Affable Alliteration

When I write, my mind becomes a river of words flowing through me and out my fingertips to land on the page. There is a modicum of pre-planning, but rarely a hard and fast outline or even rough draft. This IS the rough draft, what you're reading. Granted, I've previewed it and rearranged a bit, but for the most part what you read from me is raw.

You may notice a few things about what you read.

First, it's as much a surprise to me as it is to you what makes it to the page. Again, flying by the seat of my pants is pretty much my norm.

Second, and in no particular order of course because, well, see above. I have an annoying (to me) habit of using a perfect word--one that has JUST the right meaning and emphasis--and then reusing that same word almost immediately. It's like my brain pulls out this gem, then has to show it off over and over like a newly engaged woman with a sparkly diamond. I generally catch it on the rebound and grab a thesaurus to derail the train. If I don't and you see a sparkly word that becomes annoyingly obvious, overlook it, please. Sparkly or not.

Third, I adore alliteration. For those of you who are unaware of the dangerous descriptors, in these two sentences, I've alliterated (is that a word?) twice. Alliteration is repeating a consonant or vowel sound two or more times back to back. Adore alliteration. Dangerous descriptors. It's a subconscious thing that somehow calms my churning mind as I let the thoughts and words flow on that little tumultuous river of prose. 

Fourth, WARNING: RANDOM SPOILER ALERT. I am not a fan of poetry. I refuse to apologize for it. As much as I cringe at the thought of reading lilting phrases designed to elicit deep thought and abstract or exact images, I will deign to listen to musical lyrics or watch a Shakespearean play. What does not kill you makes you stronger. 

And finally (final for this post, anyway), open that box of Forest Gump chocolates. Pull one out and flip it over. Scratch at the coating and reveal what's inside. Caramel? Mmmm. Yum. Enjoy. Orange cream? Shove that baby back in the box and remember where the hell you put it. Do the same with my posts. Read what you like, leave the rest for someone else. I encourage and enjoy feedback so come at me, people. It's about to get sticky and sweet in here. Mind the orange cream, will you?

It's Been A While

I'm back at the keyboard. The hiatus I took was long and eventful with many changes both good and not-as-good-as-it-could-have-been. I choose to look at it all as experience, adventure, growing pains or, simply, the tide of life.

Job change, career change, household change, spouse change, change of heart, change of financial and social status, dead car, dead parents, dead ends. 

Through it all I've had the proverbial good days and bad, but it's not as black and white as that. A rainbow of color developed in varying shades of emotion from one event to the next. Angry and empowering reds, maddening yellows, bruised blues and lavender, tinges of energetic orange, pristine and peaceful white, warm and welcoming ivory, and serene swirling green and aqua. 

Gains and losses. Not looking at balance because one will outweigh the other from time to time. But. How lucky are we? To feel deeply and learn from success and sorrow.

It's another day to draw back our bow, aim high and release an arrow as we listen to the whisper of feathers as it leaves our view, then follow its path. 

Where will we go?

Follow me...

Getting Things Done?

It should be easier than this.
Correction: I WISH it were easier than this.

I used to pride myself on being organized. Obviously, I was sorely mistaken. I'm coming to realize that I'm actually NOT organized, I just WANT to be.

In a perfect world, my furniture would not look like it was ransacked by a herd of buffalo. My wood laminate floors would bear a healthy shine. My cabinet doors would not slam shut, nor would the one below the sink sag.

In a perfect world, the exterior of my house would be completely stained in an attractively matched array of woodsy colors blending into the landscape like a forest cottage. The interior walls, trim and window coverings would be neat and tidy--unmarred by fingerprints, dings and scratches.

In a perfect world, all of my closets and cabinets are neatly organized. Each drawer pull is polished and when opened, scents of lavender sachets waft up between neatly folded linens and garments.

In a perfect world, dust wouldn't dare fall and sparkling ceiling fans would gently push perfectly temped air throughout each room. Dust bunnies would pack their bags and belongings and move next door.

In a perfect world, all flat surfaces would remain clutter free, empty boxes would remain empty, magazines would be displayed temptingly on a nearby table and candles would flicker a warming glow without the drip of melted wax. Fluffy blankets would remain folded for use and refold themselves after.

In a perfect world, laundry would sort itself and appear neatly in drawers and closets in the morning. Towels would fluff themselves. Showers, tubs, sinks and toilets would sparkle every day and toilet paper would never run out.

