No Spend Year

After mulling it over, I have made up my mind to attempt a No Spend Year. The idea popped up on my Instagram feed (thanks Yarnder Woman). This led me to reading a sample of the year of less by Cait Flanders. She originated the idea. The concept gelled with me.

I would love to purchase the whole book, and it is a click of the button on my Kindle to do so, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise. I have more books waiting to be read than I could read in a year, both hard copy and digital.

The idea is to stop all spending except on groceries, toiletries, cleaning supplies and petrol and basically use what you have for the rest. Obviously medical expenses will be covered and other essentials, but not clothing, shoes, decor, books, entertainment and hobbies etc. Use what you have, which is my motto already. So far I haven't been shopping yet this year and, after a bit of post New Year cleaning and sorting, have been belatedly motivated to clear out the old. When I say clear out, if often means use up rather than discard. This concept appeals to me. Waste in any form is disagreeable. My goal is to shop in the pantry, garden and freezer before adding anything to my grocery list. I recognise and appreciate that I am privileged to be able to do this and there are so many people that consider even this a luxury.

Yesterday I had leftover veggie tart for breakfast. Lunch for four was a tuna salad made from a can my sister left here over the holiday, pickled cucumber, that needs using, along with chopped roast veggies and mayonnaise. It was tasty on slices from the end of the loaf Decadent Dad baked the day before. We were invited out for dinner so I took along a bottle of champagne we already had and some fresh vegetables from the garden as a hostess gift for my vegetarian friend.

Even though I will buy groceries, I really do want to use up what we have. This morning I cleared the last of the leftover croissants out the freezer for breakfast with jams and homemade cheese. That marks the end of the block of cheese. It was homemade and tasty. I have about 5 or 6 rock hard, mature goudas in the fridge that I plan to grate finely to turn into our very own Farmesan. This will have to suffice in the cheese department until it is all used up which could take months.

On a mission, I baked three loaves of a fragrant bread, adapting a health loaf recipe, tossing in what I had in the storage jars on the kitchen counter. It included some chickpea flour that I never get around to, sunflower seeds, my zataar spice mix, a bit of the farmesan for extra protein and the usual mix of brown and white flour and yeast. We will eat them later with egg mayonnaise and the last of the cucumber pickle from the jar.  I usually try to plan my meals around what needs using the most in the fridge.

The bread took a while to bake so we had some orange, almond and chocolate cake for a late tea. I had traded with a friend, two cakes for some of my soap, for my son's 21st birthday in November but only one was eaten so I froze the other. It defrosted beautifully and we are loving it.



Tonight my son is having friends over for a movie night. We will grill two packs of sausages that were given to us and I will make a potato salad using dug up potatoes, serve more of the never-ending pickles and make a just pulled carrot and needs-using cauliflower salad as a type of coleslaw. I figure cauliflower will work instead of the usual cabbage. I can pick beets and made a beet and horseradish salad. That horseradish has been hanging around in the fridge for a while. Then there is the last bottle of last summer's apricot preserve which will be lovely with that box of custard my sister left here. We also have homemade cordial for drinks. Dinner sorted.

I don't expect Decadent Dad to play along with the No Spend idea. In fact I am not even sure he needs to know about it. He will do his usual thing and I will do mine and we will find a happy balance between us. He always treats me to Special Night on a Friday where he cooks dinner that he shops for, and he certainly isn't as decadent as he used to be.

So wish me well. I hope I will keep to my resolve. 

Lucy's First Fleece - Part 2

I left Lucy's newly shorn fleece in its bag for a week or so while I gathered up courage to deal with it. I researched all the many ways of washing a raw fleece. Every web site that I visited had different advice for exactly how to clean the fleece. My initially simple flow chart had become rather convoluted and confusing by the time I closed my computer. 

The best advice of the lot was, "Enjoy the Process"

Unrolled, the fleece stretched across the table-tennis table in the sun room. Ideally a fleece should be skirted outdoors, but I needed to protect it from my dogs and the wind. 

It was enormous and a bit smelly. It smelled like sheep. A fleece is divided into different quality wool depending which part of the sheep it comes from. Obviously the worst fleece is closer to the legs and tail end of the sheep, while the longest, cleanest locks are around the shoulder area. 

 It was full of bits of black jacks, fine dried grass, mud, lanolin and even some sheep poop. 

I picked over a few locks of wool and left them soaking in a bucket for a week. All that happened was that the remaining black-jacks germinated. 

Overwhelmed, I directed my attention to my birthday-present Ashford Kiwi spinning wheel, still in pieces in its box. My son and husband enthusiastically joined me in Project Assembly. We spent an afternoon putting it together ... halfway. I decided to first wax the wood before it was set up. 

