Apple Butter Business

Two weeks ago  I started a campaign on craigslist for canning supplies. Preserving is my cause du-jour at the moment. I am getting super excited about things like canning, fermenting, and dehydrating. Oh the possibilities!

During my quest for free canning supplies, I was contacted by a person that worked for an older gentleman with a plethora of canning business cluttering up his shop since his wife passed on. Boss and I immediately planned a trip out to the nether reaches of the county to pick up our free swag and start the canning fun times.

When we got there, we found the COOLEST gentleman either of us have had the pleasure of meeting since our own grandpa's (who are both extremely awesome mind you). Farmer Jim had not only canning supplies, but an industrial rock tumbler, gads of shiny rocks from all over the US, a stuffed owl and so many amazing handy craft projects I think etsy would blow up if it allowed him to post to their site.

Farmer Jim loaded us up with jars and a canning set up and also sent us home with a HUGE bucket of apples to start off our adventure in canning. Boss now has his old gentleman mentor, and I now have my canning supplies...all in all, a prosperous trip.

[caption id="attachment_943" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="above: a veritable shit ton of apples"][/caption]

When I got home,  I couldn't decide what it was I wanted to DO with these nifty canning supplies and all of these apples. We are big fans of apple muffins in this house, but it seemed a little silly to make 600 of them just to use up my apples. After a quick offering to the Oracle, it was decided that apple butter would be the coolest thing we could make with the ingredients we already had on hand.

The process begins with a veritable shit ton of apples. We used two bags from the grocery store as well as 10 of Farmer Jim's far superior apples. We filled the crock pot with tiny chunks of apples and thought smugly...this shall make thousands upon thousands of gallons of delicious apple butter! MWHAHAHAHAHA! It of course made...2 pints of delicious apple butter. According to the interwebs, if youw ant to make gallons of the stuff, you will need to keep adding apples as it cooks down and you will need far more than like 30 apples. SO the recipe I am posting here is for a small yield batch that you can do in a weekend with your crock pot. The apple butter purists will do it in gigantic pots over fires and such. I am no apple butter purist.

Let us begin.

Ingredients:

A bunch of of apples (30 or so) -cored and chopped. I leave the skins on because they cook down and it doesn't make any difference to me. Plus...the lazy...

[caption id="attachment_944" align="aligncenter" width="225" caption="like-a-so"]

The Vicious Cycle of Crafting

Boss took it upon themself to clean the kitchen the other day. Not just clean, but CLEAN. While this is fantastic on so many levels, it has let Boss in on a deep, dark secret that I have attempted to hide from all but my closest of kin. I am, something of a hoarder.  *shame*

Not the like, 2 dozen cats and 20 years worth of newspapers appearing on A&E kind of hoarder, but the "I'm totally going to use that at some point..." kind of hoarder.

It all started with my mother. The Martha Stewart of recyclable's. I like to fancy myself something of a crafty individual, able to create useful objects from various and sundry bits of crap found around the house and the local dollar store. I have NOTHING on my mother however.  Every event was a potential treasure trove of crafting paraphernalia, every recycling bin fair game. Soda cans? a little spray paint and some googly eyes and they become ghosts for a festive Halloween wreath. Plastic forks you can't seem to unload? No problem, add some lace and spray starch and you have a delightful wall hanging just in time for spring! Plastic bottles, hospital grade plastic tubing, bits of this and yards of that, everything had crafting potential. It all lived (somewhat) neatly, in our garage in the receptacle termed affectionately, "the junk box". No Camp Fire meeting was complete without Mom pulling out a bag of what one would assume is garbage, dousing it in glitter and tempera and returning with art.

I always admired my mothers ability to both save, and create and I have attempted to model this behavior in my adult years. The saving, that I have down, the creating however, not so much. When Boss began the process of cleaning out the kitchen, this became...rather apparent. The most abundant source of craft-ables (this is my new term for shit I intend to craft with) are plastic grocery bags.  I have saved plastic grocery bags since i began to grocery shop. My mother would save them in artfully created fabric sleeves with drawstring, conveniently placed about the kitchen for use as garbage bags, lunch bags, impromptu over night packs etc. I however, do not have the patience to create artfully designed fabric sleeves with drawstring, and instead cram them in whatever bit of space I can find in my kitchen and bathroom.

When questioned about my hoarding of said bags, my response is always;

 "I'm saving them" 

"For what?" Boss asks quizzically.

"I don't know, something...." and I wander off hoping the question will die and the bags will go unmoved. No such luck.

"I googled some ideas for their use"  Boss says helpfully.  Apparently such a thing as "Plarn" or Plastic Yarn can be made from my stock pile of grocery bags. This "Plarn" then can be crocheted into useful objects like reusable shopping bags! genius, I can do all of those things and save the environment to boot! I have a mission, the bags have a use, Boss can no longer justify throwing them away...conversation over...No such luck.

"Will you actually do this?" Boss asks, eyebrows raised.

"Totally!"  an edge of doubt in my voice betrays my optimistic reply and enthusiastic nodding

"Honey, will you ACTUALLY do this? or will they continue to collect here, awaiting your use, until one day I open the cupboards, they fall on my head,  and before I kill you, say once again, 'honey, WHY are you saving these?'

"Well..."

"I'm throwing them out."

"Wait! I might do it!"

"I'm throwing them out!"

And this is how it goes. With my bag of dryer lint that I promise to one day turn into fire starters, my 16 boxes of super cheap paraffin just right for making candles with the 6,000 broken crayons I have stashed in PinkOnes craft drawers (never have to buy Christmas presents again!) My vat of almond oil and bags of dried herbs and flowers I've procured for making my own scented oils, the 2 dozen egg cartons I inexplicably stash about like a junky hiding from the narc squad and the inexplicably large amount of flower-less plastic stems left over from my frenzied need to create 40's era hair clips from dollar store silk flowers.

Dude was not successful in liberating me from my treasures, Vulcan had a little more success, getting me to move them over to my friend Monica's who (luckily) has an equally cumbersome trash fetish with infinitely more space in which to hide them. Boss however, does not accept my plaintive cries of "no really! you should SEE the hair bows I can make out of that!"  and tosses them anyway, like...well like trash.

While I will never take up my mother's reign as Queen of Recyclable Crafting, I do now have actual counter and storage space in my kitchen. I find it challenging to release my habits. Particularly these sneaky, potentially useful ones. I still dream of a day when my mother will say to me "well isn't that lovely! Where DID you buy it?" (we are of course wearing Victorian garb and speaking with affected British type accents while sipping tea for no apparent reason) and I can reply, "Why mother! don't you know? I MADE it!"  (she will then gasp in awe and commend not only my crafting prowess, but my thrifty nature as well, there may be applause involved, I haven't decided) 

But, as Boss says, "If I let you keep these (insert garbage-esque item Boss is unable to see the crafting potential in), the vicious crafting cycle will continue. You will stash it away, look up something to do with it, stash it away with a plan in mind, forget the plan, and then 6 months later come across them again and say...'gee i should look up something to do with that..." Boss is, as usual...correct

Oooh...2 liter soda bottles....

House Wif-ery Day 1

As many of you may or may not know, I am now officially unemployed. My last day at work was Friday, and I am now joining the masses of former claims analysts wandering around Bellingham aimlessly looking for something to do during the day. Today is my first official day as a house wife/stay at home mom, a role I have only adapted once before in my life, and to be honest, kind of sucked at. I have never been the "plan a day full of cleaning and activities rife with education and fun" kind of parent. I am more the, "watch TV until you can't take the guilt any more and then go to the park and read" kind of parent. But ever since learning of my impending unemployment over a month ago, I resolved that this time would be different.

Any historical foray's into the land of domesticity have failed after a day or two of poorly risen loaves of bread, one super clean room of the house, and an ill begotten field trip to the railroad museum that ends in both of us crying. Within a matter of days we are back to frozen veggies and ICarly.  All of these attempts at active parenting leave me stricken with guilt and feeling inadequate once again. I console myself with lack luster promises of doing better next week, and excuses surrounding my work schedule. Eventually I have myself convinced ALL parents are this inadequate and Parenting Magazine is simply a ploy brought to us by Pottery Barn and LeLeche League designed to convince us that we should be shiny happy soccer moms with perfectly organized organic households to guilt us into buying color coordinated plastic bins and nurse until our kids are in college. Fascists.

I awoke this morning totally ready to execute the plans I'd been making for the last month. We would arise early, do some mother/daughter yoga, make muffins (organic whole wheat of course!), and walk to school. I would then return home and think smugly to myself "what a fine parent I have been! all other mothers simply pale in comparison!" it would be fantastic.

I failed to mention that I rose about an hour later than I initially planned...so that cut into my muffin making time (-5 mom points) but I did get PinkOne up by 8, and for the first time in...ever...she woke without argument and dressed herself (in matching clothes) without complaint. (+5 mom points!) Instead of the delightful dried fruit protein muffins I intended to feed her (-3) she got a bagel with cream cheese, but the bagel was homemade (+2!)  and whole wheat (+2 more!) While she ate, I got started on my muffins, so those were in the oven by the time she was done eating, and we were ready for yoga via YouTube. We did like...20 minutes of awkward, chubby mom and awkward tiny person yoga in the living room before we both decided this was toates hard and we should try again tomorrow. (plus 5 for yoga -2 for not finishing the tape)

So the first batch of muffins are done, (+3) and the laundry is in the washer (+2) and the kid is fed (+3) and dressed with combed hair and brushed teeth (+a bazillion) and its 9am.  Just the right amount of time for us to walk/ride out bikes to school at a leisurely pace whilst idyllicly walking the dog and sipping my coffee. Maybe I'm not so bad at this house mom thing after all...

We mount the bike, the dog is leashed, I have the coffee, and we head out. This is where the trouble starts.

1) my dog is the WORST leash dog in all of the land. Picture attempting to leash and properly walk a drooling, snarfling, snake that weighs 30lbs and wants to smell EVERYTHING. My leisurely walk quickly turned into a brush with death. There was a leash wrapped around my ankles, a pug under the bike tire, a pug on the sidewalk, a pug in the neighbor's yard, a pug stopping to snarfle every 2 and a half feet, just in case there was some sort of variation in smell from 2 and a half feet before. She also had to pee every 4 and a half feet, and crap at least twice on the 1/4 mile walk (and guess which irresponsible pet owner forgot the doggie bags? sorry neighbors!) Once the peeing, crapping, snarfling and attempted murder by leash was complete, there were still other dogs to bark at, small children to demand pets from and the occasional invisible danger to alert the town to. Once we returned home, Idgie was whipped from all of the activity, and so was I.

2) PinkOne is probably the LAZIEST six-year-old I have ever encountered. Now, I was a lazy six-year-old, despite being into sports from an early age, I was NEVER one to choose movement over more sedentary activities. However, I did enjoy the occasional bike ride, especially short distances. PinkOne was very excited about the promise of getting to ride her bike to school today and was all helmeted and back packed and smiling ready to rock when the pug was leashed and I had my coffee in hand. Fast forward approximately five minutes. We reach the 7-11 parking lot and all I hear from about 10 feet in front of me (while attempting to untangle myself from the dog yet again) is: "DIS IS TOO HAWD!" PinkOne is standing next to her training wheeled pink and purple bike of awesome with a look of utter defeat and irritation, the Disney Princess helmet sitting askew on her head.

"Potato," I say with love, "you can do this, it's not far at all to school"

"Its SOOO FAR!! Don't you SEE? The school is ALL the way up THERE!" she points to the school, which is within sight, and a distance of approximately five minutes away by bike/foot.

Eventually, I coax her back on the bike, having to push it with my foot every ten or so feet, while disentangling myself from the pugsnake monster, as she groans her way through the ride. We arrive at school just after the first bell (-5) and she is safely in the building after a begrudging hug and kiss. I walk home feeling accomplished and relatively happy with myself.

Fast forward two hours. I have completed the muffins, they are pretty delicious, served Boss their morning coffee and begun this blog feeling like, hey, I might be able to get used to this house wife thing, when my phone rings. Boss answers it and its Jolinda, the friendly office lady from PinkOne's school. PinkOne apparently has crippling stomach pains that will not subside no matter how long she rests in the office and simply MUST come home as soon as possible and be cared for. We run to the school to pick her up, where we are greeted by PinkOne in the parking lot, hamming up the "I'm just so terribly sick I can only be revived by copious amounts of Nickelodeon and Sprite." What PinkOne did not count on, was that I INVENTED the fake sick so you can stay home and watch TV in my youth. I can spot a fake sicker a mile away. She is relegated to her room sans television to recover as I write this.

So, my first day at house-wifery hasn't completely failed, but I'm thinking there is still a lot of room for improvement.

 Tomorrow's goal: get PinkOne to school on time, and keep her there. Also, not bringing snakepug with me, who is happily snoring next to me recovering from her big adventure.

The Decision Tree

A visual illustration of the mind of PinkOne:

I.DON'T.WANNA!

I've decided, I'm done with this grown up nonsense. Paying bills, making reasonably priced healthy meals, doing laundry, it's all bullshit and I quit. Vulcan and I have spent the last hour attempting fiscal responsiblity by making various charts and graphs to track how much money comes in, and how much goes out. All I really know is that my happiness to talking about money ratio is completely out of whack.

As you can see, my desire to discuss financial matters today is only .005 of the whole regarding my desire to do pretty much anything else, as illustrated by chart (1) above.

According to Vulcan's charts, I should have around $500 a month with which to buy groceries, put gas in my car, and to compulsively buy silly knick knacks that I can not live without at the grocery store (that secrets of the zodiac love sign combination candy bar and squirt gun is still the best purchase i've ever made) So here is what I would like to know, where the HELL is that $500 bucks?  This payday in particular I am racing about trying to make sure the latest of the late bills are paid and calculating just how much milk should go in each bowl of cereal so we don't run out before the food stamps come in. (That's right dad, we're suckin' off the government teet, you must be turning over in your republican grave.)

If I think about it, I'm fairly sure I can tell you exactly where that $500 bucks a month has gone.

1) My lungs and the lungs of my friends.



Yes, I know that smoking is bad and wrong and gross and disgusting...but I love it so much. I look so cool and rebellious, like James Dean. It's an instant conversation starter. "Can I bum a smoke? Oooh menthol, really? Ugh I need to quit..." all fantastic ways to meet new people and influence others. At nearly $9.00 a pack here in the land of the free and about 5 to 6 packs a week, there's nearly $200 bucks a month right there.

2) Eating above my means

I LOVE going out to dinner and cooking and ordering in...I love all of those food related endeavors. We get about $2oo a month in food stamps which gets us meat and veggies and rice and other staples of living. But, when you have a hankering for salmon risotto on a Thursday afternoon, and you don't currently have chicken stock, white wine, chanterelle mushrooms and heavy cream, not to mention rissotto rice...well it adds up. What better way to celebrate a small victory, like cleaning out the car than buying pizza for your nearest and dearest? Why WOULDN'T I spend $40 on dinner out when I could make mac-n-cheese? What has Mac-n-cheese ever done for me? Red Robin entertains me with their various kitschy objects adorning the walls and pleasant college age staff covered in flair. So, if i do this even three times a month, there's another $150 bucks.

Those two issue pretty much say it all don't they? The last $150 a month goes to things like pull ups (for an incredibly stubborn 5-year-old who shouldn't need them please note) dog food, dish soap, tampons and toilet paper. All completely legitimate expenses, unlike the other two which are purely detrimental to the health and well-being of myself and my wallet.

See what I mean? were I NOT an adult, I could say: Fuck it. I'm going to wipe my ass with rolled up newspaper and buy a pack of smokes instead. Fuck it. bills-shmills I'm taking a road trip to Canada right now. Fuck it. Who really needs tampons anyway? Okay, maybe that one I would continue to procure, but I might do it by knocking over a tampon machine instead of paying $4 a box. 

I know realistically that grown up land is the place to be, that my kid, vulcan and I will be just fine if we cut back on the smoking and family chain restaurants, but it still makes me want to stamp my food, jut out my lower lip and throw a pinkone style tantrum of epic proportions. I NEVER get anything I want. I NEVER get to have any fun.

FUCK YOU GROWN UP LAND !

Pinkone-isms

Pinkone is always good for a one liner, and if you could just see her face when she utters these incredibly serious, important truths...you wouldn't be able to keep a straight face either. Here are a few of her most recent forays into making adults confused and uncomfortable.

1) Pinkone: Mom, Mom, Mom, I’m a were-ostrich

    Mom: What is that?

    Pinkone: HONK!!!!!!!!

 

2) *little boy barks in store*

      Pinkone: *whew* I’m glad he didn’t see me *meow* (softly)

      Auntie Shay Shay: Why is that, because you’re a kitty?

      Pinkone: *annoyed* NO, I’m a guinea pig, PRETENDING to BE a kitty. GOD

3) Pinkone (while shopping for clothes): Auntie, I like, really want to be hip, I just… *sigh*…want to be a hip girl.  Mom, how old do you have to be to be a hip girl?

 Mom: I would say 5 and a half

 Pinkone: AWESOME!

4) Pinkone: Remember when I wanted to cut out Tucker’s heart? I’m evil, like a villian. (thiis another story all together)

Mom: You aren’t evil, you came from me and I’m certainly not evil.

Pinkone (proudly): I know, I get my evil from Daddy.

Mom and Vulcan: *silence*

4) Pinkone: JON JON JON JON JON JON JON JON *anger and panic*

    Vulcan: What?!!!!! *rising from a near dead sleep in sheer terror*

    Pinkone: I love you *giggle and run*



6) Counselor: Pinkone, do you ever feel worried?

     Pinkone: What’s that mean?

    Counselor: Well, like you can’t sleep, and you feel nervous.

    Pinkone: Oh yeah, all the time. I never sleep.

    Counselor, thinking she’s got something here: Really? Why is that?

    Pinkone-deathly serious: I’m afraid I’m going to turn to stone.

   Counselor: REALLY? Why do you think that?

   Pinkone: *annoyed again* Ugh, because I’m a werewolf?!

   Mom: *face palm*

7) Pinkone: *gets in car from school* Mom, I broke up with Winston today.

    Mom: Oh really? Why is that?

    Pinkone: Well, he wouldn’t play with me at recess and we just don’t have nothing in common anymore.

Mom: Well that’s too bad, how did he take it?

Pinkone: He’s okay, but you know, it’s kind of awkward now.

   Mom: Well….I suppose it would be…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have no idea WHERE she gets this nonsense.....

Santa-pa-looza

Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through the house
The Pinkone was running around like a twacked out lab mouse
The cookies she laid out in rapid succession
Hoping that eggnog would erase her latest transgression

The aunties and MiMi goaded her on
Loving her panic and her stressed cranky mom
She tracked Santa on NORAD and Google earth too
Having only an hour she knew what to do

When Shay Shay announced that Santa was near
Pinkone Jumped up, her eyes filled with fear
Away to the bedroom she flew like a flash
She gave hugs and kisses and a smack on the ass

Her eyes squeezed shut tight she asked me with fear
Mom, does Santa know I really tried to be good this year?
Pinkone, I said my heart growing full
Santa knows on the inside you have a good soul

But will a good soul get me my sled?
Oh shit thought mommy, I think I’m dead
For no mention of sleds had been whispered to me
And a whole different gift would be under the tree

Uh, Pinkone, I said attempting no stammer
What happens if Santa couldn’t make a sled with his hammer?
“Then I will be angry” she said with conviction
“so, nothing else will meet your predilection?”

“Nope, nothing” she said as she drifted to sleep
And mom uttered the F-bomb and began to weep
So off the to the Wal-mart she flew in a flash
with all other moms on the last minute dash

And there I did paw through bin after bin
Not a sled could be found much to my chagrin
A saleslady looked fearful as I approached in a panic
This Christmas was sinking like Leo in Titanic

I wandered on home my head hung with shame
This whole endeavor was incredibly lame
Santa had failed or so I freared
Would Pinkone give up and be naughty all year?

The next morning she rose, her eyes all a twinkle
The bells on her jammies lightly did jingle
She walked down the stairs, her sled she looked for
she peeked round the fireplace, the bathroom and door



 When no sled she did spy her face it did fall
Until she saw presents stacked high up the wall
“Are those all for ME?” She asked with shock on her face
“Mom there are presents all OVER the place!”

She smiled wide and looked directly at me
“Santa did know, he really did see”
“I tried to be good and he saw my soul
I worked super hard and I reached my goal”

So sled or no sled, Pinkone was happy
Santa had listened and though her behavior was crappy
He saw that she’d tried and cut her some slack
and for the whole morning she gave me no flack

Pinkone was great and her Christmas was too
Mommy was stoked with no discipline to do
As she climbed in bed she hugged me tight
“Happy Christmas Mommy, and have a good-night!”



Dear Santa

Well, last posting we discussed how Mediocre Mama is dealing with Christmas and all the changes in her little life. This time, we will discuss The Pinkone and her particular challenges this holiday.

She is doing surprisingly well with not having Dude around this year. There was a brief crying drag surrounding the discovery of his stocking and me not putting it up with the rest of our stockings. Other than that, she's been in cookie eating, cheer making heaven.

The one dark spot in her parade of holiday joy is that ever-present, ever watchful, bearded voyeur, Santa.

Santa is causing Pinkone some major grief this year. Mommy is lucky enough to be a close, personal friend of Santa and she happens to have his number on speed dial.

Because Pinkone has had such a hard time this year with certain behavior related areas (NOT punching Jon in the stomach for eating the last cookie for instance) she is now living in fear that Santa will judge her harshly for her crimes.

The "Santa threat" has been used a couple of times to quelch bad behavior in the past. During a particularly challenging potty training episode, Santa gave a ring and talked to her about the importance of potty training and listening to Mommy. Pinkone replied to his call with awed silence and trepidation. She then begged me to send him the following photo:



Santa rewarded her effort with a plastic kitchen set and other pieces of molded plastic that have since gone missing. The Santa threat worked.

Fast forward to this year. There has been some punching, some yelling, the occasional terrorist threat to the pentagon, its time for Santa to get involved.

During our ever so festive tree decorating extravaganza not too long ago, there was a bit of a meltdown surrounding placement of particularly sentimental ornaments. Mommy wanted them placed sporadically around the tree in pleasing patterns, Pinkone wanted them all in a clump at the bottom of the tree where the dog could see them.

After 15 minutes of screaming, one bought of "I hate you!" and mommy vowing to cancel Christmas and take up being a Jehovah's Witness out of spite, the phone rang. It was "The Big Guy", who sounds strikingly like Jon on the phone. She took his call, nodding with a grave look on her face as he explained the ins and outs of the naughty list and how one may come to find herself on said list. She swore her allegience to him and her compliance to Mommy and promised she would never again demand to be supreme overlord of the gingerbread house.

Her behavior was somber and grim, but the tree was trimmed, and the evening continued without incident. Throughout the week, she would flare up, her temper rising and the pink hair turning red with fury. Coincidentally, each time that phone would ring her behavior would suddenly change for the better and all fury would diminish as she ran with a flash from the room. The choir of demons welling up behind her ceases and peace is once again restored to the land.

Jon asked her this morning if she would like to go and see a Santa Clause, a yearly tradition most children enjoy.

 Her response: "No freaking way!"  accompanied by running in to the next room.

When asked why she doesn't want to see Santa, Pinkone replied that she wasn't looking forward to explaining her behavior to him. We consoled her and said that Santa understands how hard it can be to behave sometimes, and that Santa is really just looking out for her best interests when watching her.

She pondered this for sometime, nodding along as we made out points. When asked once again if she would like to reconsider and go see Santa today, putting in her bid for a place on the nice list;

 Her response:  "nope, not going to risk it".