Winter Vegetable Soup

    On a rainy Saturday, it's nice to occupy oneself with making a savory but simple soup to warm the cockles and perhaps use up some things in the fridge. Here's an attempt to do just that.

Winter Vegetable Soup

Ingredients:

3 c. beef broth + 1/2 c. water

1/2 c chopped onion

1 stalk celery with greens, chopped

1/2 c. chopped or diced carrots

2 Tbsp olive oil

2 tsp fines herbes, 1/2 tsp ground mustard, 1/2 tsp ground garlic, salt & pepper to taste 

1 c. chopped purple cabbage

1/2 c. frozen chopped spinach

1/3 c frozen green beans

1/3 c. soy protein crumbles or dried breadcrumbs

OPTION/VARIATION: 1/2 lb browned ground beef or ground turkey

Method:

    Heat oil in 3-qt saucepan with heavy bottom on medium heat. Add chopped onion, celery, and carrots and cook til slightly browned. Add herbs and spices, stir well to combine. Cook about 5 minutes before adding broth and water, stirring well.

    Add chopped cabbage, spinach, beans, and crumbs/crumbles and cook for 20 minutes or until boiling for at least 3 to 5 minutes. Reduce to simmer. May add meat after boiling and simmer for an additional 10 minutes.

Serve with corn muffins, crusty bread, or cheese crackers and tea. 

Yield: abt. 5 servings 

 

 

Still Summer Harvest Muffins

It is late in August, nearly September, and even though fall is beautiful and I'm sure I'll relish it when it comes, like always, I do tend to feel a bit wistful this time of year, and savour each hot, humid afternoon like a cat, stretching its paws towards the sunlight playing on the trees outside our window. The berries from the market still give off that lovely aroma of fresh, ripe summer days. There is nothing cleaner than biting into the crisp flesh of sour apples, and crunchy walnuts are my topping of choice, lending a dark smoothness to my summer desserts.

Perhaps these fruit-and-nut emblazoned muffins will entice you to savour the last of summer's sweetness. Perfect for afternoon tea with a slice of melon or a few figs, and a dollop of butter.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Wipe lard into muffin tin.
Chop approx. 1 c ripe strawberries, hulled, into 1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces.
Chop 1 ripe green apple, mix into strawberries, set aside.
Chop 1/2 c. whole or halved walnuts, set aside.

Sift together:
1 1/2 c unbleached flour
1 1/2 c whole wheat flour
3 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp mace (or nutmeg if you don't have it)
1/2 tsp cardamom
2 tbsp raw unbleached sugar

In a separate bowl, whisk together:
2 eggs
2 tbsp plain greek yogurt
3 tbsp honey
1/4 c vegetable oil
3/4 c milk
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp flax seeds

Combine wet to dry ingredients and blend well. Fold in fruit and nuts and stir.

Drop by 1/3-to-1/2  cupfuls into greased muffin tin cups.

Bake for 6 minutes at 400, then reduce heat to 375 degrees. Bake for approximately 16 to 18 more minutes until tops are risen and slightly browned.

Yield: 1 dozen

Sweet, Sweet Sunday

Sunday is a day of rest, goes the old adage, and I do subscribe to it. But today I'm making jam with plums my aunt, uncle, cousin, and I picked last Sunday afternoon from the ancient tree in my yard. I also hung out a load of laundry earlier, a ritual I crave for its simplicity and tactile pleasure.

It isn't work if you love it and it relaxes, reaffirms you. No, I truly believe it's part of the dance of the good life.

Together we picked 25 pounds of fruit last weekend. My aunt usually makes a simple jam based on an old USDA recipe. The wonderful thing about fresh-picked damsons is, in spite of the fact that they are a clingstone fruit, there is usually very little waste. From the entire batch I only found three plums I had to discard due to blemishes or rot. They are sturdy and simple to clean; the stems usually pop right off without tugging.

Here's my recipe for the jam, or rather preserves since I don't grind up all the pulp and fruit skin in a blender and it uses less sugar. I like the texture of the simple combination of fruit in its own rich nectar, and the slow simmering preserves the most flavour:

Damson Plum Preserves

10 lbs fresh plums, washed & picked
3 c water
6 c organic cane sugar

Place plums and water in large dutch oven, cover, and heat slowly at medium temperature, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking. When the mixture boils, set timer for 30 minutes. Keep covered and reduce heat to medium-low, stirring occasionally. Stir with wooden spoon and press lightly to encourage splitting of the pulp, which will make the pits easier to remove later. Reduce heat if necessary to keep from boiling over, and continue simmering for an additional 20 minutes.

When the mixture has cooked thoroughly for at least an hour, pulp has absorbed the dark red coloring of the mixture and the liquid has reduced slightly, turn off and set aside half-covered for about an hour until it is cool enough to touch. Stir lightly and pour mixture through a sieve into a large plastic or glass bowl, pressing to get as much pulp as possible to separate from the pits. Stir and return to dutch oven; set mixture aside.

Working over a second clean bowl, carefully remove pits from the remainder of the mixture in the sieve and discard them. When the remainder has been picked clean of pits, return it to the rest of the mixture and combine with sugar. Stir thoroughly.

Place mixture back in heavy saucepan or dutch oven, cover, and heat slowly to boiling a second time. Be careful not to heat too quickly or scorching can occur. Cook carefully over medium- to medium-low temperature until mixture reaches 220 degrees. This may take an hour, more or less. Boil for ten minutes until jell stage is reached. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly, checking for thickening.

Pour into hot, clean jars, seal, and process in water bath canner for 10 minutes. Alternately, I am told you can skip the processing if your jars have been boiled and sterilized. A friend does it this way:

... when I do jelly and jam I try to take the jars out of hot water or dishwasher and fill with boiling jam. Then put on lids and invert on counter for five minutes and then turn right side up and wait for ping. I don't use a canner for jelly or jam as the product is hot and sterile, the jar is hot and sterile, and the lids are hot and sterile and they seal nicely. Never lost a jar this way, only in pressure canner.

While the jam is cooling, go check the laundry. Stretch your arms up high. Breathe in the goodness.

Images and content copyright (c) 2015 Susannah Eanes. All rights reserved.

