There are a lot of things I hate about depression. Some of them sound more or less profound based on individual ideology. Here's a short list:
1. Lack of hope in the future. What's the point of exercise if it just doesn't seem to "work"?
2. Lack of appetite. I need to cook but nothing sounds good, even the stuff I normally go crazy over. You know something's wrong when even the thought of a Chipotle burrito with guac doesn't do anything for you.
3. Fatigue. I get my 8 hours and I still feel wiped out even with corrected apnea.
4. Everything takes tons of effort. Getting out of that seat happens but it's so HARD.
And I could go on. But here's the one I hate the most:
Stifled creativity. I love to make stories and sew little dolls and do a huge bunch of other things but when I'm depressed that creative energy seems to be forever out of my reach.
Tonight, I tapped into some of that creativity when it came to making dinner. I have been less than inspired for the past several months and haven't come up with anything new in a long time. However, it's about time to go grocery shopping so I decided to make pasta and throw whatever was in the fridge into the pot and hope for the best. Even Bren said he didn't hate it. Score.
Pasta... stuff
Cooked spaghetti (make sure to salt the water)
Chopped artichoke hearts (just had a handful left in a Sam's sized jar)
Chopped fresh spinach (big double handful -- a lot goes a little way)
Pesto (to taste)
Left over cooked chicken, chopped
Cherry tomatoes, sliced
basil
black pepper, ground
salt to taste
If it's dry, add a splash of milk or chicken broth and mix. It shouldn't be runny at all but the moisture helps if you end up salting it much. I topped mine with a bit of parm and chopped black olives, but I wish I had green olives or capers on hand. That would have been a nice pop of flavor.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Sunday, December 09, 2012
Forgiveness sometimes doesn't feel right
I've been both fascinated and horrified by the events of WWII, but I still haven't brought myself to read a comprehensive history of it. My first exposure to those events (not counting Raiders of the Lost Ark) was through a book called The Winged Watchman, a story of a young boy in Holland during WWII. He and his family were not placed in concentration camps nor subjected to brutal torture but the book successfully conveyed anxiety and need, and a loss of innocence that have impressed me for at least two decades. In fact, my daughter Freya gets her name from part of that story.
My oldest daughter has been reading a book called Hana's Suitcase, a story of a girl and her brother who were taken to Auschwitz. Claire, my daughter, is 10, and around the age I was when I read The Winged Watchman. Hana's Suitcase is more horrifying than The Winged Watchman by a few degrees and Claire wept at its conclusion. She asked about the war, what caused it and why, oh why would people do such things to human beings? We talked for a while and I strongly emphasized that one of the reasons people need to read these stories is so that we never forget and never repeat that unspeakably evil portion of our history.
Today I'm home with a stomach bug, so I'm sewing and watching a documentary called Forgiving Dr. Mengele. Mengele was a Nazi doctor who performed experiments on identical twins at Auschwitz. The documentary follows a woman named Eva Mozes Kor, the surviving half of a set of twins who were subject to some of Megele's insanity. It's estimated that 1,400 sets of twins were thus used.
Eva is remarkable for surviving Auschwitz, founding CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center, and writing and signing a letter forgiving Dr Hans Munch for whatever role he had in the war. Later in her story, she describes the thought process of also forgiving Mengele. One woman asked her if some sort of prerequisite should be met before forgiving a person, such as remorse or a promise never to do it again.
Now this is where my mind begins to be blown. Eva responded that no prerequisites must be met in order for someone to forgive. Victims will never cease to be victims until they claim the power of forgiveness as their own. If the abuser continues to dictate whether or not they should be forgiven, then a victim will never cease to be a victim.
If an abuser never apologizes or repents, then many would feel totally justified in carrying anger and even hate until they felt that the abuser was worthy of forgiveness. But forgiveness isn't for the abuser, it's a healing for the victim. I've long contemplated what forgiveness means. It certainly doesn't mean that the pain is gone. It certainly doesn't mean that you've changed the person whom you are forgiving. And it absolutely does not give the abuser power over the victim. What it is, to me, is permission for the healing of the self. It means that I can move on from the power of an abuser because I'm claiming that power as my own. My abuser need not linger in my soul because I cleanse every part of me of the pain, humiliation, self doubt, feelings of absolute unworthiness, and the terror of feeling that I have no power over the bad things that happen to me.
