Poor Richard’s Almanac

It’s me, Richard Saunders of Poor Richard’s Almanac fame, back today with a mini-post. I’ve persuaded our friend Ben to let me update classic aphorisms for our times, as a good almanac author should always strive to remain current. Today I’ll take on that classic quote from George Santayana:

Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.

Today’s version:

Those who fall asleep watching a DVD are condemned to repeat it.

Feel free to write in with your favorite updates!

                                                            –RS

Our friend Ben asked me, Richard Saunders, of Poor Richard’s Almanac fame, to check in today with some homespun wit and wisdom. Of course, I was happy to oblige. I’d like to talk about rats, since I think they offer a window into the mind of God. But in order to at least attempt to avoid offending readers with a horror of rats or an inflated sense of their own importance in the cosmic scheme of things, I will cast my reflections in the form of a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in a country not far from here, there lived an inexperienced homesteader. This homesteader had a small property surrounded by farms, but he also had two very close neighbors, one on either side.

Each day, one of the highlights of the homesteader’s life was going out to visit his chickens, a small but colorful flock in a fenced enclosure. The homesteader had been very careful to use strong fencing and to fence over the top of the chicken yard to keep out hungry predators like hawks and raccoons. He had put a strip of wire fencing flat under the upright fencing so if digging predators came up to the fence line and tried to dig under it, they would hit the horizontal piece of fencing and be deterred. In short, he thought his little flock was snug and secure. But he had never thought about rats.

The neighboring farms all raised corn to feed their cattle, and after harvest, they stored the corn in large, open corn cribs. The corn attracted rats, which pospered and multiplied on the abundant food. One day, an adventurous rat made its way clear across the fields to the homesteader’s chicken yard. Undeterred by the fencing, it simply burrowed far enough underground to emerge inside the enclosure. Here it found food and water set out for the taking. Delighted, it began the long pilgrimage back across the fields to tell its friends.

Soon enough, the homesteader saw a rat in the chicken yard. This was quite a shock. But the rat was quiet and well-behaved. It didn’t bother the chickens, and in fact, was rather comical with its cute antics as it waddled around the yard. The homesteader, a peaceful soul, decided to live and let live. Now each day when he went out to visit the chickens, the rat would waddle up for his food right along with the rest, its black eyes bright with intelligence and appreciation.

Not long after this, the homesteader saw a second rat in the chicken yard. And soon thereafter he saw a third, and a fourth. All the rats were well-behaved. They didn’t bother the chickens, they enjoyed romping and playing, and they all ran out when the homesteader arrived with the morning rations. They’re doing no harm, the homesteader reasoned, and in their own way, they’re actually amusing and delightful. He didn’t go so far as to name the rats, but he could easily tell them apart.

Day followed day, and the well-fed rats became fruitful and multiplied. Soon, the chicken yard was alive with engaging little baby rats, which became adult rats, which produced more baby rats. The contented rat colony continued to eat side by side with the chickens, who ignored them, and to remain quiet and well-behaved. However, it was now impossible for even the well-meaning and pacific homesteader to believe that the situation could go on. Any day now, one or both of his neighbors might glance into his yard and see the swarm of rats overrunning the chicken yard. Or, even worse, the populous colony might decide to branch out into their yards. Clearly, something had to be done–and pronto, before irate neighbors called in the officials to shut down the little chicken operation for good.

With a heavy sigh, the homesteader headed for the Agway and purchased cakes of rat poison. He sent his five beloved chickens off for some R&R at a friend’s place, and went out to the chicken yard with the poison cakes. He broke them up and set them in the chicken yard. The rats, who trusted him completely, raced up joyfully as always to enjoy the new treat he’d brought them. For several days, the homesteader endured the soul-scarring ordeal of watching creatures who trusted him dying at his hands. Each day, he collected the dead in body bags and disposed of them. Finally, not a single rat was left in the chicken yard. The homesteader cleaned up all traces of poison, collected his chickens, and set a baited, chicken-proof box in a corner of the chicken yard in case any new rats decided to check out the situation. But rats are smart, and in the many years that followed, none ever returned. The homesteader and his chickens lived happily ever after.

But this is not the end of the story. The homesteader often thinks that one or two rats survived the purge and returned to their main colony back on the farm, carrying horrific tales of a dreadful plague and warning all rats to never, ever cross the field again. In fact, for the homesteader, the whole incident opened up a window into the mind of God. He could vividly imagine God looking down from time to time on the swarming, overpopulated mass of humanity and thinking, “You know, those humans are so intelligent and cute. I love their little games and antics. And it’s obvious that they love Me, too–they positively worship Me! But there are simply too many of them. It’s time to take corrective action before the situation gets completely out of hand and the beautiful world I created is overrun!” Then the homesteader could imagine God choosing a plague or other disaster and smiting his oblivious, trusting creation until the population was reduced to a more manageable level.

