… a photo collection in which we try to show Momma what we’ve been up to this sun-worshipping, water-wonderlandish spring and summer season.
Learning how to eat food and get nourishment straight out of the ground has been edifying. These marshmallow roots have sucked up trace minerals in non-tired-out soil. Now the monatomics, vitamins, and exotic elements disguised as weirdly gorgeous neuron-like roots will be dried, ground up in the food processor, and made into tea. Consume enough trace minerals and the smarts and reflexes come booming back. No lie – we can catch the frisbee most every time now, which is a miracle.
We had to leave the Russian River ‘hoodsteading spread because of mold poisoning. And that’s why the blog is sporadic. That’s the downside to living under the redwoods with lax landlords. The Dixiecutioner moved to Hawaii and we hunkered up in a drier part of West Sonoma County. Our garden went to seed. Hopefully the seeds flew everywhere in the neighborhood, so there will be random food on the side of the roads.
We had to get rid of the 100-year-old knife-throwing practice board because it was about to disintegrate. We never got good at throwing knives but bows & arrows sure are fun.
Calendula grows like a … weed, and it smells divine to us and horrible to mosquitoes. At the satellite ‘hoodsteading garden, calendula completely overran an entire bed. Pop off the heads once a week and more flowers come in. All these are now dried and curing in a Mason jar, waiting for us to decide whether to infuse ’em in oil or have friends make a hydrosol flower-essence in their still.
Cleaver tea! A drink made from weeds. Weeds full of trace minerals from soil that’s been accumulating superfood items, undisturbed, for decades to eons. “Tastes like you’re lickin’ a lawn mower,” as dear old Dad used to say. American media makes us so ass-backwards, when it comes to what we think of as food.
This is our new neighbor Clyde. Sometimes he busts out to get at the dandelion greens on the other side of the fence. Even if he doesn’t, we bring him handfuls of greens while out pickin’ blackberries. And then we sautee some of the other dandelion greens with rice.
The birds at the new house use Clyde’s horse tail hair to shore up their nests. Also starring in this picture is INKA, the greatest coffee-substitute drink evar. It’s made of chicory, rye, barley, and beetroot. Plus milk and honey. Look who quit caffeine in January. Growing up with sweet iced tea in the baby bottle as all good Southerners do, we have now ended any and all master-slave relationships to chemicals, reaching this weird mellowness stage in life which other people find pleasant but scary
Where’s your momma gone? / Far far away / Last night I heard my momma singin’ a song / Ooo, wee-oo, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep / Woke up this mornin’ and my momma was gone / Ooo, wee-oo, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep chirpy chirpy cheep cheep CHIRP
Thrift store art score velvet pirate ship painting. Now we’re just showin’ off. Sorry not sorry
This graffiti makes a nice addition to the pastoral swimming hole across the street which you’ll never hear us giving anyone directions to. It lies on a tributary above the River, meaning it’s cleaner, and also the neighbors are dreadneck rippies who defend the First and Second Amendments with equal vigor. Kind of like a Southern country ‘hood, but with far more articulate versions of anarcho-Libertarian philosophy, and far less religion. P.S. Obama *is* a liar. Whoever painted this prolly voted for him once, like we did.
We learned how to slaughter and process wild boar. Didn’t have to kill it but took the skin off the head. Intestines make sausage casings; skull boiled away and fat rendered for other projects; head meat and stomach caul get cooked together to make headcheese; heart, kidney, and spleen get Southern fried and passed out for hors d’oeuvres. Sometimes when eating wild boar headcheese and eggs for breakfast, one can bite down on a wayward pig tooth. Rider assumes all risk.
Thank Tesla for electricity and wireless technology, because this is our office. Nevermind it’s the legendary beach where the Grateful Dead decided to become a band. We like it anyway. There are worse places to read and compute, where you can’t go kayaking immediately afterwards. Gratitude
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Bonus: “Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep” by Middle of the Road, 1971: