After baring my soul about the groundhog, I hasten to serve up something a little tastier for you.
Last month, my Farmer's precious aunt, having overheard my weariness, offered to watch the children for a few hours while I ran errands. She showed up with a meal for us, and included in it were these delicious, nutritious, energy-packed snacks. She called them "energy balls", and credited our pastor's wife with the recipe, which she shared with me, and I'll share with you. They are a bit of a bear to mix up, requiring, perhaps, the consumption of a ball from the previous batch to energize your arm.
My mother, ever a great economizer, added to this excellent recipe the idea of simply pressing the mixture into a pan to cut into bars. Less elegant, perhaps, but so much easier that the elegance is barely missed, especially in light of the fact that while my children love to eat them, they do not so much love to shape them into balls.
Without further ado, I give you:
Energy Bars (or Balls)
1 cup regular oats
1 cup unsweetened coconut
1/3 cup mini chocolate chips
1/2 cup flaxmeal
1 T chia seeds (sesame seeds are also good)
1/2 cup nut butter (I've been using 3/4 cup natural peanut butter)
1/3 to 1/2 cup honey (maple syrup would also be good)
1 tsp. vanilla
pinch of salt
Mix all ingredients together using either (or alternating) a smashing or cutting motion. Chill 45 minutes and shape into balls, or skip the chilling and press mixture into an 8x8" pan. Store in the refrigerator and save the last one to eat before mixing up the next batch! Delicious!
groundhog, with green beans
Here it is, the recipe you've all been waiting for: how to serve groundhog. And now that I'm an expert (this is my second time and all), I am armed with just the information you'll need.
But let's back up a little.
It has been my Farmer's dream, ever since our pre-marriage days, to roast a groundhog. He and a friend cherished hopes of doing one on a spit to celebrate the last day of bachelorhood before his wedding. So it's not as if I'd never heard him talk about eating groundhog.
I just never imagined that he was serious.
But then he started farming - garden vegetables, a groundhog's favorite buffet - and Mr. Groundhog became Public Enemy No. 1 (just behind Bambi, if you must know). Wherever there are organic vegetables, there are appreciative consumers, and the four-legged ones are at least as eager to sample the wares as the two-legged ones. In the absence of impediments, they usually overindulge: having neither conscience nor sense of moderation, they'll happily nibble down an entire young planting of strawberries or broccoli or unripe melons.
Enter the Hav-A-Heart trap. Groundhogs, despite having elevated tastes in vegetables, are none too gifted in strategy, and the sight of a lone tomato in an empty wire cage arouses no suspicions. (For that matter, an empty cage alone is sometimes lure enough.) The problem is that, having trapped them with such a big heart, are you then going to release them for someone else to deal with?
It didn't take my Farmer long to put two and two together. Dream of roast groundhog + groundhog nuisance to livelihood = fulfilment of the ultimate in masculine accomplishments.
And so, one day last summer, he brought me home a groundhog.*
I was not as charmed as perhaps he had hoped. I absented myself from the butchering. Likewise from the slow roasting and the removal of the meat from the bones. But, when my gallant Farmer, bringer-home-of-the-bacon and provider-of-the-meat, asked me to please make supper with it .....
.... I gulped and said yes.
I don't remember which of us came up with the idea of BBQ. I tried to pretend it was beef, and when it was all arranged on buns, cheese melting prettily on top, it really looked the part. Except that I knew.
The children loved it! (they had begged for bits to taste during the "removal of meat from the bones" stage) My Farmer was pleased. I silently awarded myself "Wife of the Year", ate my sandwich somehow, and survived.
And now I have just done it all over again, tonight. The scary thing is .... this time I almost enjoyed it. Shhh, don't tell anyone. I don't think I want to be known for eating groundhog.
Then again, I might not have a choice. As we polished off our "garden beef" BBQ tonight, my Farmer told me, with a twinkle in his eye, that he'd checked the trap again today, but it was empty.
There can only be so many groundhogs out there, right???
So, on the off chance that you are ever presented with groundhog meat, here is what I recommend you do with it, after stiffening your spine and bracing yourself to jump the necessary mental hurdles:
Sauce for Groundhog (one hog yields about 3 cups meat)
1 cup tomato sauce
1/4 cup apricot jam
2 cloves garlic, minced
dash of cayenne
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
1 T Worchestershire
3/4 tsp. dry mustard
1 T brown sugar (I may omit this next time; the sauce was sweeter than I like)
1 T vinegar
Combine all ingredients in a bowl, mixing well. Chop groundhog meat finely, and stir into the sauce. Simmer a half hour or longer, covered or uncovered, depending on how much liquid you want in your sandwich. Toast the insides of the buns, spoon the meat onto the bottom halves, top with muenster cheese and broil. Add the bun tops and serve hot, with green beans on the side.
* (For non-locals, the correct grammatical construction here is: "he brought home a groundhog for me." Consider this your unsolicited introduction to Pennsylvania Dutch-influenced grammar.)
linking up with Ann Kroeker at:
also sharing the story on Tell Me A True Story
But let's back up a little.
It has been my Farmer's dream, ever since our pre-marriage days, to roast a groundhog. He and a friend cherished hopes of doing one on a spit to celebrate the last day of bachelorhood before his wedding. So it's not as if I'd never heard him talk about eating groundhog.
I just never imagined that he was serious.
But then he started farming - garden vegetables, a groundhog's favorite buffet - and Mr. Groundhog became Public Enemy No. 1 (just behind Bambi, if you must know). Wherever there are organic vegetables, there are appreciative consumers, and the four-legged ones are at least as eager to sample the wares as the two-legged ones. In the absence of impediments, they usually overindulge: having neither conscience nor sense of moderation, they'll happily nibble down an entire young planting of strawberries or broccoli or unripe melons.
Enter the Hav-A-Heart trap. Groundhogs, despite having elevated tastes in vegetables, are none too gifted in strategy, and the sight of a lone tomato in an empty wire cage arouses no suspicions. (For that matter, an empty cage alone is sometimes lure enough.) The problem is that, having trapped them with such a big heart, are you then going to release them for someone else to deal with?
It didn't take my Farmer long to put two and two together. Dream of roast groundhog + groundhog nuisance to livelihood = fulfilment of the ultimate in masculine accomplishments.
And so, one day last summer, he brought me home a groundhog.*
I was not as charmed as perhaps he had hoped. I absented myself from the butchering. Likewise from the slow roasting and the removal of the meat from the bones. But, when my gallant Farmer, bringer-home-of-the-bacon and provider-of-the-meat, asked me to please make supper with it .....
.... I gulped and said yes.
I don't remember which of us came up with the idea of BBQ. I tried to pretend it was beef, and when it was all arranged on buns, cheese melting prettily on top, it really looked the part. Except that I knew.
The children loved it! (they had begged for bits to taste during the "removal of meat from the bones" stage) My Farmer was pleased. I silently awarded myself "Wife of the Year", ate my sandwich somehow, and survived.
And now I have just done it all over again, tonight. The scary thing is .... this time I almost enjoyed it. Shhh, don't tell anyone. I don't think I want to be known for eating groundhog.
Then again, I might not have a choice. As we polished off our "garden beef" BBQ tonight, my Farmer told me, with a twinkle in his eye, that he'd checked the trap again today, but it was empty.
There can only be so many groundhogs out there, right???
So, on the off chance that you are ever presented with groundhog meat, here is what I recommend you do with it, after stiffening your spine and bracing yourself to jump the necessary mental hurdles:
Sauce for Groundhog (one hog yields about 3 cups meat)
1 cup tomato sauce
1/4 cup apricot jam
2 cloves garlic, minced
dash of cayenne
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt
1 T Worchestershire
3/4 tsp. dry mustard
1 T brown sugar (I may omit this next time; the sauce was sweeter than I like)
1 T vinegar
Combine all ingredients in a bowl, mixing well. Chop groundhog meat finely, and stir into the sauce. Simmer a half hour or longer, covered or uncovered, depending on how much liquid you want in your sandwich. Toast the insides of the buns, spoon the meat onto the bottom halves, top with muenster cheese and broil. Add the bun tops and serve hot, with green beans on the side.
* (For non-locals, the correct grammatical construction here is: "he brought home a groundhog for me." Consider this your unsolicited introduction to Pennsylvania Dutch-influenced grammar.)
linking up with Ann Kroeker at:
also sharing the story on Tell Me A True Story
focus
I've had a sore throat for over a week. I'd had enough by day three, when I lost my voice. Waking myself up at night coughing did nothing to improve my attitude. Despite leading a talk on home remedies at our moms' group earlier this winter, I could not kick this cold.
It's Monday, after a full Easter. My throat still hurts, and I'm drowning in hormones and breaking the yoke in my egg brought the tears this morning and boy, do I want to wallow.
But it's sunny outside, a glorious 50 degrees, and the Brandenburg concertos chirp exhortingly from the livingroom. My son is bringing me Lego cars, and towers he's built for me.
It's time to re-focus.
Count them with me?
Well, my throat still hurts, but my heart is happier for the hunting. God always does show up.
It's Monday, after a full Easter. My throat still hurts, and I'm drowning in hormones and breaking the yoke in my egg brought the tears this morning and boy, do I want to wallow.
But it's sunny outside, a glorious 50 degrees, and the Brandenburg concertos chirp exhortingly from the livingroom. My son is bringing me Lego cars, and towers he's built for me.
It's time to re-focus.
Count them with me?
1- daffodils
2- bluebells!!
3 - sunshine & WARMTH
4 - in his own words: "My stuffy nose is getting better, Mommy!"
5 - a flat tire, noticed close to home instead of halfway there
6 - that a cancelled meeting means a nap for me
7 - the first day of our spring break!!
8 - a filmy scarf from Italy (handed-down)
9 - my husband, calling from work
10 - hot tea for my throat
11 - a prayer for me
12 - one for a friend
13 - courage to ask about crowns
14 - a line-up of Lego creations, all made for me!
15 - his precision in naming colors, already
16 - that color exists!
18 - anticipating a "drop-in" :)
19 - curly garlic
20 - tiny bare toes
21 - a boy who asks for snuggles
22 - sisters
23 - laughter
24 - Southern Comfort for a cold (?)
25 - colored glass
26 - shoes for all their feet
27 - wool yarn
28 - crayon art
29 - embroidered tea towels
30 - wooden cutting board
31 - brilliant smile of a cancer-fighting friend
32 - indigo, aquamarine, teal, cobalt, french navy - all the blues
33 - buttercup, sunshine, tangerine, Kubota - all the yellowy oranges
34 - Isaiah, running pell-mell toward the trashcan:
"I've a fuzzy!! Catch 'im, catch 'im!!"
"You will seek me and find me
when you seek me with all your heart."
Jeremiah 29:13
happily hating my sofa
Fourteen and a half years ago, my Farmer and I, flush with wedding gift money, set out to buy a sofa for our little apartment. We wanted something well-made, durable to withstand the years, and Scotch-guarded to withstand the children we were sure to have.
In the second store, we found what we were looking for - a classic design, of sturdy construction, long and deep enough for even my six-foot-one Farmer to nap on comfortably.
We decided to place an order, with a wing chair on the side, and were presented with the upholstery book.
We flipped through the samples, trying to recall our research: olefin wears better than cotton, a pattern hides dirt better than solid, blue fades first. I admired my mother-in-law's sofa, and looked for something similar, a neutral background with a small embroidered pattern. There was nothing quite like it in the book, but we found something not too dissimilar, in colors we liked, and placed our order. There were three swatches of the sample, a small pattern, a medium, and a large.
I assumed the small pattern would dominate.
A few weeks later, the sofa was delivered. I stared in amazement. The lines of the sofa were familiar, certainly, but had we really chosen this upholstery?? Large, bold flowers?! Prominent vertical bars and a diamond crisscross of vines? Where was the discreet pattern of small flowers and dots?!
I looked closer. There, on the very tips of the cushions, was my small pattern. But the entire piece of furniture was dominated by leafy vines, framed by loud flowers the size of my hand. What had we done??
And it was made to last.
Sigh.
Well, fourteen years, two moves, three daughters and a son later, and I'm glad I'm not in love with my sofa, for it surely will not last the lifetime we expected. There is a definite sag under our favorite end by the lamp, and the {admittedly pale} neutral background has, er, developed a bit of a patina from all the Farmer naps and bare-footed children.
Should I have told them to keep their feet off the sofa? Banned all bare skin or unclean clothing to spare the upholstery? Kept jumpers on the trampoline and builders restricted to Lincoln Logs?
I used to feel a little guilty that I let my children jump on the sofa (up till age 3 is the house rule), build forts with the cushions, and gallop around the house using cushions for horses. Sort of like I was lacking in the responsibility department of parenthood. But I have fond memories of doing the same, and after all, childhood is short ....
... and the upholstery is ugly.
In the second store, we found what we were looking for - a classic design, of sturdy construction, long and deep enough for even my six-foot-one Farmer to nap on comfortably.
We decided to place an order, with a wing chair on the side, and were presented with the upholstery book.
We flipped through the samples, trying to recall our research: olefin wears better than cotton, a pattern hides dirt better than solid, blue fades first. I admired my mother-in-law's sofa, and looked for something similar, a neutral background with a small embroidered pattern. There was nothing quite like it in the book, but we found something not too dissimilar, in colors we liked, and placed our order. There were three swatches of the sample, a small pattern, a medium, and a large.
I assumed the small pattern would dominate.
A few weeks later, the sofa was delivered. I stared in amazement. The lines of the sofa were familiar, certainly, but had we really chosen this upholstery?? Large, bold flowers?! Prominent vertical bars and a diamond crisscross of vines? Where was the discreet pattern of small flowers and dots?!
I looked closer. There, on the very tips of the cushions, was my small pattern. But the entire piece of furniture was dominated by leafy vines, framed by loud flowers the size of my hand. What had we done??
And it was made to last.
Sigh.
Well, fourteen years, two moves, three daughters and a son later, and I'm glad I'm not in love with my sofa, for it surely will not last the lifetime we expected. There is a definite sag under our favorite end by the lamp, and the {admittedly pale} neutral background has, er, developed a bit of a patina from all the Farmer naps and bare-footed children.
Should I have told them to keep their feet off the sofa? Banned all bare skin or unclean clothing to spare the upholstery? Kept jumpers on the trampoline and builders restricted to Lincoln Logs?
I used to feel a little guilty that I let my children jump on the sofa (up till age 3 is the house rule), build forts with the cushions, and gallop around the house using cushions for horses. Sort of like I was lacking in the responsibility department of parenthood. But I have fond memories of doing the same, and after all, childhood is short ....
... and the upholstery is ugly.
theological quips
Lil' Snip is playing Tinker Toys with Nice. He sidles up to me with a "tower" and confides, loudly, "Jesus has a s'prise for me!" [I'm not sure how it's possible, but sadly, I forgot the rest of this intriguing conversation.]
Later, I overhear Nice informing Lil' Snip firmly, "God doesn't like Satan."
Sugar overheard it, too, and brings it up at the table while we're eating supper. "Mommy, [Nice] told [Lil' Snip] that God doesn't like Satan. I thought God loves Satan but is disappointed in him."
Hmmm ...
Lil' Snip, sensing the conversation turning philosophical, contributes an important tidbit: "Jesus keeps his salt in the refrigerator."
It's so nice to know they're picking up on the important things we teach them ....
Later, I overhear Nice informing Lil' Snip firmly, "God doesn't like Satan."
Sugar overheard it, too, and brings it up at the table while we're eating supper. "Mommy, [Nice] told [Lil' Snip] that God doesn't like Satan. I thought God loves Satan but is disappointed in him."
Hmmm ...
Lil' Snip, sensing the conversation turning philosophical, contributes an important tidbit: "Jesus keeps his salt in the refrigerator."
It's so nice to know they're picking up on the important things we teach them ....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
