Never own anything you ain't willin to drill into...

Well, I’ve put off posting for a couple of weeks now, just pondering things at the Coop, and decided that it is once again time to share some insight into the inner working of this delicate film of gray matter I call my mind. When I first started posting I thought I would never have a problem coming up with a topic, or some form of wordy prose to share with the masses who were clambering at their computers to read the next burst of cyber-wisdom, but I have recently realized that while I could put lots of words into cyberspace, they would be just that…words. No feelings, no contemplative explanations, nothing that I wanted to use in this elegant slice of thoughtful enlightenment.

While thinking about this issue, I realized that pretty words and thought provoking twists of logic aren’t always the best form of reading entertainment (not that you’d actually ever get either of those here; but I thought I’d toss that out there) and decided to write today about the words of our fathers. No, not the words our fathers used when they accidentally broke their small toe changing pants at work, nor the words mine used upon realizing his youngest son was in the basement experimenting with the flash point of 10W-30 motor oil (about 420F-485F, if you must know), but the words of wisdom that we all thought were insane until we grew up and started using these exact same phrases with our own kids.

“Never own anything you aren't willing to drill a hole in”.

I never really understood what my Dad meant by this until recently. A couple of years ago my beautiful Bride and I were in a position to buy a new bedroom suit and went to our local purveyor of fine rustic furniture.  Three of them actually, before we found exactly what we wanted at the price we wanted to pay. After having spent several hours and gallons of gas, we decided on a nice dresser with a mirror, two matching nightstands, and an amazing bedframe/headboard combination that had more storage in the built-in drawers underneath than a politician has excuses. We loaded all this up into my ole Dodge truck and make the trip home.  Being the smart fella I’d love to believe that I am, I suggested we stage all of the new items in the living room until the old bedroom furniture was removed to the garage. Once that was complete, I carefully removed the plastic coverings from the beautifully stained pine wood bed frame, taking care not to mar the finish with my pocket knife. I mean for Pete’s sake, we just spent $600 on a bedframe; I might have actually shed tears had I scratched it!

 Once the plastic was removed (with surgical precision, I might add), my lovely bride and I pushed it down the hallway to the bedroom, already picturing how this one piece of furniture would transform our little 11x13 bedroom into a suite that would make a king fit to be tied. As we arrived at the bedroom door, a sudden dread filled my heart, based on the realization that simple physics had defeated me. The bedframe was too large to turn in the hallway, making it impossible to get it into the room. Now I am normally a calm man, seldom prone to panic, but this time was different. My mind began to race as I tried to decide whether or not I should take out the doorway of the bedroom, or remove the window and put the bed in from the outside. Apparently I was listing these options out loud because the Love of my life began getting a rather odd look on her face. I realize now that look was that of a person trying to remember the number to the local asylum.

I decided that since I had never installed double pane insulated windows, I should widen the bedroom doorway (been there, done that), and started toward the garage for my trusty circle saw. My bride stopped me and calmly suggested that we cut the bed instead. It was my turn to wonder about the current rules for commitment to a ward, until I realized she might be right. It might actually be better to cut the bed (which we own) than to alter the design of our residence (which we don’t own).  A half hour and two pounds of sawdust later, the bed was cut apart and reassembled in our room. It might not be fit for a king, but my Queen sleeps just perfectly on it. (Oh, and the doorway is still intact).  

Now that I have kids of my own, I catch myself using these very same phrases, such as when one of the kiddos transgresses in such a fashion that it only requires a light-hearted scolding such as “I’m gonna stomp a mud-hole in yer butt, then stomp it dry”.  I knew, upon hearing this, that I had committed an act of utter stupidity and had been caught at it, yet at the same time knew I wasn’t in any real danger of said mud-hole creation. Another classic that my kids hear is “Your mouth is gonna write a check your butt can’t cash”. This is usually when we are play-fighting and my 14 year old decides to challenge the old man to a “wrasslin” match.  My dad and I play fought often, and it was always in fun; not only because we enjoyed it, but also because I knew in my heart of heart that if I ever challenged my dad to a real fight, he would accept and that scared me. My dad wasn’t a big man, but he was strong as a Missouri mule and didn’t back down from anyone. Besides that, he kindly reminded me that my body occasionally grew weary and I would eventually have to fall asleep. He never finished that thought (and he didn’t have to). My young imagination filled with nightmares of the tortures I would endure when sleep overcame me and that fear kept me from many stupid decisions. Not that Dad would have done anything to me in my sleep; I really don’t believe he would. But it is the fear of the unknown that keeps wise men honest.