Eva has been speaking out about forgiveness for many years now. She is 78 and now ranks as one of my personal heroes. Sometimes forgiveness doesn't feel right because people somehow feel that the personal decision of forgiveness equates to an excuse for hurtful behavior. It does not. Forgiveness does not excuse nor justify nor does it necessarily extend mercy. Forgiveness is for my salvation, not my abuser's.
Autonomy. Authenticity. Independence. Forgiveness. Love. Freedom. Each of these words contain a world of thought, struggle, study, yearning, and constant development in my life. Today, because of Eva, I feel that I've taken a big step in understanding forgiveness. Brava, brave woman.
My oldest daughter has been reading a book called Hana's Suitcase, a story of a girl and her brother who were taken to Auschwitz. Claire, my daughter, is 10, and around the age I was when I read The Winged Watchman. Hana's Suitcase is more horrifying than The Winged Watchman by a few degrees and Claire wept at its conclusion. She asked about the war, what caused it and why, oh why would people do such things to human beings? We talked for a while and I strongly emphasized that one of the reasons people need to read these stories is so that we never forget and never repeat that unspeakably evil portion of our history.
Today I'm home with a stomach bug, so I'm sewing and watching a documentary called Forgiving Dr. Mengele. Mengele was a Nazi doctor who performed experiments on identical twins at Auschwitz. The documentary follows a woman named Eva Mozes Kor, the surviving half of a set of twins who were subject to some of Megele's insanity. It's estimated that 1,400 sets of twins were thus used.
Eva is remarkable for surviving Auschwitz, founding CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center, and writing and signing a letter forgiving Dr Hans Munch for whatever role he had in the war. Later in her story, she describes the thought process of also forgiving Mengele. One woman asked her if some sort of prerequisite should be met before forgiving a person, such as remorse or a promise never to do it again.
Now this is where my mind begins to be blown. Eva responded that no prerequisites must be met in order for someone to forgive. Victims will never cease to be victims until they claim the power of forgiveness as their own. If the abuser continues to dictate whether or not they should be forgiven, then a victim will never cease to be a victim.
If an abuser never apologizes or repents, then many would feel totally justified in carrying anger and even hate until they felt that the abuser was worthy of forgiveness. But forgiveness isn't for the abuser, it's a healing for the victim. I've long contemplated what forgiveness means. It certainly doesn't mean that the pain is gone. It certainly doesn't mean that you've changed the person whom you are forgiving. And it absolutely does not give the abuser power over the victim. What it is, to me, is permission for the healing of the self. It means that I can move on from the power of an abuser because I'm claiming that power as my own. My abuser need not linger in my soul because I cleanse every part of me of the pain, humiliation, self doubt, feelings of absolute unworthiness, and the terror of feeling that I have no power over the bad things that happen to me.
Eva has been speaking out about forgiveness for many years now. She is 78 and now ranks as one of my personal heroes. Sometimes forgiveness doesn't feel right because people somehow feel that the personal decision of forgiveness equates to an excuse for hurtful behavior. It does not. Forgiveness does not excuse nor justify nor does it necessarily extend mercy. Forgiveness is for my salvation, not my abuser's.
Autonomy. Authenticity. Independence. Forgiveness. Love. Freedom. Each of these words contain a world of thought, struggle, study, yearning, and constant development in my life. Today, because of Eva, I feel that I've taken a big step in understanding forgiveness. Brava, brave woman.
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Rabbit. Rabbit. Like when a frog croaks, right?
This past Sunday a friend's baby was fussing in church while she tried to get a bottle ready for him. I scooped him up and that sweet child quit fussing long enough for his lunch to be prepared. As I cuddled that tiny guy I realized why I'm thinking about getting a rabbit -- I'm baby hungry.