Then we left it for a week while I researched how to spin. I had already had two spinning lessons from the friend who sold me the wheel. The first lesson was fairly successful, but I was all thumbs for the second. Daunted by the idea of mastering my coordination, I turned my attention back to the dirty fleece. 

I gathered up some small sections of the dirtiest poor grade fleece and washed them as well as I could. It was inconsequential if I ruined it. I used hot soapy water and then clean warm water to rinse the locks. All the washing water went to the drought-stricken garden, so I only washed as much as I could fit into a bucket at a time. We all took turns carting buckets of water out to the rose bushes.

It is really easy to felt the locks of fleece together if you agitate them or change the temperature too quickly. So I was as gentle as possible. You can't spin felted wool. Once the washed fleece was dried it came up squeaky clean. I think, in my enthusiasm, I had scoured every last bit of lanolin out. Next time I wash fleece I will experiment with baby shampoo instead of dish washing detergent.

Look at the difference between dirty and clean fleece.
Even after washing, there are still black-jacks to be picked out, and a few stains.

I am working really slowly though the fleece. Picking out the vegetable matter is very time consuming, I unsuccessfully tried washing it out but it seems the only way to do it is the tedious way. If you happen to visit for a cup of tea, you may just find me picking tufts of wool while we chat. That's what comes from having a sheep who thinks she is a pig. 

Mooka and Huckleberry are quite content for me to take all the time in the world to wash the fleece piece by piece. 

... to be continued

Elastic Mom Bounces Back

I sat in the dry dirt, hidden amongst tomato plants straggling up their spindly stakes and there I methodically snipped yellow leaves, collected fallen green promises and our long awaited, nurtured from seed since July, first of the season, worm pierced beauties and wept with dry eyes at the devastation. My despairing thoughts drifted over fig trees not blossoming and Job's woe and visions melodramatically burned down the tunnel, sold the animals, sent the boy to school and walked away.

"Though the fig tree does not blossom, yet will I praise the Lord"

I feebly sang a rote-remembered hymn as I gathered up stray cuttings and moped indoors. 

That was yesterday. 

Today, while contemplating the green folds of Purple Calabash tomatoes, the untouched by worm parts, and the unripe marbles of fallen Sweetie tomatoes my tenacious thoughts drifted over movies loved long ago and treasured jars relished a few years back. 

Green tomatoes with nasty bits cut away, sliced up, dipped in beaten egg and then in cornflour, salt and pepper were scrumptious fried in an olive oil and butter.

Nigel Slater, yet again, deserves all the credit for what happened next. Hope wafted through the house on the tangy spicy scent as his memorable Mixed Tomato Chutney simmered cheerfully in the kitchen. 

Tomorrow, we will eat my rather greener version slathered over our very own nine-month mature cheddar on warm buttermilk bread. I know it will be sublime, the sweet tart relish compliments sharp strong cheese perfectly. 

Summer Harvest

I was up early this morning, taking our puppy, Kariba, out for her morning walk. The golden sunrise caught my breath in it's magnificence. I strolled over the dew-damp grass to check on Joy and her two day old calf, Rumble. She stared at me from across the field as he greeted the cool morning suckling warm milk to fill his belly. I wandered along the back fence, picking gooseberries and then a few cherry tomatoes.

Late Summer days are golden. Sunflowers splash their golden faces over the fields. Sunrises are golden or fiery red. Pumpkins line up, promising warm cinnamon scented meals in the cold days to come. Ripening tomatoes in Autumn shades of red, orange, green and gold hang from the vines and fill baskets on the kitchen counter. Beans dry in their browning pods. Gooseberries wait for picking, concealing their fruit in papery packages. The scent of sweet figs fills the house as we preserve the fleeting fruit, picked before the birds can steal them.

The ancient grape vine is laden with purpling gems. The strawberry popcorn stalks fade from green as their  hidden red kernels harden in the summer heat. Sun-yellow jerusalem artichoke flowers and tansy buttons grace our table.

Our days are filled with harvest work. Sweet plunder is collected in jars as hives are robbed.  Bottles of tomato ketchup line up on the kitchen table, each coloured according to the heirloom variety used. Jewelled  jars of fig preserve hint of promised mouthwatering combinations, their sweetness contrasting with salty, savoury blue cheese. Trays of red and yellow cherry tomatoes shrivel and dry, sharpening their flavours. A pumpkin is carved up for fritters, soup, baking and bredie. 

We gather. We pick. We sort. We share. We blanche. We freeze. We syrup. We jam. We pickle. We dry. We store. We prepare.

We do not sit. The harvest produces relentlessly. It will not wait. We work now.