Peaches in a Jam

This is peach season in South Carolina and Georgia. Even though Georgia is called the Peach State, South Carolina produces more. And we live right down the road from the peach capitol, Edgefield County, the home of the late Strom Thurmond, in fact, his son, Strom, Jr., was the state’s top federal prosecutor, until he returned to private law practice in Aiken.

We jumped in the car the other day and headed out to Highway 25, where the peach stands reside. One was clean, and pretty and decorated with flowers and umbrellas and neat piles. Their peaches were hard as rocks. Down the road we went to another stand, Jackie’s, not nearly so pristine but loaded with fragant juicy peaches. We bought a big basket. Two days later we were in (a) jam, 18 jars actually. Bruce peeled and chopped, I prepared jars and lids and manned the stove with each batch. Stick to the small batches, as the recipes dictate, they are easier to stir the Sure-Jel and measure the sugar. We made four golden batches, each yielding 4 to 5 jelly jars each. Then we followed the directions in the Sure-Jel for peach jelly, using the peel and pits (with flesh still attached), and boiled that into a big mash, draining off the juice. That yielded 6 jars of jelly, which are rosy and smooth. The mash went into the compost bin. Happy worms enjoyed their treat too.

Thankfully, one jar of jam didn’t seal. Always good, as then we get a first crack at official tasting. Butter and homemade peach jam on crackers are delicious.

Tomatoes

Our tomato plants are huge.  I mean taller than Bruce who is over 6 feet.  We’ve had to stake them even though they’re in cages — stake them inside the cages because they’re growing so well.  Boy — what a problem to have!

The plants are loaded with ones turning red, lots of green ones, and plenty of blooms.  We’re eaten a couple already and hope to have so many we get tired of them and have to give them away.  I fixed Bruce two sandwiches for supper: boloney with lettuce and tomato and mayo.

A few weeks ago I pondered — when did I add Miracle-Gro?  Was it time to add more?  Then I remembered.  All we did was add a big double handful of  our compost to each deep hole for the plants.  We planted a variety, in case one type doesn’t do well, another might.  Hedge our bets, so to speak.  I’ve always done that.  We didn’t plant any yellow ones this year.  Bruce didn’t think they tasted as good as the red ones.  He’s right.  Last year they didn’t have a good flavor.  Once, years ago, I canned lots of tomatoes and layered them red, yellow, red, yellow in the jars.  Man — on a cold winter supper they sure looked, and tasted,  wonderful!  Our one variety to yet prove himself is “Mr. Stripey.”  It’s a version that is supposed to be both — stripes of red and stripes of yellow in one fruit.   I’ll tell you later if it performs at all.  Now those would look wonderful sliced on a plate.  Perhaps sprinkled with basil and olive oil?  Bruce the purist would prefer them plain.  Still — seems delicious either way.

Needless to say, we’re feverishly working on a new barrel of compost.  Pure gold.

A Week Away

For us, a week away from home was spent between the north Georgia mountains where we slept snug in our sleeping bags and along the Atlantic Ocean coastline of southern South Carolina where we slept on top of our sleeping bags under a sheet. The music of the Bluegrass festival was great; the waves were equally wonderful. (See Bruce’s blog — Red Clay and Sand.)

I read two books, partly by flashlight. Bruce found me a neat little light that shines right on my page. I can read to my heart’s delight. I would highly recommend them both. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is about the German occupation of the one of the Channel Islands during WWII and its heroic islanders. Prayers for Sale chronicles the life of a young Civil War widow and her 70 years in Colorado in a gold mining camp. I loved the language of each of them. Some people don’t like dialect. I do. Good reads for either beach or mountains.

Thanks to a timely purchase of a fan, we were comfortable, but the heat and humidity of the South isn’t exactly the best weather for camping. This might be the end of the camping for awhile unless we go back to the mountains. We’ll see. Maybe we’ll have a cool summer.

PEWS

This is what our priest defines as “people enduring wooden seats”.  And we did, indeed, endure the equivalent to them several weeks ago.