Just take a wee moment to imagine the look on Dave's face when I told him that. Yeah. My baby factory is closed for business but there's something about holding a tiny warm body that snuggles into you that touches a deep place in me. My youngest is so tall now that elbows and feet spill out of my lap no matter how we try to arrange things. My oldest now spends at least a half an hour in front of the mirror before going to school now.
But where does that leave the rabbit when my hormonal urges ebb?
Freya: [as we were in the car, running errands, and she's pretty good at keeping herself entertained]
Mom, how do you say Casa Bonita in Spanish? Casa, Casa, Casa Bonita! (breaking into a little chant)
Just take a wee moment to imagine the look on Dave's face when I told him that. Yeah. My baby factory is closed for business but there's something about holding a tiny warm body that snuggles into you that touches a deep place in me. My youngest is so tall now that elbows and feet spill out of my lap no matter how we try to arrange things. My oldest now spends at least a half an hour in front of the mirror before going to school now.
But where does that leave the rabbit when my hormonal urges ebb?
Freya: [as we were in the car, running errands, and she's pretty good at keeping herself entertained]
Mom, how do you say Casa Bonita in Spanish? Casa, Casa, Casa Bonita! (breaking into a little chant)
Friday, November 02, 2012
Grudgingly liking the dogs
The dogs I'm looking after have been getting nicer. The little one that bit me looked ashamed of himself when I went in the next day. He wagged the tail that hung between his legs and let me pet him for several minutes. I started to look in their brown eyes and they licked my face which was a particularly slimy kind of love but it was love nonetheless. So now I'm starting to understand how people could get close with dogs but I definitely don't want to get one. Rabbit gets another couple of points toward becoming a possibility though, since a little chink in my heart has been made.
Science projects. Boy oh boy. This year Bren had a great project that came together really well and Claire's was disorganized and disoriented. I'll get pics when they bring them home today, but Claire was up until at least 11:30 getting her data printed out. She was stressing about details so it was a good opportunity to express that at 11 pm what we're going for is a passing grade as opposed to a blue ribbon. Telling that girl to dial back on the detail is like... well, telling anyone on my side of the family to dial back the detail -- it just doesn't compute with us.
The other day I sent Dave to the store for a couple of things and he brought back the couple of things and a 23 pound turkey. So it has been thawing for a bit, got brined for a bit, (if you use that recipe, use only 1 cup of sugar) and now it's driving everyone crazy as the aroma slowly builds in this house. I have a hard time criticizing impulse purchases like this, especially when smells of ginger, oranges, and garlic are all wafting about and I know that real cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes are also on the docket.
I stopped taking Prozac for a while over the summer, did well for several weeks, and ended up having a huge emotional crash shortly after the husband came home from the hospital. So I'm back on the pills (my nurse practitioner was very kind and didn't scold me too much for doing it without her advice) and getting back into therapy tomorrow. I'm having a very hard time getting back into the therapy since my emotional capacity for meaningful relationships is fairly limited, meaning I just get plain worn out from sustained, meaningful connection. I don't like that about myself, but this is what I get to work with. I can only take so many days of visiting even people I love best, and only so many social engagements in a month. Now therapy is using up a portion of my emotional endurance and I'm so reluctant to go back that it's taken me over a month to get that first appt scheduled.
My therapist is the honorable Dr Trent Claypool who has the credentials of someone with a long, white beard but has the countenance of a youth. The beard he experiments with doesn't make him look any older. He's a couple of years younger than me but can reference experience and knowledge, and uses communication and reflective listening skills that often astound me. I've been to a few therapists in my time and this is the first guy who I feel is listening to me on a really deep level, and is communicating with me in such an authentic way that the emotional honesty is sometimes as uncomfortable as it is healing. The appointments are always helpful and I have an extremely hard time going to them. Therapy is work, and he's earning every single penny when my crazy walks in the room, I tell you.