In a perfect world, I would never be late for an appointment. I would have only my schedule to keep and every appointment would bring only joy, knowledge and happiness. I would have more time for research and writing. I'd never have to correct, ground or otherwise chastise our children. I would never have to intervene in an argument.

In a perfect world, dogs would never bark except in greeting. Cats would only meow. Birds would chirp from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. Roosters would only crow at noon.

In a perfect world, coffee would make itself; sweet, hot and flavorfully creamy.

In a perfect world....What ever would I do?

Falling into Autumn

Nature vs Nurture

I've noticed something in my old age: my body is hardwired for autumn. I can feel the stirrings of the earth beginning to pull itself to warmth and safety. The subtle change of vibrant leafy greens to the dull, yellow brown of drying chlorophyll. The fleeting breath of winter to come in early morning stillness.

The changes aren't as dramatic in middle Georgia as they are in northern Minnesota. They're slower to come while basking in the still warm rays of late summer sun. But they're there just below the surface and waiting to blaze forth.

It's the colors I miss most. And the length of the season, of course. Fall in Minnesota is a bright blur of colorful golds, reds, yellows, browns and greens. A day long fire burning in the woods without scorching heat to fan the blaze. Aching memories of warmth slip in between breezes while the rustle of falling leaves magically transforms sleeping grass into a quilted mosaic. Cold winds begin to nip at noses and rip at barren branches in their rush toward a harsh winter.

A Georgia fall quietly saunters in and sits at the edge of winter. Dull yellow and faded orange leaves resist lazy yet persistent breezes begging like a petulant child to strip trees and shrubbery of their covering. Warmth continues through October and sometimes into late November with some trees stubbornly holding on to dry, cracked leaves until spring.

Outdoor activity does not dwindle in Georgia as it does up north during the transition. Oh, no. In Georgia Fall has the audacity to entice residents into the open without care for sunscreen nor sweaters. It's porch-sittin' weather. Mild days may call for shorts and Ts while a more brisk afternoon may beg for jeans and close-toed shoes.

I long for the days of warm socks and the layered feel of turtlenecks and sweatshirts. My body craves the pile of sweaters and 3/4 length sleeved tops jammed in the back of the closet. Alas, they won't see the light of day until December rolls around and only then until the middle of February at best.

Fall conjures the smell of Elmer's glue and Mead writing pads. It harbors the memories of vinegar and dill wafting through mom's kitchen window into the yard where we played with kites and rode our bikes. It brings the thought of fresh baked cookies, breads and pies straight from the oven to my tastebuds. Is screams "HOME!" to my ears.

Along with the sights, sounds and memories come time-honored urges. Like salmon swimming up stream to spawn, so am I drawn to the kitchen to can, blanch and freeze. Mom always called it "squirrelling away" and although I laughed, I laugh no more as I find myself shuffling to the basement in mid August to begin retrieving the black enamel canner, can lifters, funnels, industrial sized strainer, sieves, ricers, cheesecloth, jars, lids and rings.

Our kitchen becomes a staging and storage area for the myriad of supplies, jugs of vinegar, jars of spices, bags upon bags of sugar, boxes of Sure-Jell and bottles of pectin. I find myself on the hunt for canning jars at Big Lots, K-Mart, Wal-Mart and Kroger. I'm on the lookout for Mrs. Wages spaghetti sauce mix. I scour the aisles for pickling salt. I'm buying lemons and garlic more often than milk and bread.

Neal begins the race to locate produce. First with 20 pounds of fresh okra. These I put up in quart jars. It's easy once I get in the rhythm of pulling hot jars out of the oven (where I keep them after they've been sterilized in the dishwasher) then stuffing them full of fresh okra and garlic. Pouring the salty dilled brine is fast followed by capping and finally a 15-minute boiling water bath to destroy bacteria and seal.

Next come the figs. Harder to find and quicker to spoil, we employ the help of my in-laws to locate a source. These are preserved whole in sugar syrup with a touch of lemon juice and thin slices of lemon. A bit stickier and slower, these little gems we seal in pint jars after their 15-minute bath.

This year we discovered large wild muscadines all along our roadway. We inverted a beach umbrella under the vines that cling to high branches. With a firm grip, Neal tugged on the vine which shook the branch and ultimately dropped the ripe grapes into the umbrella or there abouts. Nearly 5 gallons later, we were crushing the tough hulls with a potato masher and simmering the remains with a splash of water over a low flame. After simmering for 10 minutes, I let them cool before running through a ricer to squeeze the tantalizingly fragrant juice from the pulp. SEVERAL cheesecloth strainings later, I mixed the juice half-and-half with concord grape juice and began making jelly. A beautiful deep purple concoction glistens in dozens of half-pint jelly jars.

