
"I was first making them real small like." She said, as I was stuffing my face with chicken-fried steak, gravy and biscuits, "But Lee, he got right upset and said, 'I feel right embarrassed having to keep reaching for biscuits...if you make them big, I don't need so many!'"
Betty said a typical family of eight would go through a 25 pound sack of flour per week. She would make her biscuits in the morning for breakfast and sometimes do another batch at night if the menu called for them. Left-over biscuits never were wasted. Sometimes, if the kids were home from school, she'd make ham or jelly biscuits to go with their lunch. The menfolk appreciated them after a heavy morning of ploughing, discing or tomato picking.
She also made something she called a "poor folks blackberry pie", that involved splitting the biscuits and putting the bottom halves in a pan. Then she'd layer blackberries, sugar and butter on top of those. Cover that up with the tops of the biscuits, dot with butter and bake until bubbly. This, she says, was very delicious.
If you have ever made scratch biscuits, you know they can be fickle things unless you have your way of making them just so. If you handle the dough too much, they can become hockey pucks. Too little and they are too cakey. If your fluids are not chilled, the biscuit can also be tough and inedible. I must say that I have, once in a while, suffered the embarrassment of making a bad biscuit.So, I was really eager to watch Betty make hers. I picked up some tricks I'm happy to pass on to you, and intend to practice in my own kitchen.
This is going to be more of a technique lesson than anything. Like most southern recipes of this type, the ingredient amounts are mostly by "feel".
Betty-Jo's Biscuits
Preheat your oven to 500 degrees. Start with a two quart bowl, three-quarters full of White Lilly self-rising flour. Make a well in the center of the flour. Put approximately 3 "eggs" (a unit of measurement approximating the size of a medium hen's egg) worth of white shortening. Using your hands, gently crumble the shortening into the flour. Add one coffee mug of fresh cold buttermilk. Combine gently using your hands. Add enough cold water to make the dough a good consistency. It should be well combined, but not overworked. Moist, but not runny. Pat biscuits into shape, or gently roll out and cut into circles with a jelly jar. Grease up your pan real good with shortening. Put your biscuits in the pan, just touching. Place in the oven and cut the heat to 350. Bake for about 10 minutes or until risen, then broil to brown the biscuits. Serve hot!
While Betty was making them, I asked some questions in between handing her the buttermilk and doing other small tasks to help. On the subject of flour, she is most definite about the quality of White Lilly.
"How about just using plain flour and adding the rising?" I asked.
"Lord, no! I never use plain flour since they came out with self-rising."
"How about adding and egg or two?" I asked.
"Noooooo," she clucked at me, making it clear that any deviation from this formula would result in certain biscuit disaster.
There was one variation that she did endorse slightly. Up until not too long ago, Betty and her family kept family milk cows. Churning butter, buttermilk and keeping fresh homemade dairy products around the house was also part of their routine on their farm. Betty was also considered an expert at turning out sweet fresh creamery butter. One auntie of hers used to love to make these biscuits with the fresh butter from Betty's churns. They were so delicious that they called them "butter pies" and would serve with fresh jam or hot berry compote.
I'd invited myself to this demonstration of biscuit mastery, but, of course, Betty didn't see the point in just making the biscuits without a meal to go along with it. So she whipped up a meal of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, corn and gravy to go along with the biscuits. The grand kids heard Mamaw was making them and showed up to scarf the leftovers.
I ate myself stupid, then kicked back and watched part of the Gaither Gospel Hour on RFD-TV with her.
I did do the dishes. I had to fight her on this, but she eventually did let me help.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Mutton and ChopsTo your breed, your fleece,
your clan be true.
Sheep be true.
Baa-ram-ewe.
I picked up Mutton and Chops yesterday with Betsy. They've been on the porch and will stay there until I get that fleece sheered. I'm told that this will be the best plan for training them on the electric fencing. The fleece will insulate them from any shock from the hot wire and they are wild, skittish beasties. It is unlikely I'll be able to catch them once they are out in the pasture.
Mutton is the light colored one and we are getting along just fine since Mutton is a pig. He will eat out of my hand at this point. He has a hopeful, sweet face and really wants to trust. Because you have the snacks.Chops is the pretty dark one and he's much more distrustful of the entire situation. Chops is going to be a tough one to tame. Chops rolls his eyes at you all the time.
It's like he's saying, "MINT SAUCE...Do I smell MINT SAUCE???!!!....Run for your LIFE!"
Actually, every third thought that goes through their minds is apparently, "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"
Neither of them seem capable of eating without leaving half their dinner smeared all over their shirtfronts. I can sympathize.
Essentially, what they do is, imagine some sort of horrible calamity then run for their lives to the other side of the porch. They roll their eyes and then start to eat again. They can seemingly do this for hours on end.
They are actually very sweet boys, just not very socialized. Friend Scott is going to come over to assist me with the shearing. He says he'll bring Xanax. I think we might need it. Not for the sheep. For us.