Science projects. Boy oh boy. This year Bren had a great project that came together really well and Claire's was disorganized and disoriented. I'll get pics when they bring them home today, but Claire was up until at least 11:30 getting her data printed out. She was stressing about details so it was a good opportunity to express that at 11 pm what we're going for is a passing grade as opposed to a blue ribbon. Telling that girl to dial back on the detail is like... well, telling anyone on my side of the family to dial back the detail -- it just doesn't compute with us.
The other day I sent Dave to the store for a couple of things and he brought back the couple of things and a 23 pound turkey. So it has been thawing for a bit, got brined for a bit, (if you use that recipe, use only 1 cup of sugar) and now it's driving everyone crazy as the aroma slowly builds in this house. I have a hard time criticizing impulse purchases like this, especially when smells of ginger, oranges, and garlic are all wafting about and I know that real cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes are also on the docket.
I stopped taking Prozac for a while over the summer, did well for several weeks, and ended up having a huge emotional crash shortly after the husband came home from the hospital. So I'm back on the pills (my nurse practitioner was very kind and didn't scold me too much for doing it without her advice) and getting back into therapy tomorrow. I'm having a very hard time getting back into the therapy since my emotional capacity for meaningful relationships is fairly limited, meaning I just get plain worn out from sustained, meaningful connection. I don't like that about myself, but this is what I get to work with. I can only take so many days of visiting even people I love best, and only so many social engagements in a month. Now therapy is using up a portion of my emotional endurance and I'm so reluctant to go back that it's taken me over a month to get that first appt scheduled.
My therapist is the honorable Dr Trent Claypool who has the credentials of someone with a long, white beard but has the countenance of a youth. The beard he experiments with doesn't make him look any older. He's a couple of years younger than me but can reference experience and knowledge, and uses communication and reflective listening skills that often astound me. I've been to a few therapists in my time and this is the first guy who I feel is listening to me on a really deep level, and is communicating with me in such an authentic way that the emotional honesty is sometimes as uncomfortable as it is healing. The appointments are always helpful and I have an extremely hard time going to them. Therapy is work, and he's earning every single penny when my crazy walks in the room, I tell you.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Of numb mouths and nasty little doggies
The school called me yesterday to let me know that Bren's mouth was numb and he could barely speak, so could we please come and see him right away. I was over there in about two minutes where I found his mouth swollen enough that he could barely be understood when speaking. Zyrtec cleared up the numbness and swelling within 25 minutes but I still took him to the dr to see what might be learned. She wasn't helpful at all, except in prescribing Zyrtec tablets and telling us to see his real doctor. Sigh.
In better news, Eden and Bren both won gold cards at school for academic achievement The gold cards give them privileges throughout the quarter like getting into the lunch line first, going to the front office for a piece of candy, or electing to not turn in one assignment. Claire has had some organization issues this past quarter and the result was too many late assignments for gold, but she did get a white card. Bren just started chess club and Claire is doing choir again this year and adding in something called Battle of the Books. She has a pretty impressive reading list that began with The Tale of Despereaux. She read it in one day, so I'm not too worried about the other 9 books she needs to get done before Christmas. A kind friend was downsizing and brought us a barely used cello so Claire can do an instrument next year. She's already getting it out and trying a few things. I'm so grateful that this is a deeper instrument that won't squeak across the whole house as much as, say, any soprano instrument I could name.
Eden is loving school and her teacher is confident that she'll be getting into the gifted/talented program when she hits 3rd grade. Her grades are pure gold, and she's one of two kids in her class of 30 that got full marks for behavior. Can I just say that it's so amazing to watch one's kids succeed, especially after so much work.