Updates

Susannah Eanes Pledges Proceeds from Lucky Southern Women to SavingSweetBriar

Lucky Southern Women now available in paperback

Read about Lucky Southern Women on Goodreads

Old-fashioned Desserts

Chocolate Chess Pie
Adapted from The Harmony Grove Cookbook

2 large eggs, beaten
2 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 c. whole milk
2 tbsp. plain or vanilla yogurt
1/2 tsp. vanilla
2 tbsp. unbleached flour
2 1/2 tbsp. Dutch cocoa powder
1 c. unbleached pure cane sugar
1/4 tsp. salt

Beat eggs into melted butter, milk, yogurt, vanilla; set aside.
Sift flour, cocoa powder, and salt into sugar in a separate bowl.
Add all at once to egg-butter-milk mixture, stir to mix thoroughly.
Pour into prepared pie shell and bake at 375 degrees for about 40 - 45 minutes.



Chowning's Tavern Apple Cake
Adapted from Celebrate Virginia! Cookbook                                                          Preheat oven @350


Melt 1 cup unsalted butter and allow to cool in dish until warm to touch but not hot.  

Into a separate large bowl: core, slice and chop 4 ripe, medium sized apples into 1/4" - 1/2" size bits; cover with 2 cups unbleached granulated cane sugar and set aside.

Beat 2 large eggs well and add to butter, beating until smooth and slightly glossy. 

Blend sugar with apples, stirring to coat. Add 3/4 c. chopped walnuts and mix well. Set aside again.

Place in sifter: 1 c. whole wheat flour, 2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour, 1 tsp. cream of tartar, 2 tsp. baking soda with spices: 2 tsp. cinnamon, 1/2 tsp. mace, 1/2 tsp. allspice, 1/2 tsp. coriander. 
Sift all to mix thoroughly into a 3rd bowl.

Blend 2 c. sour milk with egg and butter mixture. If you do not have sour milk you may substitute 
scant 2 c. whole milk mixed with 1/4 c. strained (or greek) yogurt. Blend liquid ingredients well and add to flour & spices in large bowl. Then mix apples, walnuts and sugar into batter, folding in to coat and distribute all well.

Pour into buttered 12-cup dish(es) (9 x 13 rectangular, round bundt, or two 8 x 8 square pans). Bake @ 350 for 45 - 50 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. 

Let cake stand in pan for 15 minutes, then invert on wire rack to cool.

You may drizzle a glaze of cider and sugar over cooled cake, or serve with ice cream.

 


 
 

Pre-publication Copies: Lucky Southern Women

Lucky Southern Women, a new novel by Susannah Eanes, will be available for book reviews starting Friday, January 10, 2014. If you are interested in obtaining a free pre-publication copy, please send us a note in the comments or email us at propertiuspress@gmail.com. Pre-publication review copies are available for the next 21 days only. The book is scheduled for release on February 1st.


Coming soon - the new novel of love, suspense, and redemption from Propertius Press!

Synopsis: The rural landscape entwines around the lives and loves of two strong, yet troubled women, a beautiful contrast to the beliefs they absorbed as children. Only in moving beyond the past can they forge a way ahead not only for themselves, but for their loved ones. In so doing, each finds something vital that will give them the power and resilience they need to meet the greatest challenge of all.

Murder and Forgiveness

For now we see in a mirror dimly, 
but then we will see face to face [1Cor 13.12]
[Image credit: publicphoto.org]

It has been a little over nineteen years since two sweet innocents sank into the bottom of a man-made lake in South Carolina, sent there by the woman who carried them in her womb. Susan Smith's story changed us all, mothers and fathers and families alike. None of us were unaffected, and yet, looking back, it is perhaps time we saw the lake as a mirror, and recognize our own reflection within it.

As a society, although individually we may strive toward good, we are none of us innocents. We should acknowledge, as Beverly Russell did, that there is a seed of capability to do great evil within us all. We owe this woman forgiveness, and until we do this we can not move on toward reconciliation, and we will not be able to realize our great responsibility to our children to ensure they grow up in a safe, loving world, full of possibilities.

When the word first came out that this mother had done the unthinkable, I remember being in the grocery store with my then 7-year old daughter and my son who was about the age of the youngest Smith child. Strangers who passed by my shopping cart reached out toward him, fastened safely in his little seat, to touch his head and to grasp my hand, wrapped protectively around him. "Take care of that child," some would whisper. "I can tell you are a good mama," others would say. I saw friends of mine from church, also young mothers, and we reached instinctively toward one another, asking, "How are you? Do you need anything? Is everything all right? You know you can call me," our eyes searching deeply within each other's, trying desperately to re-validate the safety net of community that had been rended and torn by the news.

We all knew that sometimes we are only a breath of time away from losing it ourselves, and we needed to know that we could stop it from happening if we could only remember we are there for each other, to help shoulder the load.

Before Susan Smith's trial and the facts and analysis that would come out of it showing she was a desperate, troubled individual with a past that some of us could not fathom or relate to - we young mothers knew. Only the grace of something greater than ourselves up to that point had saved some of us from recklessly destroying our greatest and most precious gifts, that of our children and ourselves. For some horrible reason, that grace had failed a young mother, allowing her to send her children, her flesh, her blood, to a watery tomb. And I think that our shock and horror allowed us to separate ourselves after a time from this recognition, in order to move on and to be better parents.

This had to happen. But it is time now to take the next step, and forgive her for her actions. To recognize as a society that we had some hand in this undertaking, and to heal and to move forward toward ensuring that infanticide does not have to happen, that we recognize the warning signs and stop this evil, desperate act from taking place ever again.

***

We know better now, how ill and wretched this young woman was. We know, and we must recognize, that she was manifesting the symptoms of the classic murderer of her own children. At that time only trained specialists knew and were capable of seeing in; indeed it is what helped them to guide Susan Smith into confessing her great horrible deed.

Driving alone at dusk [Image credit: publicphoto.org]

But we all should know now. It's been nearly twenty years. Surely we can recognize that she was at the apogee of human error and selfish grasping for attention, love, and acceptance for who she was and what she was at the time: a lonely, depressed woman whose inner child grieved for the father she had lost, and who could not, for whatever reason, accept that now she was a mother, with limited options.

It's sad, but true. As her life gained complexity, her future seemed to dim, and the possibilities voiced in the letter written by the lover who rejected her probably seemed like a carrot too far from reach. She lashed out, angrily, at what seemed to have slipped away while she was busy attending to her greatest accomplishment: motherhood. She was confused, and oh so empty, and her fear allowed her to believe that emptiness was permanent.