So in closing, I leave you with this nugget of rural gold; I reckon good sense is scarcer than hen’s teeth, so don’t waste what you have.

 

Until next time,

 

 

Come and take it... (now that'll be $4 please)

So my beautiful Bride and I decided we were going to try our hand at bestowing some of her AMAZING jam as well as some of our yard eggs upon the citizens of this Great State in exchange for a small amount of their legal tender. We had a wonderful plan; prepare the jams a day before the Farmer’s Market so they would be the freshest and store the eggs at a perfect 40 degrees so they would match the jam in freshness and thus avoid that nasty botulism or salmonella. Why this was genius at its best! Do something we love to do AND maybe turn a small profit to boot. Our excitement was every bit equal to that of a 5 year old on Christmas morning and in our minds we were already the next Mrs. Fields, selling our wares across the country and putting smiles on the faces of our customers world-wide.  The only thing left to do was to look into getting the permit from the county to sell such succulent consumables to the starving masses. I jumped onto the computer right away and took a left onto the information super highway we know as the internet and…BAM, there it was. A detour sign immediately followed by a roadblock of tanks and men with machine guns. Ok, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but read on!

I spent literally hours on the computer reading through State and Federal food service laws (including some laws that I’m not entirely certain are even directed toward the human race) all to learn that any person is welcome to sell their food products, all you have to do is follow ten simple steps. Did I say ten? I meant ten thousand. The number of hoops that have to be jumped through to sell food would have made Evel Kneiveil quit his career as a stunt man and take up factory work.  And that’s not the worst part; in order to make jam, we would have to use a commercial kitchen to prepare it.  Now if you know my Darling wife, she is a bit of an obsessive cleaner. I personally love her for it because I get to live in a sterile environment, but apparently that is not nearly good enough for the federal government. I mean seriously, one inspection of her kitchen and the Mayo Clinic would send their brain surgeons to her to learn how to clean.  I find it humorous that a kitchen as well cared for as hers isn’t good enough to prepare small batches of heaven to share with the community, but the large restaurants (who, by the way have paid thousands of dollars to our favorite Uncle…Sam) can get away with cockroach parts in their prepared foods as long as it is under a specified “parts-per-thousand”.  Me personally, I am not ok with ANY insect parts in my food, and would sell food with that in mind.

I watched a documentary the other night called “Farmageddon” and unfairly assessed it as people who were trying to bypass their responsibilities to the public. It is actually interesting to watch, regardless of your opinion of the people shown, in that one can really see how much the federal government is willing to squash small farmers in the interest of the large production farms. There was one question asked during the show that now really stands out to me; Is it really fair to hold small farms, especially small organic farms, to the same standards as the larger, more industrial (read: filthy) farms. I completely agree that food safety is a must, no matter who the producer is, but it is so much easier to track where your food comes from when you buy it from Farmer Joe who lives next door than when you buy it from a large chain grocery store whose products change hands ten times before making its way into your cart.  Thankfully the Great State of Texas has the answer, essentially telling the Federal Government once again where to stash its restricting rules on production. It's known as the Cottage Foods Act  and was passed August 2011. In this act, Texas made it legal to sell certain non-perishable foods (baked good, jams, jellies, and seeds) at your residence as long as it is a face to face transaction. So, although it is not what we had in mind, the Rocking PMH Ranch is still in the business of selling the canned ambrosia we call jam. Typical of most real Texans, tell us we can't do something and we'll find another way to do it, and do it better!

 

Until next time,