Blue Yonder

King Corn

On our recent road trip to Granny's house, we noticed that several of the fields that only last year had been planted with cotton, were now full of golden stalks of corn.  

My guys remembered getting out of the car last fall to get up close and personal with the cotton and wanted to do the same with the corn, so we did.  

But you see, as promised, this isn't really a post about produce. My boys got real excited about peeking through a shuck to see what "corn right on the stalk" looked like, but were profoundly disappointed. 

 

"What's wrong with it?" they wanted to know.  This is not corn. This is hard, icky stuff. 

When I told them that all that corn, as far as the eye could see, was inedible, not meant for human consumption (at least not until it's gone through some processing), they were astonished. 

"Then why grow it?" 

Good question. 

They grow it because it means cheap food for cows (even though it makes the cows sick and lowers the nutritional value of meat). They grow it because it's tough to be a farmer and you have to grow what sells and what the government will subsidize. They grow it because that corn is turned into a cheap version of sugar that goes into sodas, cereals, crackers, pastas and just about everything else that Americans love to eat, even though it's slowly making people sick and shortening our lives. 

This whole discussion left my littles with a lot of questions. It left me with a lot of questions too. So, when we got home, I got on Netflix and added King Corn to our queue. 

We watched it yesterday, and I have to say that the filmmakers did such a good job of documenting this issue in an understandable and also unbiased way. They didn't come out swinging at the farmers or at Americans in general, or at the government. or even at the cattle industry. They just presented the facts about this whole vicious corn cycle that we find ourselves in. 

It's definitely thought-provoking. Definitely. If you haven't seen it, you should. Really.

My boys walked away from the cornfields with lots of questions, but after the film, they had just this one - "But where do they grow the REAL corn?"

I'm stumped. 

Purple Haze

My guys and I have been slowly working our way through the Story of the World. We're not very far along in it, about half way through the first book I guess. Their interest kind of waxes and wanes and I've not pushed it. I mean really. They are 3, 6 and 7 years old, just how much ancient history do you suppose they will retain? 

Here lately though, they've asked about it again. They think it's kind of interesting with all the funny names and wars and such.  So I got the book out, thinking that I'd be really organized and look ahead a bit... skim the pages for fun go-along activity ideas and make sure that I had the supplies on hand, should we get the itch to delve into the past. 

I read as far as "something something Phoenicians something something snails... something something purple dye something something wool." And thought, "Tie Dye!" (read yesterday's post to familiarize yourself with our other hippie tendencies.)

The book said that you could boil purple cabbage or blueberries to create a natural dye, and as I was not about to sacrifice my precious blueberries for the sake of higher learning, I added purple cabbage to the grocery list. 

The smarter ones among you know where this is headed. Don't you? 

I didn't. Didn't even think about it. 

In fact, I proceeded to tell my boys that it was officially purple day! We read Harold and the Purple Crayon and we made purple popsicles. We played games with purple baloons, we danced to the Purple People Eater! We had ourselves a rip roarin' royal purple time! Then, I sat down to read them the bit about Phoenicians gathering multitudes of a certain little purple snot-making mollusk and boiling them to make garments so expensive that only kings could afford them, and that, children, is why purple is considered the color of royalty. 

So far so good. They found this riveting. I mean really, does it get any more fascinating than purple snot-making mollusks? I don't see how it could. 

We read on, and learned that the smell of the simmering snot snails in the city of Tyre was so bad that it was a common insult, in ancient times, to say that someone "stank like a man from Tyre." 

That, friends, is when it hit me. I'm going to boil cabbage for an hour and then soak clothing in it. 

Um, just why had I thought that would be a good idea? Why had I not actually READ the passage and considered the consequences? What's that they say about those who don't know their history are doomed to repeat it?

I went ahead with it. I had already told the guys that we were going to be purple cloth-making Phoenicians, so what could I do?

I want you to know that my house stinks. It stinks really badly. It stinks like a man from Tyre.

When we go outside and then we come back in, having forgotten about the stench, all my fellas make the most horrendous, dramatic, gagging, throat-clutching scene that you can imagine.

 My husband left altogether, claiming he had some extremely urgent errands to run. I think he said something about checking the air pressure in the tires and getting a jump start on his Christmas shopping. 

Fine. Go. 

 But, when finally the rubberbands came off, and the shirts were hung, there were grins all around. Gagging, throat-clutching grins. 

 

My Luke wanted to know if cabbage smells worse or better than the boiling shells in Phoenecia did. "Worse," I told him. It was so bad that you could smell it all over the city, and since it was their livelihood, and not something that they did just for fun on one day, it was a smell that they lived with, day in and day out. 

My guys stood, and stared up at their purple shirts in wonder. 

Something tells me that this multi-sensory lesson, albeit unintentional, will ensure that they never forget the Phoenicians and their purple cloth.  Of course, it may also have some unsavory Pavlov's dog-ish side effects - I'm envisioning watering eyes, uncontrollable gagging noises and phantom puking gestures at the sight of purple. 

Oh well, a little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing. 

Adventures of a Modern Hippie

So for those of you who are following along, you know that I've been on a make-your-own quest of sorts. 

I'm not really sure what drives this do-it-yourself desire. 

Is it a concern over all those unpronouncable words on the ingredients labels of everything from shampoo to granola? Is it nostalgia for a simpler time? Is it that I'm a control freak, show off, do-gooder who, like a certain three year old I know, must prove that I can and will do it "BY MYSELF!" thank you very much? 

Maybe it's all of that, to some degree, but I think mostly it's that, well, I just find it kind of amusing and contrary and hippy chic-ish to make my own stuff, and frankly a mama to three boys has to get her kicks where she can. 

I take some kind of smirking, half cocked, "take that" pleasure in not buying something that I'm supposed to have to buy. And, it's kinda nice too,  showing my kids that jelly comes from fruit and yogurt comes from milk and, oddly enough, bread  and toilet cleaner alike come from baking soda. 

I just think it's kind of fun that maybe, some day far from now, when other people are waxing nostalgic over the cookies Mom once made, mine will say something like, "Remember how mom always made our deodorant? Those were the good ol' days. They just don't make deodorant like that anymore."

It's like an insurance policy of sorts. My children, in all their do-it-yourselfishness will be so hopelessly dorky that when they do find a girl to marry them, we will be certain she is in love with the man himself, and not just his swarthy good looks.

I feel a certain responsibility to you though, dear readers. I feel I must spare you some of the harsh realities of homemade, or at least arm you with as much information as possible, before you go plunging half cocked into the vast chasm of "Things To Make and Do."

So, today I will share with you some things that have worked, and some things that now reside in the Hall of Fervent Flopitude.

1. Shampoo - I was truly excited about the whole baking soda and apple cider vinegar approach to hair care. Firstly, these things are cheap, simple and readily available. Second, I tend to have a testy scalp that gets greasy in the summer and irritated and flakey in the winter. Attractive, right? 

After lots of reading, I thought maybe the trouble was that I'd thrown off the natural, preordained balance of my hair, and that simplifying my routine would work miracles. 

 Alas, after six solid days of earnest effort, I was a complete and total wreck. My roots were greasier than a diner hamburger and my ends were the stuff scarecrows dreams are made of. 

I tried. Really I did. I knew that there was going to be a "detox" period. I knew that I was going to have to pony-tail it for a while. But friends, it was bad. BAD. 

You will note that there are no photos here. None. Oh no. 

On the seventh day, God rested and Stefani used shampoo. I lathered up THREE separate times in one shower folks. It felt SO good. You know those old Herbal Essence commercials? Yeah, it was like that. 

Not to be deterred though, I ordered up some shampoo bar samples from Chagrin Valley Soap, and so far, I'm very pleased. They lather up nicely, and do a good job of cleaning my hair, plus they smell really good. I'm still having to use a bit of conditioner, but I'm hoping that after I've tried a few varieties of their shampoo bars and found the right one for my hair, or just by using them for awhile, I will eventually no longer need the store bought rinse. 

2. Deodorant - 

Okay, I'm going to preface this discussion with some information that may fall under the "too much" category. Brace yourselves. 

I'm a sweaty individual. 

It does not matter the season, or the locale. I sweat. A lot. 

I don't glisten. I don't glow. I sweat.

I near about jumped over the moon when the clinical strength Secret came out, but, for me at least, it didn't work one wit better than the regular stuff. 

So, when I came across Amy's homemade deodorant recipe, I thought, "what have I got to lose?"

I never in a million years expected it to work! I'm telling you, all these years I've been looking for the toxic chemical that would finally, FINALLY do the job, and lo and behold, I find that a simple mixture of shea butter, cocoa butter, baking soda, corn starch and some smelly good oils would do the trick!

You know what? Even though it's a deodorant, and not an antiperspirant, I actually sweat far less using this than the CLINICAL strength deodorant. 

Fabulous, right? Amazing, right? 

Yes, accept for one sorry little side affect. My underarms have turned brown. 

What. The. Heck?

They don't itch or feel different at all. The skin doesn't seem irritated, it's just brown. What is THAT?

So here's my dilemma: sweaty and smelly or disturbing brown spottage? 

Why can nothing be simple? 

3. There are a few bright spots in all this, though unfortunately, many of them are in the running for July's Blue Yonder First Monday Contest, so I can't gab too much about those yet. 

I can tell about one thing that is exceeding all my expectations though. You knew that we were making our own yogurt. I love that. A lot. It's fun and easy and cheap and healthy. Plus, since I have one picky little eater who will not let a fruit of any sort pass his lips, the yogurt has become a vehicle for his alloted daily dose of fruit. 