We have all felt like this, at some time or another. Fortunately, most of us have resources and loved ones who help us see the folly of that belief, and can show us the good and lovely opportunities and choices for good in our lives, so that the fear and loneliness and rejection do not last.

Susan Smith did not.

Why?

Why, when she looked around, did she only see a situation that further estranged her from her best self? Why did she want to end her life, and that of her children? And what, if anything, could have been done to stop it?

I will reflect further on this as time allows. For now, I want to just think about this rationally, given the facts as we know them. I'll write more as soon as I can.


***

Update on the 20-year mark of this event in The State newspaper

Cathead Biscuits

Bryson City Cathead Biscuits (original recipe)

2 1/2 c. flour

1/3 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. baking powder

5 tbsp. lard

1 c. buttermilk

Sift and mix dry ingredients then blend with lard. Add buttermilk. For each biscuit, pinch off a portion of dough about the shape of a large egg and pat out with your hands. Bake in a 350 degree oven in wood stove about 10 minutes. In a modern electric or gas stove, bake at 475 to 500 degrees.

This recipe is found on page 115 in the chapter entitled, "Biscuits," in the book Smokehouse Ham, Spoon Bread, and Scuppernong Wine, by Joseph E. Dabney (Cumberland House, Nashville, TN 1998).

I've made a few adjustments over the years, starting with the substitution of shortening for lard. I do not adjust the amount and have good results. I choose a quality unbleached all-purpose flour such as King Arthur or Hodgsons Mill Organic. Also, when I do not have buttermilk, I substitute 1 c. whole milk plus 1 tbsp. plain yogurt. The texture of the biscuits is fluffy and light, and they brown nicely in a hot oven - however, I've found that generally the temperature does not need to be more than 450.

Serve warm with jam, honey, or just good butter. This recipe is also suitable to use for dumplings.

Review: Blue Camellia

Blue Camellia by Frances Parkinson Keyes
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazing work, a story so skillfully crafted that its social anachronisms seem charming and quite forgiveable in the context of their time. Powerful and based loosely on historical facts, the story of a woman who found her own way in life and carved a niche for herself that, instead of rejecting family and society, carefully selected the finest yields and stoutest promise, enfolded a heart full of love and wisdom with the best portions of her heritage and fortune to triumph over her personal nightmarish tragedy and make a life well lived.

View all my reviews

Review: The Floatplane Notebooks

The Floatplane Notebooks by Clyde Edgerton

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



This story was probably not supposed to make me cry, but it did. Rich language interwoven with humor, The Floatplane Notebooks ebbs and flows with the human foibles of a southern family, and it's as real and poignant as the best of its genre. Recommended.



View all my reviews

Comfort Food

Chardin, Grace Before a Meal

Looks like more rain is heading this way; the view outside is dank and drippy.  True to form I want to head to the kitchen to put something together that tastes good, is easy to prepare, and brings a satisfied warmth to the bellies in my house.

Here are a few of our favorites.

Bubble & Squeak

`Now, cheer up, Toad,' she said, coaxingly, on entering, `and sit up and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit of dinner. See, I've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!'    

It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. ..and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall...   

Bubble and Squeak has a somewhat negligible reputation amongst foodies, which must be due to the fact that traditionally it was made up of leftover mashed potatoes and old cabbage boiled down in a pot to muculent ignominy.  We've made our version of delectably seasoned Virginia pork sausage, fresh cabbage, and new potatoes.  Quite the rainy day fare!

Take half a head of fresh green cabbage, wash thoroughly, and slice into 1/2" thick sections, chopping these in half again, and set aside in a bowl into which you've poured about 1 c. ice-cold water.  Wash and cube about 4 medium russet potatoes, leaving skins on, into pieces 3/4" - 1" in diameter.  Brown 1 lb. local sausage (Valleydale, Weinberg's, Neese's are all good choices, depending upon where you live) in a large skillet until down, lift out and let drain; pour off most of the sausage grease from pan, leaving crisp drippings.  Place the cubed potatoes in the skillet with 1 tbsp. unsalted butter and 1/4 c. water, cover and cook over medium low heat 15 minutes.  Add sausage and cabbage, layering over potatoes, cover again and steam about 10 more minutes just until cabbage is lightly done.  With spatula, lift and turn over the mixture to blend, cover tightly and remove from heat and let sit about 10 more minutes.  Serve with piping hot biscuits and butter or cornbread.  So good.


Shrimp & Grits
Nathalie Dupree, Charleston chef and former SC Senatorial candidate, has written an entire cookbook on this delectable concoction.  Being from Virginia, I'd never heard of it until I moved to South Carolina.  After my first bite I honestly wondered how I'd actually lived up to that point.  Never fails to lift my spirits, no matter how bummed I may be or how difficult the day has been.  Pure heaven defined in a china bowl.  Serve with green salad and hot tea.

Cook grits according to package directions using milk instead of water for a creamy consistency (Generally, measure 1-1/4 c. grits to about 4 c. milk, heat slowly on medium-low heat, add 1 tbsp. butter and 1 tsp. salt, stirring often until mixture is thoroughly cooked and thickened but not lumpy.  Keep covered.  Takes about 20-25 minutes). 
While grits are cooking, brown 3 - 4 slices fresh bacon on both sides, remove, drain, crumble, set aside, reserving pan drippings.  Add a bit of olive oil if necessary to make about 1/3 c. total in pan.  Wash, peel, de-vein about 1-1/4 lb. fresh medium-sized shrimp and remove tails.  Place shrimp in pan on medium heat, turning quickly but gently with spatula as the shrimp heat thoroughly, and as they are finishing, replace crumbled bacon in pan and lower heat.  Add a splash of white wine or apple juice, 1 tbsp fresh chives, 1 clove fresh minced garlic, fresh ground black pepper, dash tabasco or other flavorful hot pepper sauce to taste.  Cover and remove from heat, let this mixture sit for about 3-5 minutes so that the flavors continue to meld.  Serve up grits in large round cream soup dish with shrimp mixture ladled over the top.  Serves 4-5 admirably.


Bean & Bacon Soup

A childhood favorite.  Great with a grilled cheese sandwich and a nice dill pickle or two.  Using freshly dried herbs gives this a monumental flavor that will bring them back for second helpings every time.

1 lb. pkg. Navy or Great Northern Beans, washed & drained
1/2 lb. smoky sliced bacon strips, cooked according to package
2-3 medium carrots, peeled & chopped
1 small white or yellow onion, minced and cooked in bacon drippings until clear, drain and set aside
1 8 oz. can tomato paste
6-8 c. water
2 cloves garlic, peeled & minced
1/2 tsp ground sage
1/2 tsp ground thyme
1 tsp snipped rosemary
dash turmeric, ground black pepper, salt to taste

Cook beans according to package directions in large soup pot or dutch oven until tender.  Add cooked bacon, crumbled, along with about 2 tbsp pan drippings from bacon, and mix thoroughly to distribute.  Add carrots, cooked onion, tomato paste, water to desired consistency, and seasonings.  Cover and cook thoroughly on medium-low heat for about an hour.  Serves 10-12.

Warm and Savory

No matter how you spend the months of winter, curled up by a warm fire with a book or engaged in brisk outside activities, it's hard to beat the universal appeal of homemade soup.  It's easy and so satisfying.  Feel free to experiment with whatever ingredients you have on hand; there are no hard and fast rules for soup and it's one of the best ways to use up leftover vegetables, rice, pasta, and roasted meats.

Winter Bean Soup
3 c. cold water
1 16-oz. package dried white beans or navy beans
1 med. butternut squash, peeled and diced into 1" chunks
1 onion, peeled & diced
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 tbsp. butter
3 1/2 cups chicken broth plus the meat from a roasted chicken
    (boil carcass to remove the bones from the meat, skim the fat)
1/2 tsp dried thyme leaves
1/2 tsp dried basil leaves
1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
Sea salt to taste

Put water and beans into a dutch oven or crock pot, heat to boiling, then turn off and let sit for an hour.  Turn heat back up and cook beans until soft, adding water as needed to ensure beans do not dry out.  Add onion, garlic, butternut squash, chicken broth and chicken, cook on medium for a couple of hours.  When vegetables are soft and soup is of a good consistency, add herbs, salt and pepper, and simmer on low for another hour or so.  Serve with hearty bread and cheese or cornmeal muffins.


Soupe a la Reine
Never a fan of turnips, I was in a weird mood when I decided to try this... Said to be the favorite of Marie Antoinette, this recipe is adapted from one used in the artist Claude Monet's kitchen at Giverny, and two other 19th century recipes which mentioned the use of almonds in the broth.  It is positively decadently delicious, and should be placed right up there among the necessary indulgences with brie, ripe strawberries, and darkest, richest chocolate.

1 1/2 lbs. fresh turnips, washed, trimmed, and sliced
1/2 stick (4 tbsp.) unsalted butter
1 cup whole milk
1 cup sour cream (or substitute additional 1 c. whole milk, 1 tbsp butter, and 1/4 c. potato flakes)
1/2 cup almond milk (do not substitute soy milk, but skim milk or a bit of chicken broth would work)
1 tbsp. unbleached flour
Sea salt and pepper to taste

Cook turnips on medium heat in as little water as possible (no more than 3 to 4 cups but enough so that the turnips do not stick or scorch) until soft enough to mash with a fork.  Puree the turnips (or mash completely), add butter and continue heating on medium-low heat until butter is melted through the mixture.  Add milk and cream, stirring slowly until thickened slightly; small bubbles may appear at edge of pot, but do not boil.  Add flour to almond milk, salt, and pepper, whisk until completely dissolved, and add to soup mixture.  Heat thoroughly on low simmer.  Serve hot with table water crackers, tea, and fruit.

Preserving Summer Harvest

Chutney is a delectable, spicy preserve-like concoction that is made to be served with slowly-roasted beef, chicken, or pork but is also delicious embedded in an omelet or folded into a piquant casserole. Best when the freshest ingredients are used at the height of their summer goodness, it takes time and patience to chop, peel, skin, and dice all the fruits and vegetables that go into it, but when savoring your own prudent industry over a leisurely wintry meal, there’s simply nothing better to recall to mind the warmth and goodness of long summer days.

Last August 23rd, dear husband and I managed to put up a very good batch of Peach Chutney that we adapted from a recipe in Linda Ferrari’s classic Canning and Preserving, and I took pictures intending to share the results with folks here at the blog. The local peaches and the peppers from the garden were especially plentiful - and juicy - last year. However, real life being what it is, I never got around to making the blog post. Some people may wonder why I’m bothering to do it now, but I’m of the mind that it really is never too late to recall and make a note of good things like this. Jason & I used to make Chutney a lot; in fact, one of our family jokes was to make this very British preparation in early July, and tongue-in-cheek to call it “Fourth of July Chutney,” ‘cause we’re awesome like that. But I digress.

Being in the kitchen is one of my favorite memories of life with this man, who is much more at home around the stove & countertop than I am. While at times it may have been a little awkward as we worked around each others’ idiosyncrasies (random grumbles and mutual harrumphs notwithstanding), as I look back over the years I feel a warmth rise in my chest remembering the way his hands moved, assuredly and with the skill of long practice, and the delectable meals he’s prepared. So - here ‘tis, a year late, but still kind of wonderful – and I’m not just talking about the tangible results. There’s something magical about working together and producing something fine that goes beyond the immediate; it’s a shared experience that underscores the importance of living in the moment while affirming that even when it’s a bit of a challenge, the future is an opportunity worth preserving. Try it with someone you love.


Peach Chutney

7 lbs. fresh peaches, blanched, skinned and chopped
1 large onion, minced
1 c. dried currants
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 large gingerroot, peeled and finely chopped
Several red, green, and yellow peppers, sliced, seeds removed, and minced
2 c. cider vinegar
2 c. brown sugar
½ c. granulated organic cane sugar
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. whole cloves
½ tsp. ground mace
¾ tsp. ground allspice

Prepare fruit and vegetables carefully. Blend vinegar, sugars, lemon juice, zest, ginger root, and spices in a large heavy pot placed on the stove. Add peaches, onion, currants, and peppers. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, until slow boil is reached. Lower heat and simmer until thickened to correct consistency.

Ladle into hot, prepared jars, seal, and process for 10 minutes in a water bath. Cool for several hours or overnight and check for complete sealing of jars.

Makes approximately 7-8 pints. Store in a cool, dark place.

Yes Martinsville

I grew up on a beautiful, quiet street in small-town America. It's still small and quiet, but not in quite the same way. Thank goodness it's still beautiful, too.... but for how long is anybody's guess.