I already mentioned that we find unusual things to do on Saturdays.  A couple of weeks ago, in anticipation of our trip to north Georgia and a Bluegrass Festival, we drove over to Leesville SC for the Fourth Saturday Bluegrass jam in the Haynes Auditorium.  One main draw is that Shealey’s Barbeque is located there too so we hit their down home buffet.  They kept running out of fried chicken livers as they are more than popular.  I, with a smile, even threatened to snatch some off the plate of the man sitting across from me.  Shealey’s has three big rooms filled with tables so with your plate in hand,  you find a spot and make new friends and a waitress brings you a cold beverage.  They have creamed corn like my grandma could make.  From scratch and not bogged down with that icky corn starch crap.  As always, the banana puddin’ is also worth the hour drive.

But I digress.  I had researched on the internet the location of the music night.  However, it would be rather difficult to get very lost in Leesville.  Just pull over and ask someone sitting on their porch.  Anyway, we got there early and found seats.  The auditorium was exactly like the one in the old Davidson school where I taught, although about half the size.  The old school was built in 1926 and when we moved to the new school in 1996 it was literally falling down on our heads.  We could sit in the auditorium and as we clapped watch the paint flakes fall like snow.  This auditorium had been part of a college so was it better shape, however, the first seats we found were not bolted to the floor.  We found another spot.  There was a stack of cushions in the lobby and I grabbed two as we entered.  I suspected they were there for a very good reason.  Apparently the people from the Twenties were used to suffering or they had softer behinds than we do today, which I sincerely doubt is not the case.

The show started and I thought — oops, this is another Grits Festival.  One of the first group of performers was so young I could count on my fingers how many years she’d been out of diapers.  Bluegrass likes to start them young.  Fortunately,with each new group the music got better.  One group even sang “Beautiful, Beautiful Blues Eyes” which I hadn’t heard for a long time and my mother used to sing to me when I was a child.  However, mother changed the words and Brown Eyes got top billing.  Although, mother, like the rest of our family, couldn’t sing worth a flip, the song always made me feel special.  I also judge the music by how many songs Bruce can sing along to.

The evening was pleasant and fun in a small town kind of way.  Fortunately, Bruce and I both grew up in places and in that era before television when it was normal to be simple, enjoying the old ways our parents and grandparents knew.

Heavens – What Grit

I’m still amazed at all the stuff there is to do around here, if you just look for it. In Thursday’s paper each week there is a listing of the activities in the area for about a 50 mile radius. I read it thoroughly.

When Bruce and I first started dating in the late winter of 2005, we realized that neither of us in our former lives got to do all the weekend activities that we’d have liked. Work and Life and Housework and Household Duties hadn’t helped. Since we were both turning over a new leaf, we needed a new philosophy. Seize Saturdays! He was a full time student by then and it was the second semester of the school year for me, always a lighter work load. We started looking for weekend adventures. So far, the record for the most unusual find is — hands down — the Grits Festival in Warwick, Georgia.

First of all, I didn’t have a clue where on earth Warwick was located. And the truth is, I still don’t. We found it with mapquest and headed out fairly early, about 9 in the morning. We arrived about 1 PM after getting lost at least twice. Finally pulling over near a junction of highways just to find the location on the road map. Our state road number had literally disappeared. We soldiered on and eventually found Warwick. The whole town had turned out for the Festival — all 172 of them. It was in full swing.

The main event was a contest on who could hold the most grits. There were even two levels of competition — one for kids, another for young adults. They had a horse trough filled with Quaker Grits, the sponsor of the event. (yes, folks, a horse trough.) They weighed each contestant before they entered the trough and after they came out. The difference in weight was the amount of grits they were “holding”. The winner was the person with the most. You’d have thought the future of their family’s good name rested on the outcome. Maybe it did. Anyway, it was fun to watch while thinking “No way would you ever see me doing that! Even at age 12.” Truth is, neither Bruce nor I remember what the winner received, whether it was cash or a year’s supply of grits — whatever it was, it wasn’t memorable, but the contest sure was.

I ate my first corn dog in many years and enjoyed roasted corn on the cob, dipped in a vat of butter and seasoned with salt and pepper. Nummy! Somewhere Bruce has a picture of me with my ear of corn and a big smile.

The irony was we didn’t get to eat any grits, which Bruce and I both love. They were flat out. I guess we could have dipped some out of the horse trough. . . .

Where Oh Where?