So a friend of mine is out of town and wants me to go and take care of her dogs for a small financial reward. I'm totally cool with that since the dogs are ok and she doesn't live far. Today was my first time doing it so I picked Freya up from school and headed over. One of the dogs is larger and is allowed to roam the house alone, and she was pretty upset to see us come into her house without any of the owners there. The little one was crated since he makes the whole house his personal toilet as he can't handle being alone for so long. Long story short, despite sitting in the floor for several minutes just petting those little stinkers and giving them treats I found on a shelf, the little one bit me (there's a nice blood soaked paper towel in the trash for the owners, blech) the big one elected to sit on her rear in the attitude of submission rather than play, and I ended up having to wrap the little one in a towel to get him back in his crate. Worth it? We'll see. This was just day 1. Tomorrow I intend to take the whole crate into the fenced yard so the little one can't hide under the bed when it's time to get put away. Maybe I'll leash him as well.
I'm so not a pet person.
A friend of mine is starting a rabbit breeding business. She's breeding Rex's, and their fur is simply amazing. Most rabbits have two lengths of fur (think feathers on birds -- longer feathers and down feathers) but the Rex has fur that's all the same length. The net result is an exceptionally luxurious coat. Bren wants one desperately but we're not on board with that. Maybe I'll get him a stuffed rabbit that he needs to care for like a real one for 3 months before even considering the real thing.
Anyway, I'll try to get pics of the kids in their costumes tonight. Freya is a flower fairy, Eden is a ninja, Bren is an expert swordsman (his costume is more in the moves than in the appearance) and Claire is Hermione from the Harry Potter books. I'm dressed up like a stressed out soccer mom. Hah.
In better news, Eden and Bren both won gold cards at school for academic achievement The gold cards give them privileges throughout the quarter like getting into the lunch line first, going to the front office for a piece of candy, or electing to not turn in one assignment. Claire has had some organization issues this past quarter and the result was too many late assignments for gold, but she did get a white card. Bren just started chess club and Claire is doing choir again this year and adding in something called Battle of the Books. She has a pretty impressive reading list that began with The Tale of Despereaux. She read it in one day, so I'm not too worried about the other 9 books she needs to get done before Christmas. A kind friend was downsizing and brought us a barely used cello so Claire can do an instrument next year. She's already getting it out and trying a few things. I'm so grateful that this is a deeper instrument that won't squeak across the whole house as much as, say, any soprano instrument I could name.
Eden is loving school and her teacher is confident that she'll be getting into the gifted/talented program when she hits 3rd grade. Her grades are pure gold, and she's one of two kids in her class of 30 that got full marks for behavior. Can I just say that it's so amazing to watch one's kids succeed, especially after so much work.
So a friend of mine is out of town and wants me to go and take care of her dogs for a small financial reward. I'm totally cool with that since the dogs are ok and she doesn't live far. Today was my first time doing it so I picked Freya up from school and headed over. One of the dogs is larger and is allowed to roam the house alone, and she was pretty upset to see us come into her house without any of the owners there. The little one was crated since he makes the whole house his personal toilet as he can't handle being alone for so long. Long story short, despite sitting in the floor for several minutes just petting those little stinkers and giving them treats I found on a shelf, the little one bit me (there's a nice blood soaked paper towel in the trash for the owners, blech) the big one elected to sit on her rear in the attitude of submission rather than play, and I ended up having to wrap the little one in a towel to get him back in his crate. Worth it? We'll see. This was just day 1. Tomorrow I intend to take the whole crate into the fenced yard so the little one can't hide under the bed when it's time to get put away. Maybe I'll leash him as well.
I'm so not a pet person.
A friend of mine is starting a rabbit breeding business. She's breeding Rex's, and their fur is simply amazing. Most rabbits have two lengths of fur (think feathers on birds -- longer feathers and down feathers) but the Rex has fur that's all the same length. The net result is an exceptionally luxurious coat. Bren wants one desperately but we're not on board with that. Maybe I'll get him a stuffed rabbit that he needs to care for like a real one for 3 months before even considering the real thing.
Anyway, I'll try to get pics of the kids in their costumes tonight. Freya is a flower fairy, Eden is a ninja, Bren is an expert swordsman (his costume is more in the moves than in the appearance) and Claire is Hermione from the Harry Potter books. I'm dressed up like a stressed out soccer mom. Hah.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Forget Birds. It should have been The Wasps.