Two decades ago, Martinsville Virginia had DuPont, Bassett-Walker, Levi Strauss, Hooker Furniture, Bassett Furniture Industries, and many spin-off manufacturing and shipping firms that were interlaced and inter-dependent for supplies and labor.  Today the county in which Martinsville is located has one of the highest unemployment figures in America at over 20% (at one point it has reached as high as 43%).  The present major employers are listed here, and look at their tiny numbers, and also note the fact that most of them are government and very low-paying service industry jobs. This is horrifying considering Martinsville traditionally has pulled employees from three other counties including one in North Carolina.

The Virginia Museum of Natural History is located in Martinsville, which is an affiliate of the Smithsonian. New College and a significant military technology contractor are located there, but are struggling. There was never much of a housing industry because Martinsville & Henry County's population has remained flat for over two decades. Martinsville has received federal grants and millions in private money has poured in, as attempts to revitalize the economy through restructuring toward technology-based businesses, incentives, and very creative new enterprises have all failed to make a dent in the downward spiral that began in the early 1990s with the closure of Tultex Industries, closely followed by DuPont and the rest. The search for economic options has gone to the grassroots level, as unemployed citizens take their campaign to attract a Google pilot infrastructure project to the town to the Internet, in an attempt to gather support from people who used to live there. Politicians regularly visit the area as it's become the poster child for what's wrong with the economy. Small start-ups and Mom & Pop retailers, cafes, and small-scale service industries are the only game in town, and their turnover is staggering because no one has any money to spend.

Overall all of these efforts are failing to reverse the fact that the town is dying. Take a look. I hardly recognize my hometown in these images. The conclusion at the end of the article is sobering to say the least. The writer implies that as Martinsville has gone, so may the rest of America. I'm certain that's extreme, but it does serve to illustrate the acute changes the export of American manufacturing jobs overseas has brought to at least one community. We are fortunate that here in Sumter County we still have a manufacturing base that is higher than the average.

Link to the New Yorker Article - updated link
Thank you for your time in reading this and looking at the links and article. Please pass this on to whomever you think would be interested in this or could use a reminder of what we work every day to avoid.

ETA: A Martinsville City Councilman counters with some lovely images in this video. Enjoy!
ETA #2: Most of the links in this article have succumbed to time. Here is a link to the George Packer New Yorker article that mentions Martinsville. I'll try to update the links as they are found.

Yes Martinsville

I grew up on a beautiful, quiet street in small-town America. It's still small and quiet, but not in quite the same way. Thank goodness it's still beautiful, too.... but for how long is anybody's guess.

Two decades ago, Martinsville Virginia had DuPont, Bassett-Walker, Levi Strauss, Hooker Furniture, Bassett Furniture Industries, and many spin-off manufacturing and shipping firms that were interlaced and inter-dependent for supplies and labor.  Today the county in which Martinsville is located has one of the highest unemployment figures in America at over 20% (at one point it has reached as high as 43%).  The present major employers are listed here, and look at their tiny numbers, and also note the fact that most of them are government and very low-paying service industry jobs. This is horrifying considering Martinsville traditionally has pulled employees from three other counties including one in North Carolina.

The Virginia Museum of Natural History is located in Martinsville, which is an affiliate of the Smithsonian. New College and a significant military technology contractor are located there, but are struggling. There was never much of a housing industry because Martinsville & Henry County's population has remained flat for over two decades. Martinsville has received federal grants and millions in private money has poured in, as attempts to revitalize the economy through restructuring toward technology-based businesses, incentives, and very creative new enterprises have all failed to make a dent in the downward spiral that began in the early 1990s with the closure of Tultex Industries, closely followed by DuPont and the rest. The search for economic options has gone to the grassroots level, as unemployed citizens take their campaign to attract a Google pilot infrastructure project to the town to the Internet, in an attempt to gather support from people who used to live there. Politicians regularly visit the area as it's become the poster child for what's wrong with the economy. Small start-ups and Mom & Pop retailers, cafes, and small-scale service industries are the only game in town, and their turnover is staggering because no one has any money to spend.

Overall all of these efforts are failing to reverse the fact that the town is dying. Take a look. I hardly recognize my hometown in these images. The conclusion at the end of the article is sobering to say the least. The writer implies that as Martinsville has gone, so may the rest of America. I'm certain that's extreme, but it does serve to illustrate the acute changes the export of American manufacturing jobs overseas has brought to at least one community. We are fortunate that here in Sumter County we still have a manufacturing base that is higher than the average.

Link to the New Yorker Article - updated link
Another interesting viewpoint comparing the town of Mt Airy and Martinsville
Thank you for your time in reading this and looking at the links and article. Please pass this on to whomever you think would be interested in this or could use a reminder of what we work every day to avoid.

ETA: A Martinsville City Councilman counters with some lovely images in this video. Enjoy!
ETA #2: Most of the links in this article have succumbed to time. Here is a link to the George Packer New Yorker article that mentions Martinsville. I'll try to update the links as they are found.

SustainFloyd next Weekend

We visited Floyd last month and really can't wait to go back again.

From friend Fred's blog:

After a successful assembly at the foot of Buffalo Mountain for a drizzly-foggy October 10th “350 climate action”, SustainFloyd now looks ahead to the first community festival of its kind in the county, the SplitRail Eco-Fair, to celebrate ecologically-sustainable aspects of agriculture, arts, commerce, education and life together in vibrant community in a changing world.fragmentsfromfloyd.com, Fragments From Floyd, Oct 2009
Read the rest here

YouTube video of Buffalo Mountain assembly

Really wish I could go, but probably won't make it. It's a rather busy time for me right now - but my heart is there, and I have high hopes for a great weekend for those who can!

the plural of impetus

...is supposedly "impetuses." this sounds ungracious to me; not something a southern lady would say in public. but i digress.

Development in Flood Plains Continued after '93 Floods

I just have to underscore the stupidity of purchasing property in - or even near - flood plains, and am very sorry to actually have to say it. People seem to think that it's perfectly fine "because the government approved it," or something equally ignorant. No one realizes - or acknowledges - the fact that the government approves whatever developers (aka private property owners) ask them to approve. It is anyone's god-given right to develop privately-owned property in the United States. Meaning, that line on the map? Actually means nothing. FEMA cannot keep up with how quickly it moves. Picture a sponge, representing the ground, and a massive steel plate being pushed down in the middle of it, representing development (which, for you unimaginative ones and non-scientists, means increased impervious surface. I'm sorry - that would be a big word. It means paving and rooftops where rain cannot percolate into the ground). Water can't seep thru the steel plate. Therefore, what does it do?