We make a lot of smoothies. 

So, when I saw these popsicle molds a while back, I thought it might be fun to turn our leftover smoothie bits into dessert. 

 

Yogurt + milk + honey + peaches = three happy boys. (and yes, those are feet on the table.)

They think it is beyond fun that I'm willing to let them eat popsicles for breakfast too. I'm like the best mom evah. 

The molds (and also these) are super easy to use, sturdy and worth their weight in vitamin supplements, if you ask me. 

Phew! Is anyone still reading? I do believe that I'll take my straw haired, brown pitted, way too wordy self into the kitchen for a popsicle now. 

Where There's a Will, There's a Weigh

Do you know what your car weighs? Would something like this move you to find out? 

 

You see a lot of these little bridges along the back roads of East Texas. 

I find them lovely and quaint and also wholly terrifying because, well, I drive a big car. A BIG car. For all my deodorant and yogurt making, reusable grocery bag toting, local eating, nature loving tendencies, I also drive a big ol' gas guzzling Suburban and I'm only ever sorry when it's time to fill 'er up. 

There. I said it. It feels good to come clean. I suppose it's hypocrisy, but I have a kind of love affair going with my, "Black Jack," and I don't care who knows it. 

I did wonder though, as I stared at this sign, if I was about to be dealt some kind of cosmic justice in the form of a rickety bridge o' doom. There we were, the Black Jack beast and I, my three precious sons in the backseats, and my sweet Granny at my side. I was looking down that little road and wondering why it never occurred to me to find out what my car weighs. 

Is this something other people know? Phone number, social security number, each child's height, weight and distinguishable markings, the square root of pi and the weight of one's car? Are you supposed to know that? I mean I don't even have a frame of reference. 3 tons? 10 tons? 1.21 gigawatts? I don't know. 

So as I sat and (ahem) weighed my options, my Granny says, "Oh honey, I'm sure it's fine. The school bus used to go over these bridges all the time, and you can't weigh more than a school bus." Yes, but well, it has been, um, lets just say "a few moons" since my Granny rode a school bus. What's the shelf life on a wooden bridge? 

In the end, I decided to trust in the ingenuity of my kinsmen and just go for it. As I let off the brake though, Granny added, "of course, all us kids had to get off the bus and walk over first. Then the bus came behind us. We just got back on and went on to school." 

Wait what? 

For real? 

Can you imagine such a thing? Do you think that would fly for one single solitary minute in this day and age? Lord have mercy, I can see the appalled faces of the TV news anchors now, the protest signs, the angry mobs - children! Forced to get off the bus and walk across! There would be petitions and fundraising and before you know it, spanning that creek, would be a solid titanium bridge dedicated by George Bush himself, while the band played, "When the Saints Go Marching In." 

After a little deliberation, many prayers, breath held and fingers firmly crossed, we passed over that bridge, and we were fine. 

That little bridge has me wondering though. 

There was a time when a little risk and a little hardship was a part of life, the price you paid for privileges like an education, or say, dinner. I'm not saying that we should all strive to imbue danger and peril into the lives of our kids, I'm just saying, well, I sometimes wonder what our kids miss out on, what WE miss out on, what sense of accomplishment, what strength of character, what inherent value is lost for all of us,  because we live in an affluent society where really we are called to risk our necks for very little. 

A little hardship and peril will at some point likely find it's way into all our lives though, so the question is, if we've not had to face those bridges before, will we know what to do when we reach them? Will we have the courage to do what needs to be done? 

I hope when the time comes, that we cross our bridges with grace. 

"Now That's a Peach"

(If you will indulge me in just one more produce post, I will promise to move on...) 

"Now that's a peach!" That's what my James said, juice running down his arm, as he hung from a branch, sampling the farmer's wares. 

My little fruit lover has been longing for that sweetness ever since he asked me to buy peaches a few weeks back at the grocery store, which turned out to taste "exactly like nothing would taste if nothing could taste," in his estimation.

 So, of course, it was with the highest of hopes, that he carried his basket down the dusty trail.  

You might imagine then, that when my man discovered that these peaches were REAL peaches, peaches that taste exactly how the summer sunset would taste if the summer sunset could taste, he picked himself silly. 

We all did. 

 

When every basket in a 10 mile radius had been filled, he wiped his brow, cursed the creation of biting insects, declared that farming was for the birds, and that he's moving to Canada where it is not 100 degrees

.  

This, precisely 2.3 seconds before he said, "Do you think we could pick some blackberries too? There's only a few left in the whole summer!" 

 

Even a small farmer can understand, you see, that this time, this gathering time, is as fleetingly precious as it is laborious, and that when the shoes are kicked off, when the ice cream has been scooped, the fruits of one's labor are sweet indeed.