Well, that is the end of the story.  And what brought it to mind was a pair of books I’ve been reading, one on early America and one on John of Gaunt, arguably the last great feudal figure of mediaeval England. The one on early America–admittedly, one of my favorite topics for obvious reasons–discussed recent research that shows that, far from being a vast, uninhabited wilderness when the first Europeans arrived here, the North American continent was densely populated, with crowded cities and sophisticated civilizations. In fact, the first English arrivals in New England actually headed on down the coast, because there were so many Native American cities already crowding the coastline that the settlers decided to look for less inhabited areas.

Yet, just 25 years later, the Pilgrims found no cities and few people when they arrived. Why? Because the tuberculosis and smallpox brought over by those first European settlers had wiped out the original inhabitants. The Spaniards had decimated the great civilizations of the Aztecs and Maya, and later the Anasazi, in the same way. (Remember all that speculation about why the great Maya and Anasazi cities were simply abandoned, apparently without cause? Well, guess what–we were the cause.) The Native American population went from millions to a scattered remnant that was easy for the European Americans to overcome, even centuries later.

Okay, I thought, I can believe that. But then I wondered, if that were true, why didn’t European contact decimate the populations of Africa and Asia as well? Turns out, they decimated us. Shortly after reading about our wiping out the Native Americans, I was reading a history of John of Gaunt, which pointed out that smallpox was unknown in Europe until the fourteenth century, and ditto for the plague, aka the Black Death, which wiped out a third to a half of the population of Europe. I’d always thought of the Middle Ages as a time of privation, but apparently a combination of centuries of warm weather and lack of pandemic diseases had created abundant crops and a burgeoning population–far more people, in fact, than Europe could support.   

Well then, I thought, no wonder Europeans didn’t decimate the populations of Africa and Asia–they didn’t have these abominable diseases when they first made contact with those continents. But after reading a bit more about the plague, I see that it was the other way ’round: The Black Death came from Africa, through Asia, to Europe, leaving a decimated population in its wake. Then, once the exploding population had been reduced to manageable levels, it subsided. I tell you, it’s enough to make one believe in the Gaia Hypothesis–that the Earth is an intelligent superorganism that oversees its own welfare on a global scale, maintaining a balance between the populations of various organisms. Before we go the way of the dinosaurs, perhaps we should take heed…  

To think, I was going to write a serious post today about early America. But as I watched the snow sifting down outside, it took me back to my Southern childhood, so our friend Ben is instead going to say a few words about Southern and Northern differences. We’ll get back to history tomorrow.

I hate snow. But when I was a child, I loved snow. That’s because, in my native Nashville, a snowfall meant an instant holiday. Mind you, it snowed every winter, but not deep and not often. So when it did snow, everything stopped–schools closed, businesses closed, and everyone just stayed home ’til it melted, usually in a day or two. There was none of this nonsense about driving through it as though nothing were happening, or shoveling drives and walks. In fact, had it even occurred to anyone to shovel his drive, he would have been viewed as compulsive at least and more likely a wacko. People stayed home, ate snowcream, had snowball fights, made puny snowmen, took turns sledding down any little backyard hill (our cocker/Springer spaniel mix was the best sledder in the family), and came inside to a warm fire at the end of it all. In my childhood, only wealthy Southerners–those who could vacation at the great ski resorts of the North and West–took up skiing, ice skating, and other winter sports. For the rest of us, such as our friend Ben, these snow days were the closest we got to true winter, and we relished them.

So yes, I loved snow. I only began to hate snow–which, after all, was as beautiful and wondrous as ever–when I moved north to Pennsylvania to begin my adult life. Here in scenic PA, snow definitely does not mean a vacation. Instead, it means shoveling. Lots of shoveling. Our friend Ben has had to shovel drifts of snow higher than my shoulders (my home being set far down from the road). And after hours and hours of shoveling, to clear a path to the car, to free the car from its snow blockade, to make a circle in the backyard where the poor golden retriever can go to the bathroom, to get to the far back to the chicken yard (in our friend Ben’s case, better known as the Pullet Palace and Bunny Pavilion) and greenhouse–damned if the snow trucks don’t roar by with their huge plows and block your car in behind a mountain of hard-packed, icy snow, usually knocking down your mailbox in the process. Of course, work is not canceled because of a paltry 8 to 12 inches of snow, so one is then faced with the horror of taking to the icy roads with hundreds of other drivers, each a potential bumper car, or using up a precious vacation day.

After one particularly bad year, when our friend Ben had to pull out day after day onto a hugely busy road populated by massive, speeding trucks, with such huge, unmelting piles of well-iced snow on each side that I could see absolutely nothing until the car was already in play, I finally, belatedly reached the decision that it wasn’t worth risking my life to get to work.

There’s also the issue of great branches crashing down from unbearable snow burdens. And did I mention the frequent loss of power, resulting in a desperate rush of activity to fire up the woodstove, turn on the propane heater in the greenhouse, and pray that the pipes don’t freeze before the power comes back on?

Ah, snow is beautiful. Ah, how I hate it.

But what’s this about beet Jello, you ask? Well, our friend Ben is fond of beets. In fact, I just had some lovely shoestring beets for supper last night. But thinking of  the differences between North and South reminded me of a fundamental difference between the way Northerners and Southerners approach beets. Our friend Ben grew up eating beets hot, with lots of butter and salt. So it was a great shock to arrive in the North and be presented with cold, pickled beets. (What were they thinking?!) It took many years before I could bring myself to even try them. I am happy to report that I now enjoy pickled beets, and eat them whenever the chance presents itself. But when I make beets at home, they’re still hot with lots of butter and salt. Incidentally, I realize that Southern cuisine is famous for its beet greens, which are cooked up like spinach. But our friend Ben must take an anti-beet-greens stand here. Unlike spinach, which is delicious, beet greens taste like mud. Dressed beet greens taste like dressed mud. Doubt me? Just try ‘em. Ugh!

Thoughts of childhood and beets bring me at last to the infamous beet Jello incident. Our friend Ben’s great-aunt Ethel was one of the kindest souls who ever lived. But God help us, she was also the worst cook the South has ever produced. Several times a year, the entire family gathered at her Tudor-style home for a communal meal, not one bite of which our friend Ben could figure out how to eat. Not having been raised by wolves, I realized that it was incumbent upon me to not only appear to eat with relish but to praise the cuisine as though it had come down from Heaven. But this was not easy, especially since on previous occasions our friend Ben had been served a so-called bacon and tomato sandwich made from frozen bread, canned tomatoes, frozen (cooked, mercifully) bacon and Kraft Miracle Whip. This, in the land of vine-ripe tomatoes and Hellman’s Mayonnaise!

So at mealtimes at Aunt Ethel’s, our friend Ben was always looking for some item of food that appeared to be less inedible than the rest, so I could focus on this and lavish it with praise. On the occasion of this particular dinner, there appeared to be a large bowl of cranberry Jello on the table. Now, our friend Ben had never seen or heard of cranberry Jello, but I love cranberries, so I thought that here was the perfect opportunity. Accordingly, I took a big scoop of the deep garnet Jello and put a sizeable forkful in my 8-year-old mouth. At which point, I realized that it was not cranberry Jello. It was… beet Jello. How Aunt Ethel had devised this particular concoction is beyond me. Perhaps it was a favorite at home economy school, since she had a master’s degree in home economics. But whatever the source, I now had an insoluble problem: a mouthful of beet Jello.

I would love to tell you what became of that unfortunate mouthful, or even how I made the remaining mound of beet Jello disappear–or at least shrink significantly–from my plate, but the passage of time has obscured the solution I ultimately devised, though I have a vague image of a stealthy trip to the kitchen trash can.

In Aunt Ethel’s defense, I must say that she was a far better gardener than she was a cook. I remember many happy hours wandering among her beautiful formal beds and borders. In fact, I credit Aunt Ethel and my maternal grandmother with making our friend Ben the passionate gardener I am today.

In closing, I have just four things to say: Do not eat beet greens. Do not eat beet Jello. Miracle Whip is not–repeat, NOT–mayonnaise. Do not use it for any reason. And finally, do not park your car where it can be plowed in by a township truck! 

Silence Dogood here. Our friend Ben invited me to post my ruminations and recipes here on Poor Richard’s Almanac, and today I’m in the mood to do both.

First, the rumination: This may be the most historic presidential election since the Founding. We have a woman, a black man, a Mormon, a Baptist minister, a (former) prisoner of war, and a Constitutionalist running in major-party primaries. (Okay, I know that Mitt Romney just dropped out, but my point stands.) No wonder everybody’s so worked up about this election! The only precedent is the Constitutionalists, who have an honorable (though distant) presidential history that includes John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison. Ron Paul is their present-day standard bearer. These are heady times for voters! As you ponder your vote and your allegiances, think on three things: who best represents you; who does your heart long to see in the White House; and who will make the most effective president? Balance the three, and cast your ballot!

Now, on to the recipe. I prefer to time my recipes to what’s growing in the garden, but at this time of year, that isn’t much (unless you happen to enjoy eating hellebore leaves, which I suspect are poisonous, or extremely battered lawn grass, which, having seen my dog Molly at work fertilizing the back lawn all winter, is not, repeat not, tempting; Tony Bourdain, disagree if you dare!). We have our home-canned, dried, and frozen produce, to be sure. But one crop remains as-harvested fresh: pumpkins and winter squash. My mudroom-cum-pantry is alive with these winter staples, every bit as plump and inviting as the day they were harvested. No wonder our ancestors named a humble pumpkin variety ‘Winter Luxury’! I also have storage onions in excellent shape (and winter radishes, turnips, carrots, beets, apples, and potatoes, but that’s another story). So today’s recipe will feature pumpkin (or winter squash)* and onions in a delicous, silky, spicy soup that will warm your heart as you wait for spring.

* Did you know that most modern “pumpkin” recipes use winter squash instead of pumpkin? There are certainly some excellent pumpkin varieties available, but the typical stringy, watery pumpkin flesh doesn’t work as well in “pumpkin” recipes as its close relatives, the winter squashes, with their deep, rich, “meaty” flesh. It’s a trade secret that most canned pumpkin isn’t pumpkin at all, but winter squash.

Curried Pumpkin Soup a la Silence Dogood

Did I mention it was fast and easy, too? 

You’ll need:

1 29-ounce can 100% pure pumpkin (i.e., no pumpkin pie spices, sugar, and the like–just pumpkin) or 29 ounces of baked pumpkin or winter squash, rind and seeds removed and pureed. (That’s roughly a small pie pumpkin or large Butternut squash.)

1 pint light cream

1 box vegetable stock (I’ve liked every brand I’ve tried so far, from Kitchen Basics to Emeril’s to the organic brand Imagine, so suit yourself and/or your budget; look for this wonder product in your store’s soup aisle), or homemade

1 large sweet onion (Walla Walla or Vidalia type), or more to taste, diced

1/2 stick butter

salt, and plenty of it

1 T ground cumin

1 T turmeric

1 T ground coriander

2 T curry powder

liberal splash hot sauce (I prefer Pickapeppa, with Tabasco Chipotle as second choice)

1/4 cup (or mini-bottle) anise liqueur, such as Pernod or Sambuca

Saute diced onion in butter in a Dutch oven (I love my LeCreuset) or heavy soup pan until clarified. Add salt and spices, stirring to saute briefly in butter. Note that while I list guidelines for the quantity of spices, I myself use a heavy hand and urge you to do the same. You will probably need to add a splash or two of veggie stock shortly as the spices quickly soak up the remaining butter, forming a dry paste; do not let this burn! Since our goal is a warming soup, use a liberal hand with the hot sauce–you want to feel the heat in the finished soup without feeling like it’s too hot to enjoy. Now, add the pureed pumpkin or winter squash, stirring well to blend. Add the light cream, then add enough veggie stock to smooth out the soup to your desired texture. (You want a soup that’s silky, not thin or porridgy.)  Heat through and serve for a fabulous winter taste sensation. This is also a marvelous first course for a traditional winter feast such as Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, and for vegetarians, if you add cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, stovetop dressing, and broccoli, you have a full and festive meal. Enjoy it!  

‘Til next time,

                     Silence Dogood 

Someone asked me the other day what a Luddite was. No, it’s not some quaint religious cult like the Shakers. Instead, people who either loathe complicated technology–or complications of any kind, like our friend Ben–or who have difficulty using hi-tech anything sometimes identify themselves as Luddites. The word originated early in the Industrial Revolution in Britain, where a group of skilled weavers led by Ned Ludd protested the advent of a mechanized loom that made skill irrelevant, rather as though brain surgery could now be performed by Wal-Mart greeters. The protesters were rounded up and executed for their pains, which is good to know if you’re contemplating taking on Microsoft or Apple.

Our friend Ben feels that technology should be as user-friendly as possible, with the complexities on the inside, not the outside. I don’t want six remote controls with 156 buttons each when I can get up–is it really that challenging?–walk over to the TV, and turn a dial. (For that matter, I don’t want to have to pay for cable or a satellite dish in order to watch TV at all.) I don’t want electronic locks and windows on my car that are constantly malfunctioning, causing loud, appalling bursts of honking and other humiliations, when I can unlock the doors and roll down the windows all by myself, thank you. I don’t want a solar energy system that requires a degree in electrical engineering to operate. (More on that in a future post.) I think technology should work for us, not vice-versa. Thus, I am a Luddite. If you are too, give our friend Ben a shout!  

Here in Pennsylvania, people tend to set great store by the pronouncements of celebrity groundhog (that’d be “grundsau” in Penna Dutch)  Punxsutawney Phil vis-a-vis winter’s continuing reign. But if you’re a gardener, or a transplanted Southerner like our friend Ben who’s terrified of driving through snow and ice, even after all these years, the lust for spring is very strong, especially after the weirdly warm winter we’ve been having. (Thank you, global warming?) It makes you ignore deadlines in order to fondle newly arrived seed packets, or devise wild schemes for planting out those gift baskets of narcissi and grape hyacinths that have been brightening the house in January, or, say, finally unplugging the Christmas tree on the deck out back and chopping it up for firewood. (Except for the latter, these are probably bad ideas.)

But yesterday, I finally had a sign of spring that I couldn’t ignore. No, it wasn’t the endless passage of snow geese and Canada geese over the backyard, their haunting cries louder than traffic; and no, it wasn’t the changing of the feeder bird guard, though the resident population has shifted a bit over the past week. It wasn’t the rushing sound of Hawk Run, the little creek behind my house, suddenly freed from its coat of ice, nor the mud sliding wetly under its thin crust of fallen leaves as I take the golden retriever out in the morning or go about my daily chores.

Instead, it was the call of the chickens. I have six hens, each of a different heritage breed,* and they endure the winter in comparative silence, eating their pellets and scratch grain and table scraps, and the day-old bread and lettuce I buy just for them; like me, waiting for spring. But yesterday, I heard for the first time since fall the loud, shrill, bragging call that unmistakably says “Look at me! I laid an egg! Isn’t that incredibly wonderful, an act without equal in the whole history of the world? I am the greatest chicken on Earth!!!” And sure enough, this morning there were seven–count them, seven–eggs. Mind you, plenty of people enjoy homegrown eggs all year, because they heat and light their henhouses to trick the chickens into believing in a perpetual spring. But in a real-world environment, after their first winter–when they don’t know any better–chickens realize as the days grow shorter (and colder) that they’d better put that egglaying energy into keeping themselves alive, and they stop laying until the days start lengthening again in spring. I keep my chickens ’til they die–they’ll continue laying eggs all their lives, and anyway, I’d hate to be slaughtered just because I’d retired–and I want them to be in vibrant good health, so I give them the winters off. They look fat and glossy all winter, and this winter has been special for them because they hate snow and there’s been damned little for a change. Which means that those first eggs are a real cause of excitement here at Hawk’s Haven, my one-acre Eden. It not only means the end of buying farmers’ market eggs (so what if they’re organic and free range, their yolks are still yellow, not huge, orange glaceed apricots like my hens’), it means that spring really is on the way. Hooray, hurrah!

Just for the record, I suppose I should say it early and often: Hens do NOT need roosters to produce eggs. They only need roosters to produce chicks. They’ll lay eggs all their lives with or without a rooster, but the eggs will be sterile unless fertilized by Mr. Chanticleer. Please don’t feel stupid if you didn’t already know this–it’s the question I’m most frequently asked about raising chickens. Apparently it’s only known to chicken enthusiasts. So now you can amaze all your friends!  

* For those who care: Buff Orpington (Stella), Spangled Sussex (Roxanne), Barred Rock (Lucretia), Partridge Rock  (Olivia), and two half-sisters, Imelda (Americana/Partridge Rock) and Griselda (Americana/Delaware). Names matter; everyone should have one! And don’t think for a minute that chickens don’t recognize theirs.

Greetings to all who visit here! Like the original (and incomparable) Dr. Franklin, I hope to amuse and enlighten with messages from my cohorts, Silence Dogood, Richard Saunders (the original Poor Richard), and, of course, the occasional observation by myself, our friend Ben. I look forward to your comments as well, and warn you, you’re in for a wild topical ride, from chickens and homestead aspirations to Ron Paul and Hillary Clinton. It’s time to put the wit and wisdom back in everyday life!