Maybe you smart ones might try this experiment at home. Maybe the light will go on. This should not take a degree in hydrology to figure out.

Somehow, however, I doubt it will seep in for most of you, if you pardon the pun. People are just too dense where their land investments are concerned, especially if the particular investment in question represents HOME. But this is why I don't listen to the reports of distressed, displaced property owners any more. I do, however, have a high measure of condolence for those people who purchased their property well out of a flood plain 30 or more years ago, and now find themselves being flooded out because of increased development around them. If you're one of those people? I'm right beside you, loading up my word-cannon, wanting to blast the living daylights out of those greedy-assed creeps. Yeah.

Sorry, I'm a conservationist and a rebel at heart. And I like to shoot things that need shooting. Sometimes shooting relieves the stress that built up over a decade and a half of trying to convince people that building there wouldn't work out in the long run. I talked myself blue in the face, and people laughed and said, "You're crazy."

So yeah - I'm laughing now.

You property owners who purchased property in the past five or ten years or so, thinking you had all the rights in the world to go on imagining that you were safe or the government would protect you because your property was approved? And bitched and complained because the locality or bank made you purchase flood insurance, and the stupid government employee that you hounded down at the building permit office actually did his or her job and refused to write the letter you requested so you could save a measly few hundred dollars a year on your homeowners insurance? Hey, FUCK YOU. I'm fiddling while your proverbial property rights get washed out to sea, baby. Hahahahahahahahaha.

If I had a dollar for every individual who stormed out of my office because I refused to write that letter, lying so that they could close on their house by noon that day, I'd be able to take a vacation in Cancun on the savings. But I don't. Not that I wasn't offered all manner of return favors, and plied with everything from lottery tickets to free lunches to write that letter.

FEMA is not the bad guy. But you government-reform assholes have certaily ensured it is pretty much unable to do the job it was formed to do: Protect property values, water quality, and habitat. You idiots whittled away at government regulation until it is no more than a dancing puppet, unable to do anything but be an ineffective shadow tracing the lines of its original purpose. Don't whine to me, Argentina. You made your bed by insisting we allow you to develop that property to its "highest and best use," god DAMN that term, so now you get to lie down in it, and splash around with the ducks.

The only thing FEMA actually does anyway is approve your ability to purchase government-subsidized flood insurance should you be stupid enough to purchase property in a mapped flood-prone area. FEMA cannot prevent you from building there... they shove that responsibility off to the states, who in turn shove it off onto the localities, who blithely ignore it. It's actually illegal under federal law for participants in the National Flood Insurance program to issue building permits in certain flood-prone areas, for all kinds of excellent reasons that ensure property rights in the long run are preserved. But the administrative wherewithall for ensuring that gets enforced is placed with individuals who have a vested interest in seeing that it is NOT enforced: Tax Assessors and County Administrators, whose directive from the people who hired them (politicians) is: INCREASE THE TAX BASE AND TO HELL WITH GOVERNMENT REGULATIONS.

Who in their right mind thinks about the long run? People are human. The long run means nothing, except when it becomes the short run.

So no, I really, really don't even care about all the millions of dollars worth of property damage out there. You get the government you deserve; your karma, baby. As a geographer, I find it unbelievable that people can't see that water coming years before it gets there. As a person raised under the ideals of common sense, I still can't believe it.

You don't have to be a geographer to understand that when you cover the ground with buildings, pavement, and roads - the water can't seep into the ground. It collects in the low places. And the more you cover the ground, the fewer places it has to collect. It fills the low places, and then creeps up to less low places. Soon, what used to not be designated "flood zone," eventually qualifies, baby. It gets Wet. THIS IS COMMON SENSE.

Or, you could look at it this way: God is Punishing You for Your Ignorant Stupidity. The End is Near. The Apocalypse is Imminent.

I love how these people are always the same mouths who yammered for me to approve their goddamned flood-prone building lots. As if Christianity itself depended upon their getting that return on their investment.

Heh.

Either way you look at it - apocalypse or science, Shit Happens. We can't go on deranging drainage systems and drying up habitat and paving over flood plain and think God Won't Get Pissed Off Eventually. Or the earth will eventually take back what is hers.

Here's some bottom-line advice: Don't Build There. Buy a park bench and sit on it and enjoy the sunset. Bring your fishing rod, and a cooler of beers. Pitch a goddamned tent. But DON'T BUILD A HOUSE. A few localities that participate in the National Flood Insurance Program do actually refuse building permits for structures that meet certain criteria in mapped flood-prone areas. The reason I say "a few" is because out of the multiplicity of localities and regional governments that I personally have experience working for and/or with across the southern US, most administrators 1) do not understand the requirements for participation and 2) do not give a flying flip about them. Tax assessors routinely push to have building permits issued wherever and whenever they are requested, in order to increase the value of property, in order that taxes may be collected.

I really, really look forward to this day. Except a part of me doesn't actually believe it will happen. Soothsayers Rule #1: The future will be like nothing you have imagined, but when you get there, you will realize it is exactly what you expected.

Prometheans hate spelling things out. But apparently, you asked for it. And I have no doubt, will continue ignoring it. And humanity will survive, in spite of our angst.

Or not.

Blithe Cassandra, that would be me. I've done my duty in warning you, now I'll go back to what I prefer to do with my free time, which is sitting up here in my 18th century house high above the flood plain, writing porn about Jensen Ackles.

La,
S

i can hear: The Black Crowes, Wiser Time
it's my party & i'm: in your face
lost or found: down by the river
stats: sunny & breezy with a touch of headache

and sunrise greets the dawn

Image courtesy Wright and Associates

Society Hill. Cashua. Darlington.

And - just so you blend in and aren't immediately branded as "you ain't from here, are ya?" - that's Cash-euw-ay. Not Cash-eu-uh. Say it soft and let it roll off your tongue like sorghum syrup, smooth as the serene Pee Dee River itself. I haven't really been there yet, but it's on the list.

Society Hill is the little town where the crew goes for a special meal during the Kolb project. It used to be just the way it sounds - and in a matter of speaking, still is. Gracious folk come out laying platters of barbecue, vegetables, cakes and pies down on a table around which gather the scientists, who for one night are treated like family no matter from whence they hail. Most of them are not from the South, and many are young, in their third or fourth year in a University program, and in general have a slightly bemused attitude toward the natives.