This is part four in our wasp saga. Not for the faint of heart.
There's a round, metal lid in the corner of our back yard. I have no idea what was meant to go inside of there. It doesn't align with gas or water at all and doesn't have an embossed identifier on it. All we knew was that there were a couple of holes in it and in the dirt around it through which passed many dozens of dark wasps. We could see them swarming like diabolical blobs of evil ugly during the day, shamming innocence as they sipped nectar and grinned in a manner more creepy than a love child born of Agent Smith and Jack Nicholson a la The Shining.
We've been discussing what we could do to get rid of this nest. One option was to flood the whole thing with ammonia. Another was to pay $81 and have a guy called Froggy out to do it. We considered waiting for first frost to kill the little nippers. My personal preference was to spray it down, get closer and spray into the holes pretty thoroughly, and then wait an hour or so before prying the lid off with a long stick.
Dave had another idea. It's a rainy night, he already has a migrain, his shoulder is as bad as ever since the cortisone shot has worn off, and he's feeling pretty jaded about what kind of pain tiny wee insects might cause. He figured he could just don a hoodie and long pants and go out while it's still raining and cold and just get the lid off in a trice.
It was well after dark when he set out to get the job done. The two younger kids were already in bed and the two older kids couldn't hardly watch him advance up the hill through the light of the back porch. My job was to wait at the sliding screen door and open it when he got close and shut it as soon as he was safe. I shushed the kids' urgent questions and observations and watched in serious anxiety as Dave began to fumble with the lid.
He seemed to get some good leverage on it for a moment but suddenly jerked back like his thumb has encountered one of the nasty creatures. We all jerked back in unison but leaned forward again as he went in with grim resolve. He sort of casually flipped the lid open with a twist of his hand, peered into the hole briefly, and then sauntered down the hill toward the house.
I couldn't believe that he seemed so... well, nonchalant about the whole thing. You know, like the embodient of "meh." I opened the door wide for my hero and kept the eagle eye of withering skepticism on his jacket. He was inches from safety when I slammed the door in his face. "There's one on you!" I yelled. "Stay out there and get it off!"
He looked down and said "where?" As he turned, I saw several wasps attached to him in an attitude of the kamikaze, throwing their whole bodies into the work of death. Their small frames were arched as they attempted to both sting and bite him through the thick cloth. He shook and flicked but they held on and that's when the swarm hit.
The whole of the light from the porch fixture was filled with angry, dark, silent wasps and I had shut him out, damning him to an insectoid purgatory. They flew at David, batting unsuspecting moths aside and plowing through the waning rain. I stared in horror through the thin screen door as Dave seemed to maintain his cool and wipe off wasps that had even gotten inside his hoodie. "Are they off? Are they off?" he asked repeatedly and I couldn't even say as many dozen of them sought the destroyer of their home.
He ran to the side of the back deck and disappeared into the night. The swarm stayed put and I closed the glass door apparently just in time. As I continued to examine the wasps from the safety of my kitchen I saw that one of them had found a tear in the screen and was banging against the glass.
I ran to the front door and flipped on the porch light. There was Dave, looking all over his hoodie and jeans for any hangers on and I looked with him, once again from behind a door. "Are they off?" he asked again.
I was afraid to answer. "I think so."
He carefully stepped inside, then suddenly ducked and started growling. He ran outside and batted at his head and turned his hoodie inside out. "My ear!" he yelled. "Why did it have to be the ear? That isn't going to help the migraine."
I stood back from him and poked the hoodie with a fly swatter, turned over his hat, and continued to examine the whole of his clothing. Examination of his ear revealed a remarkably sizable crater. It actually looked like an attempted piercing from the back of his lobe. How the hateful little filth managed to get that far into the crevice behind his ear, I don't even want to know.