I’ve already written about the major renovation on the former septic system and new sewer hook-up here.  It had us busy keeping up with the progress with the sound of machinery grinding along and dirt moving with trenches and pipe everywhere.

In the midst of all of this, Bruce and I realized we hadn’t seen our calico cat, Rags, for several days.  I feared the worst as I lost another cat some years ago when the city did major trench work on the road along our street when they worked on the storm drains.

But two days ago, first thing in the morning when the house was quiet, I heard a faint mew from under the house.  I put on shoes, grabbed a flashlight and headed down to the crawl space.  Booger, our tuxedo cat, came along to see what I was doing, promptly going under the house.  Soon he flushed out Rags and I could see her back in a corner.  Knowing she hadn’t eaten for at least three days, I fetched bowls of food and water, putting them right outside the door to the space.  Booger, of course, helped himself to a snack as reward for his efforts in the discovery of his missing friend.  Rags has always been a bit spooky so I left her alone.  An hour later I checked and she had eaten, but wouldn’t come out!  Crazy kitty!  She wants to live there?  The place that is so musty that I, as an asthmatic, can’t go under there!  It has now been a day and a half.  The door is  propped open, but if she wants another meal she needs to see the people with  opposable thumbs.  And then, she’ll need a bath.

Turning over a new LEAF

We got back from our latest camping adventure earlier in the week. Overall, the trip to North Carolina was fun; we were able to set up our camp during a beautiful day, had rain and cold nights, were able to strike camp and move an hour further up the mountains to Hugh’s neck of the woods (literally) during good weather and return home on a sunny day. The rain, in between putting up the tent and taking it down, is incidental. We prepare for it.

However, we didn’t prepare for the music at the Lake Eden Arts Festival  (LEAF) to be sooo mundane. It was totally blah. One group thanked their mommies and daddies for their support. Well sure — they were all too young to drive! Of course, they needed their parents’ help. None of the groups really turned our collective cranks. Totally unmemorable.  There was such diversity that there wasn’t really a theme or any continuity.  Something for everyone can also mean not much for anybody.

So — to make up for the music deficit, I started hunting for another festival nearby. We found a Bluegrass festival in the north Georgia mountains next month. We bought tickets and booked a camp site on the grounds, and even booked Ginger for the kennel. Now I’m ready to tap my toes properly.

Exciting Movie

The new film Angels and Demons came out yesterday and we, along with a theater full of other folks, were there. I liked this book by Dan Brown more than The DaVinci Code. I think I understood it better. Anyway, we’d read a review in the paper that panned it, as usual. I think film critics are way too jaded and go to see a film with the preconceived idea that they will not like it. Period. As usual, we really liked the movie. It was exciting and stayed true to the book. The characters were believable and the pace never dragged. Even the outside shots of Rome were accurate. In one scene, several characters are standing outside a building and in the background you can see a pipe with graffiti scrawled on it. Yep — that’s Rome. Graffiti is everywhere. Nasty stuff. The film crew probably had to work hard to position actors so they stood in front of that mess as much as possible.

I was on the edge of my seat most of the time. As the film ended I looked at another woman and said, “That was a lot of work!” She laughed, “Yes, it was.” Go see it.

Soon – A New Mrs Flusher

Well, we finally decided to bite the bullet and to connect the not-functioning-very-well septic tank/system to the city sewer system. It took a trip to the city utilities office and a hefty fee to a week or more of trying to get businesses to come out and give us an estimate (a Herculean task at best), to finally deciding on a bid from a young man with the know-how, equipment and initiative and right price. He is out there now connecting pipe up the 300 feet from the street to the house. He came yesterday with a back hoe and dug the trench. There’s nothing like a piece of heavy equipment in your yard to bring out the neighborhood men. Bruce talked to one guy we’d barely seen for several years. I guess it’s the Toys for (Big) Boys mystique. Errrhh.

Leaving for LEAF

We’re off to the Lake Eden Arts Festival in Black Mountain, NC. This will be our third trip up there. Mountain air, lots of music, nights in our new tent, coffee and tea under the stars, Spam and grits for breakfast and fried egg sandwiches for lunch! Then we go further up the mountains to camp again and see brother, Hugh and sister-in-law, Sylvia. Hamburgers on the grill — what an elegant dinner! And so American. . . . .