Many are older, and have been here many, many times, or now call our state home. They let them stay, as long as they behave and are respectful of their elders, and don't forget that no matter how long they live here, they will never, never be natives, and there are certain subjects therefore that they will never understand and opinions thereon may be tolerated out of respect for a friendship, but will never be shared.

We know ourselves and our idiocyncracies and foibles, and are comfortable with them. Thank you all the same.

I did not attend this meal, but I always hear about it. One of the ladies makes certain my husband's favorite, Key Lime Pie, is on the menu. They all get a taste of the local 'shine, and are expected to render an honest opinion on its vintage as compared to the previous year. They leave with full bellies and humble hearts. The outpouring is a bit overwhelming, for they are essentially strangers and infiltrators, yet the locals treat them with kindness and hospitality usually reserved for family and the closest of friends.

As little as some have, it is still wondrous to know there are places where a handshake is as good and enforceable a contract as a registered document at the courthouse, and the fact that someone looks you in the eye while you speak means that not only will he remember you, but your words as well, even if several months pass by and you do not speak. So I smiled as I listened to the team still expressing gratitude and astonishment at the bounty spread before them earlier in the week. And I was reminded of arms laced over a community well-fed, bustling with purpose, accomplishment, peace, and generosity.

As previously related, I left early the next morning. In the seat of South Carolina auto racing, I stopped to refuel at a corner market. A neatly hand-lettered sign on the pump caught my attention, and I squinted in the reflected sunlight to make it out:

Welcome to the Corner Connection
Due to drive-offs, we ask
that you please pre-pay for
gas after dark. Sorry for your
inconvenience.

The attention paid to politeness and sincerity was as clearly etched in those words as the pleasant expression on the attendant's mouth as I entered the store. A small man with a merry face akin to a hobbit's, he bobbed behind the counter talking smack with a big man in pursuit of a lottery ticket while I paused at the counter display of pre-packaged donuts, bear claws, and other disgustingly sugary substances. There was no way I could eat that stuff, so I moved over to the aisle where the pretzels were stored, forgetting one major facet of small-town life, even as it was drifting into my ears, my eyes roaming inattentively across the shelves.

"Hey there good morning," the clerk spoke to me, savoring the words with a long, sweet essence of kindness in each syllable. I looked up and waved, then ducked my head down again. Uncomfortable with strangers, especially males, I resolved to get something quickly and get out of there. I could eat real food when I got back home, only about an hour away.

"Gimme one of them educational tickets, the green ones," the big man spoke up.

"Yeah? Gitcha in trouble," was the affable reply.

"I don't care."

The clerk continued to greet each customer in like manner: "Good morning, there." "We sure appreciate your business." "Come back now, anytime."

As I type these exclamations now there is no way to communicate the warm hospitality and plain goodness in the man's speech. I heard it, and it cracked my shell. Tentatively, I approached the counter, laying a bottle of orange juice down and a pack of Orbit gum.

"Do you happen to know where I can get a biscuit around here?" I asked. I gestured vaguely down the road in the direction I was headed.

"Why, we got the best biscuits you'll eat right here," was his reply, and I was immediately struck with my stupidity. Of course they did. This was the "Corner Connection," after all, not a big BP Plaza. I'd chosen it specifically because it was NOT a franchise market, and its neat appearance bespoke respectability and pride in honest work. You find these all over the south, if you'll just look, mind you. You out-of-towners ought to broaden your horizons, and try the local fish. But as I was sayin'.

"Do you wanna plain biscuit, nothin' on it?" He gestured toward the back and also along the heated window just to his right, where neat packages containing portable breakfasts waited neatly, exactly --and i do mean exactly as my grandmother made, and a few extended cousins still do, to take along to work for those who must do so in the mornings. I knew in those wax-paper wrapped shells lay the melting-hot goodness of homemade biscuits with scrambled eggs, sausage or bacon, and the hot sauce was sitting right there at my elbow if I cared to embellish it a bit.

"I think I'd just like a plain biscuit, thank you --oh," as I saw him walking toward the kitchen, I faltered.

"'Melda - do we have anymore o' them biscuits back there? Nice lady out here wants a plain one." He fairly danced on the tips of his toes. I knew the woman back there, whoever she was, had been up with the sun like me that morning, only with a purpose of mind that led all the way down to her fingers, and in turning out fifty or so breakfasts, she'd already done a days' work, and was in the midst of scrubbing up. I could not do that to her. Or myself. Sheesh.

I closed my mind against things like cholesterol and fat calories. Today was a day. The end.

"No, no, that's all right." I waved at him, staring at the case and spying the answer I was looking for. "Do you have any sausage ones, made up?"

He turned, smiling. "Sure do." He opened the case and a heavenly smell poured out. Ohmygod. Yum.

He grasped a hefty one and popped it into a little brown bag, handing it over with what I knew to be his trademark smile, tho' I'd never seen him before and likely wouldn't again. "That's the local Weinberg's sausage," he added with satisfaction.

"Well, I love that," I responded. I had no idea, which fact added to the word "local" consummated the decision for me at once.

"Do you? It's good, " he said, nodding as he took a bill from my extended fingers. He rang it up promptly and handed me my change.

"We sure appreciate your business. Come back anytime."

"I'll do that. Have a lovely day." And I went out into the morning, a treasure in my hands and heart. In the car, I opened the paper and bit into the softness of the biscuit, reveling in the spicy flavor of the homemade sausage on my tongue. So good. Moist. To hell with factory-sized hog farms. Waste of resources, pollute the watersheds. This was heaven, and you can't get it from industrial hogs. (I should have stopped at the farm-store when I saw it on the way out of town and picked up several packages for the next time I make cassoulet. Nothing better, and there's more in common between the family Provencal and these Darlington-area farmers than you'd think at first. It's all about taste.) These babies were raised spoiled as hell, living fat and happy off the land until the day they died, and the sweetness of their existence underscored for me the expanded meaning the words, "family business" have for me now.

Just as the word, "primitive" now evokes a mindset evocative of grace and peace, where food and goods and services touched by human hands are still evident, "still in the family" means they haven't let go, haven't sold out, someone still rises every day to greet the dawn expending hours of energy in just doing what they do best, working at an honest trade or purpose, where the sounds of birds calling and cows lowing and the wind in the grasses frame a lifestyle where you can still hear the heartbeat of the earth.