We all went and looked at the swarm still raging in the back yard. If anything, they were flying thicker and faster than before. Some wasps had actually arranged themselves in the attitude of attacking the screen door in the manner of those that had adhered to the hoodie earlier. I opened the glass of the kitchen window where one wasp had taken his battle stance and tapped the screen with the fly swatter with growing force. It clung and didn't even shift until my blows began to rattle the window.
The older two kids were in complete awe of the whole situation. I apologized to Dave for trapping him outside with the beasts but he praised my judgement and said it was a very good call. We laughed and wondered how people in "olden times" took care of such monstrosities. We marveled that Dave got off with only one bite. He asked me for a favor. Eyes wide and nearly tearful I answered: "s-sure." "Would you please start some bread dough for tomorrow?" Again we laughed. I made a double batch.
Next time, we pay the $81 with gratitude.
At this point he's going to wait until tomorrow before he goes out again to spray the nest, now that it's exposed, and we will pray that this is the last we hear from wasps for a very long time.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Something sad. Oh well.
I've long believed that as a Christian I should be careful in my stewardship of the earth. Regardless of your stance on global warming it makes sense to be conservative with resources if we want humankind to be sustainable.
Homemade cleaners seemed to fit the bill as far as honoring that stewardship. Vinegar and peroxide are certainly friendlier to both man and beast than bleach, and homemade products are far cheaper than their commercial counterparts. Asthma and fragrance sensitivities merely clinched my decision to break from the main stream and give natural a try.
What a bust. Maybe I just need to fiddle with the recipe a bit more or look into the science of how I can get a good cleaner out of these things without clogging sprayers, leaving streaks, or carefully monitoring and waiting for natural cleaners to remove mineral deposits.
Did you know that liquid plumber is by far more effective than any other means of clearing out a stubborn drain? And vinegar can't even touch the effectiveness of Lime Away. My Borax and vinegar solution doesn't cut through soap scum the way 409 does, and baking soda just doesn't leave things as bright as Comet powder.
At this point I just can't afford the fancy "green" cleaning products, especially as I wrestle the kids into cleaning in an effective but conservative manner.
Sigh. No wonder going green is this big elitist thing now. It's so expensive!
Homemade cleaners seemed to fit the bill as far as honoring that stewardship. Vinegar and peroxide are certainly friendlier to both man and beast than bleach, and homemade products are far cheaper than their commercial counterparts. Asthma and fragrance sensitivities merely clinched my decision to break from the main stream and give natural a try.
What a bust. Maybe I just need to fiddle with the recipe a bit more or look into the science of how I can get a good cleaner out of these things without clogging sprayers, leaving streaks, or carefully monitoring and waiting for natural cleaners to remove mineral deposits.
Did you know that liquid plumber is by far more effective than any other means of clearing out a stubborn drain? And vinegar can't even touch the effectiveness of Lime Away. My Borax and vinegar solution doesn't cut through soap scum the way 409 does, and baking soda just doesn't leave things as bright as Comet powder.
At this point I just can't afford the fancy "green" cleaning products, especially as I wrestle the kids into cleaning in an effective but conservative manner.
Sigh. No wonder going green is this big elitist thing now. It's so expensive!
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Granola bars
Have you seen the price of granola bars lately? My kids love them.
At Sam's you can get granola bars for 19 cents per 0.86 ounce Quaker Chewy bar. In my state we don't have a food tax. This is actually cheaper than buying in bulk on Amazon, even with free shipping factored in.
On the other hand, if you get this great price you're often stuck with those raisin bars that come in big variety packs that no one wants to eat. The kids might snack on them after all of the chocolate and PB ones get snarfed, but the poor raisin bars languish, unloved, until they expire or my husband takes pity on them and does his duty as the human garbage disposal.
I decided to try making my own granola bars.
A bit of a cost break down:
$0.40 -- 1/4 cup pb (Sam's)
$0.43 -- 1/3 cup honey (cannery)
$0.26 -- 1/4 cup butter (commissary)
$0.27 -- 1 1/2 cups oats (cannery)
$0.50 -- 1/2 cup chocolate chips (commissary, but also a price that can be found at Walmart during the holidays)
$1.86 for a batch of homemade granola bars. 1 batch is 17 ounces. That's about 11 cents per ounces, as opposed to 22.1 cents per ounces on the store stuff. Of course your price goes up if you use organic ingredients, but consider the price of a box of organic granola bars. I also like that the ingredients are pantry staples, so whipping them up is no big deal and keeps me from going to the store as often.
