2 posts tagged “apples”
November
15, 2008
Left to his own devices, my husband would live in a condo, surrounded by computers and electronic gadgets, and eating TV dinners. Homesteading, going back to the land, living the “simple life” are strictly my obsessions, not his.
He is, however, an extremely accommodating fellow, and over the years has built, mostly out of scraps, a number of objects that have enabled me to live out my fantasies. He has made chicken feeders and chicken roosts and nesting boxes. When I had goats he made me a couple of elaborate milking stands, hay feeders that minimized waste, and a cheese press.
But of all his creations, the one closest to my heart is the latest, the Amazing Apple Smasher.
This was a terrific year for apples in Vermont, and even the wild apple tree in our front field was covered with fruit. The trouble was, the apples were small, hard and bitter. Still, they were apples, so I figured that somebody should eat them. The answer, as always when a questionable food item is under consideration, was the chickens. After all, they adore spent broccoli plants and discarded Halloween pumpkins. Surely they would love those apples.
We picked a great barrel full and carted it to the chicken yard. We threw a little green apple on the ground, where it bounced and rolled like a golf ball. When it came to a stop, Buffy, the boss hen, gave it a peck, but she turned away in disgust when she couldn't make a dent. Not even Charlemagne, our 50-pound rooster, could crack that apple.
“They'll eat it if I break it up for them,” my husband said, hitting the apple with his heel. Sure enough, the apple flew into fragments and the chickens gobbled them up.
“Here, you do it now,” he said, handing me another golf ball. I put it on the ground and stomped, then jumped on it, but I couldn't smash it. All I got was a sore heel.
“This isn't going to work” I said. “I think we should just throw the apples in the compost.”
“Just hang onto them for a while,” my husband said, and went into the basement.
That evening, he handed me two scrap pieces of two-by-four, hinged together at one end.
“What's this?” I said.
“It's an apple smasher. You put an apple between the boards and stomp on the top board, and that smashes it.”
How can any woman turn down such an offering? I didn't think it would work, but to be gracious I carried it to the chicken house, set it on the floor, put an apple in and stomped. Pieces of apple exploded in all directions, with the chickens after them. Then they came back for more.
Now,
when then see me with the apple smasher in hand, they gather round
expectantly. They love the apples, and I love the stomping. There's
something cathartic about the stomp-squish-scatter sequence. And
thanks to the apple diet the egg yolks in our eggs are still as bright orange as
they were in the summer.
Which goes to show you that you've got to have high tech, if you want to live
the simple life.
October 18, 2008
When I first heard of “voluntary simplicity” several years ago, the movement comprised well-meaning, well-off people who were feeling burdened by their affluence. Their McMansions overflowed with toys, clothing, and appliances. SUVs, station wagons, motor homes, racing bikes and riding mowers spilled out of three-car garages. Every new object brought with it a responsibility (if only to find a place in which to store it) and between work and family duties, these people were too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of their toil. “We don't need all this stuff!” was the battle cry of the time. Occasionally a small voice could be heard murmuring, “and we're hurting the Earth by the way we live.”
That, less than a decade ago, was voluntary simplicity. Apparently we didn't do a good enough job of it, because here we are now, white- and blue-collar, democrat and republican, urban and rural dwellers, cringingly wading into the chilly waters of the new, involuntary simplicity. Foisted upon us by the economic catastrophe, simplicity, willy-nilly, is our future.
Thoreau must be delighted.
Already, signs of change are everywhere. Highway traffic is decreasing, and so are accident rates. The hardware stores around here are sold-out of outdoor clothes lines. My friends and I car-pool to book group and to art openings, and we're all talking about lowered thermostats for the coming winter. Laying hens are in short supply.
Granted, in Vermont these practices don't seem too exotic. Everyone grows a vegetable garden in summer, and in the fall we all play the north-country game of “the first one to fire up the furnace is a chicken.” But this year promises to be different, and battening down the hatches takes on real meaning even in our land-locked state.
I have noticed, however, that for those of us who are not in immediate danger of eviction or hunger, the challenges of the present situation are not without a certain exhilaration. It's hard not to feel excited by the sense of invulnerability that even a small measure of self-sufficiency affords. People are making extra large woodpiles in their yards. I grew winter squashes for the first time, for the chickens to eat when the real cold hits. A friend is experimenting with fermented foods, pickling cucumbers and cabbage to preserve them without need of electricity.
Involuntary simplicity is not without its delights. Witness my simple Saturday. I got up early and went to a nearby village's fabled fall rummage sale, where I bought, for less than two dollars apiece, a number of large wool sweaters that I plan to wear over my regular indoor winter clothes. This, I hope, will enable me to feel comfortable with the thermostat set at 65F, which is our plan for the next six months.
Then my husband and I went down our front field to the wild apple tree that has been loaded with fruit since summer. The apples are small, hard and sour, and we figured that they would make great chicken food. We didn't have to reach up for a single fruit: the ground under the tree was carpeted with apples. In just a few minutes we filled our tub with about sixty pounds of apples, and lugged them to the house.
I put a handful in a pan, covered them in water, and boiled them for a few minutes. They quickly turned soft, and smelled divine. I drained them and carried them to the chicken coop, where they were received quite favorably. I plan to boil the rest of the windfall, bit by bit, and store it in small bags in the freezer, then pop them in the microwave and serve them warm to the chickens on frigid January mornings. I wonder if the dogs too would like them?
At dusk, I picked the last of the broccoli—there was a hard freeze forecast for that night. I steamed it, then sauteed it for supper along with scrambled eggs and some grated cheddar. Soon I will pull up the broccoli plants and take them to the chickens, who will eat every leaf. The kale and chard will continue producing for a while. Then it will be trips to the basement freezer every night before supper.
I find a childish pleasure in all this. It's not unlike going camping and making do with what you have at hand. It's not unlike playing under the table as a kid, saying, “pretend this is our house, and this potato is a loaf of bread....” There are infinite sources of entertainment within the confines of our own yards, if we look closely. The trick to sanity and happiness in this new world is learning to want what we have. If we can manage that, we'll be richer than ever before.