Truly the light is sweet
and a pleasant thing it is
for the eyes to behold the sun.

And I started up my car, and drove home, unabashedly poetic about the fact that I'd just put $20.00 in my gas tank. These days of multiple-miles-per-hour travel like this are ending, drawing to a close, and I am saving up memories to recall for the future. I am where I am supposed to be. It is life-affirming to come into contact with people for whom, in spite of the Internet (and I love it so), in spite of rampant commercialism, in spite of the assimilation of a mass-market cultural freakism by so many other places, there still remain those with whom I share a deep cultural connection, with whom it would be silly to compare notes, because even though we are separated to a vast degree by education and political views, we line up exactly to the nth degree on what matters most.

Community is worth saving - and there are so many communities, even those intrinsically associated as Darlington is with a sport like auto-racing, who remain diversified enough, close enough to the ground and still interlinked with their agricultural roots, that they will be saved, they will endure, they will survive and go forward to the next thing that awaits. The keys to their future lay within their past, and in their vast inner wisdom, they never lost it. Again I have to say it: We will be fine.

Amen, even so come, Lord Jesus.

moonset over the pee dee

We woke this morning in the dark, gathering our things and venturing out into the world to find that frost limned the windows with silver lace. I spent a cozy night in a grain silo converted into a dollhouse, or rather a hunting lodge; four floors of airy living that the longer I stayed the harder I knew it would be to leave.

But I was only a momentary visitor to the Great Pee Dee Heritage Preserve, a once-a-year enticement that gives me fodder for ruminations and prose for long months afterwards. Like any foray into the wild, either modern or anachronistic, here is where I re-learn that my connection to the land is temporal and severe.

Image courtesy Johannes Kolb Archaeological Site Public Outreach

Last evening I drove up from Stateburg, entering the Darlington Historic District just as the sun dropped below the horizon, so that the last few miles of the trip were cloaked in gilded splendor, tracing the tender branches of the newly-budding willows that lined the corridor of the river, silhouetting the great Black Angus cattle as they lumbered toward dinner, the glow of new green grass behind them shouting the advent of spring as much as the fecund scent of orchard blossoms.

The Silo

Husband, the archaeologist, has a valid excuse to stay the entire ten days that the annual event is open: he's working. From all over the southeast dozens of volunteers, students, and faculty descend on the property once inhabited by one Johannes Kolb, a farmer of some success in this community that still derives the bulk of its income from agriculture. The site has been studied for over ten years, and has yielded a wealth of information about its former occupants.


But I do not come to study in any official capacity, I come to absorb and wallow in the good company and newly unearthed information. Archaeologists live simply, but believe in epicurean comforts. And there is always music. They incorporate what they have learned into their evening relaxations, as they turn a warm fire into the means by which reproduction earthen pots are kilned, as close as possible to that used by the makers of the shards dug up during the week. The bits are studied as to form, structure, and composition, and copies are attempted.

Some of them are marvelously useful. Others for some reason or other do not make it through the firing, coming from the ashes with deep cracks or scars, but these are still considered useful for what they yield about the process.


So we sat in the dark after dinner, imbibing our choice of refreshment, and laughed and talked and sang to the two guitars that appeared to accompany the evening's quiet melodies from the tree frogs and waterfowl. As I said, they live simple but rich, and anyone who wanted to suggested a song and whomever knew the words would sing. The musicians created fantastical accompaniment, and the frogs provided rhythmic backnotes.


There is a lesson here: everything we have is all we need. They discussed the pits they'd dug, and assessed their uses as aboriginal refrigerators. They showed me how the pots were formed for differing purposes - some for boiling, some for storage, some for carrying. Some of them know how to make cordage from fibers found in the eastern woodlands, they know what mushrooms to eat and what leaves will treat wounds.

One of them can make fire in his hands. I didn't say with his hands, I said in his hands. That deserves its own post, for now I will leave that to your imagination, so you may feel the wonder of the phenomenon in the same mystery as the children for whom it was created millenia ago, and you may think about from whence come magical legends of such things. They weren't as magical, or as mythical, as you may believe. But I'll give you a hint: the aboriginal was a chemist.

The promethean in me laughs up her sleeve at that.

This is how I know humanity will be fine, no matter what. This is how I can bury my nose in my books, tend to my children, live my life, with only half an ear to the wind, listening to the wails that beset much of the world obsessed with oil and finance and danger. You tend to that if it pleases you. I'll be as far away from that as I can possibly be, heart dancing in accompaniment to the wind that breathes through my soul.

How can you live like that? I ask you.


Today is Good Friday. Let me tell you why it is ALL good: because everything we have is all we need. And there is only so much we can accomplish if we are listening to angry voices, trying to make up for sadness in which we had no hand, and for which the only answer is to pick up and walk away. And be the beacon. It only took me about 3/4 of my life so far to figure that out - Good God, do you think I want to dwell on how much time I wasted? Wouldn't you rather concentrate on what you've learned and may put to good use, enriching your everyday life and that of those you love?

I believe you would. And so would I.


The definition of wealth contines to evolve, and I am today as wealthy as I've ever been, even though dollar-wise I bring in less than 1/4 of what I did five years ago. I measure my wealth in smiles, and laughter, in peaceful moments around a campfire, in viewing miles of lovely arching trees, old oaks, willows, and pine; in quilted pastures through which creeks tumble in tranquil paths, neat farmhouses set back from the road, brick stores, lumber roads, and a deepest-blue veiled purple morn. And I measure it in better health, and seeing less stress in the eyes of my children. My world is a succinct registry of all that matters.


This morning I had a perfect sky of cerulean blue edged in a silken swath of apricot. Last night I took part in community harmony of the happiest sort, and watched artists at work making useful, beautiful things out of river mud. I was warmed by a red-hot purple-gold fire of wood gathered not fifty feet from where it was built, that served a dual purpose both in beauty and utility. I slept in a building that gives new meaning to the words "adaptive reuse."

PeeDee River at flood stage

It cost me exactly $14.43 in gas money. Everything else was free.

If that isn't your definition of a bargain, I'd really like to know it.

But there is more. Tomorrow I'll tell you all about it. But first, go out and greet the sunrise, say good-night to the moon. That is where it begins.

Note: You can read more about the Johannes Kolb site in this article originally published in South Carolina Wildlife Magazine, Life on a Sandy Knoll, by Christopher Judge.

Archaeologists Chris Judge and Jason Smith