As my husband pointed out, deliciousness matters as well. They get a 5 out of 5 from me. These are denser than the commercial bars and stickier, but otherwise completely comparable and even superior.
At Sam's you can get granola bars for 19 cents per 0.86 ounce Quaker Chewy bar. In my state we don't have a food tax. This is actually cheaper than buying in bulk on Amazon, even with free shipping factored in.
On the other hand, if you get this great price you're often stuck with those raisin bars that come in big variety packs that no one wants to eat. The kids might snack on them after all of the chocolate and PB ones get snarfed, but the poor raisin bars languish, unloved, until they expire or my husband takes pity on them and does his duty as the human garbage disposal.
I decided to try making my own granola bars.
A bit of a cost break down:
$0.40 -- 1/4 cup pb (Sam's)
$0.43 -- 1/3 cup honey (cannery)
$0.26 -- 1/4 cup butter (commissary)
$0.27 -- 1 1/2 cups oats (cannery)
$0.50 -- 1/2 cup chocolate chips (commissary, but also a price that can be found at Walmart during the holidays)
$1.86 for a batch of homemade granola bars. 1 batch is 17 ounces. That's about 11 cents per ounces, as opposed to 22.1 cents per ounces on the store stuff. Of course your price goes up if you use organic ingredients, but consider the price of a box of organic granola bars. I also like that the ingredients are pantry staples, so whipping them up is no big deal and keeps me from going to the store as often.
As my husband pointed out, deliciousness matters as well. They get a 5 out of 5 from me. These are denser than the commercial bars and stickier, but otherwise completely comparable and even superior.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Chopped and ready to go
For dinner we had some of the lettuce and roasted asparagus along with steamed acorn squash (from BB before Thanksgiving -- still good), carrots from a Jamie Oliver recipe, and my mother in law's recipe for barbecue brisket. Yum!
Bountiful baskets
This is how much produce you can get for $30 through Bountiful Baskets. I also split a box of apples with another family, so I ended up with 19 pounds of pink lady apples for $11.25. Some of the less obvious items up there include Asian pears (as crisp as apples, as sweet as pears, and totally delicious), and the real quantity of celery and red bell peppers. The celery is really quite exceptional this time. It amounts to 4 bunches per basket and I always gets two baskets. I'll post later about what it looks like when you cut all of that celery up to freeze it for soup and stew. :D There were 16 peppers, which is also quite unusual.
The tomatoes are going to make me a mondo batch of spaghetti sauce for the freezer, the asparagus is going to get roasted with olive oil, parmesan, salt and pepper, the peppers are getting chopped and frozen, and those two heads of green leaf lettuce and the radishes are getting made into salad. I'm going to try making the salad all at once so I don't forget the lettuce this time.
This food co-op is how I buy most of my produce. We still get a few things on the side, especially since we don't get potatoes very often. The main baskets are different every time but some frequent flyers are the green leaf lettuce, celery, some variety of apple, bananas, broccoli and some variety of tomatoes. I often buy one of the extra boxes of produce and we just go to town on what the season has to offer. The grapes were wonderful, I've still got a heap of Roma's in the freezer to use in sauces, the oranges were great for cold season, and it took us just a couple of weeks to go through about 20 pounds of cherries whether fresh or frozen, plain or in smoothies. We don't end up with a whole lot of waste as long as I'm careful about preservation and keeping bulk items on the radar.
$30 (two baskets)
$11.25 (half a box of great apples)
$1.50 processing fee for the whole order.
=$42.75 for two weeks' of fresh produce
Also, the free workout since I went early and helped load the baskets. Slinging 50# bags of potatoes ain't work for no pansy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