During our muscadine adventure, we stumbled across hawthorne berries that were huge and ready for picking. Within 30 minutes, the Girlz had loosened over 3 gallons of berries from the tree and I have since made three quarts of juice from them. Jelly making will ensue over the weekend.

Currently waiting in the wings are two 5-gallon buckets of pears waiting to be peeled. I'm not sure if I'll make pear jam, pear preserves or pear chutney with them yet. I need to consult the Ball Blue Book for guidance.

With all of these fall activities, my mind wanders to mom's kitchen and the ritual of canning and preserving fruits, vegetables and nuts for the winter. Although we don't have the abundance of edibles in the wild in Georgia as we did in Minnesota, we still manage to put away a great many items to share. This year, we plan to sell some at the local farmer's market!

Not to worry. As the fruits fade from the vine and the vegetables exhaust themselves in the garden, pecans and black walnuts begin to shove themselves from their branches toward the earth where we will wait, umbrellas upturned, for the bounty.

I'm Back?

Life has a way of escaping in a whirl of warm sunshine and fallen leaves.
School starts in exactly 12 days bringing with it a hurricane of school supplies, uniforms, shoes, backpacks and schedules. Gone are the flip-flops and tank tops of careless summer days. No more planning a day at the lake on a whim. Fall comes early according to the academic calendar and stretches far into November when cool breezes and rainly days take over the senses and confirm that fall weather according to MY Northern upbringing has truly arrived.
I dread these last few days of lazy summer after the monster family trip. Unpacking the camper leads to mountains of laundry which forces the putting away of swimwear and dragging out of uniforms. Of course last year's won't fit this year's body which pushes the shopping button, fighting crowds, compiling supply lists, and ultimate stress induced exhaustion.
All I really want to do is spend the days uninterrupted in the kitchen canning summer veggies and fruits for winter consumption while watching TCM and sipping creamy vanilla sweetened pots of fresh brewed coffee. Is that too much to ask?
Braces and doctors and glasses and exams. Shopping and sorting and organizing and prepping. Cleaning and storing and picking up and putting away. Canning and cooking and freezing and blanching.
Honestly? I look forward to the change in seasons. I miss the gentle ebb and flow and distinctive movement of Minnesota seasons. The abrupt man-made signals and disjointed calendric changes of Southern seasons takes getting used to. Melding the two is a true challenge.

Lofton Creek Seafood

Story and photos by Valerie. As printed on the Food Page in a September '08 edition of The Union-Recorder.

Ricky Davis, owner of Lofton Creek Seafood in Yulee, Fla., knows more about his trade than most roadside marketers might. A native of Florida and a self-made man, he left the construction business a few years ago and was hired on as a deck hand on a local shrimp boat off of Fernandina Beach, Fla. With quick hands and careful feet, he worked his way through several successful runs as a shrimper without landing in the warm waters off the Florida coast.

“We’d let out the nets and in one haul we’d have tons of fish and sea creatures to pick through,” Ricky said with an “I’ve-seen-it-all” nod. As the main catch on this particular boat was shrimp, most everything else went overboard. A crowd of dolphins and sharks followed the boat snapping up whatever went back in the water. “There were times when the sharks were so thick, we could have walked across their backs and kept dry,” he said with a smile noting that they ranged in size from 3- to 6-feet in length.

Staying out on a boat sometimes within sight of shore for days at a time is a lesson in patience and stamina. “We don’t go in until the captain says so,” Ricky warns. “We’d work 22 on and 2 off sometimes if the haul was good.”

A chance encounter changed his life about a year ago when he opened a permanent market a couple of miles across the Georgia border into Florida. Situated a few miles off of Interstate 95 on Florida’s A1A and less than 10 miles from the Atlantic Ocean, Ricky’s seafood is probably the freshest around. Several regulars popped by to pick up a few pounds of shrimp and still others dropped in waiting for the daily crab haul to be delivered while I waited to talk with him.

Although they sell a myriad of seafood and can quickly order specialty fish for customers, Lofton Creek’s biggest sellers are jumbo shrimp and live crab. Both are readily accessible locally and quickly transported from ship to shore to ensure safety and quality.

Ricky said that folks come from all over to buy from him and have transported shrimp as far away as Utah. “If you’re going to travel more than a couple of hours, head the shrimp, shell them and then ice them,” he said. “They’ll keep a lot longer.” Heading the shrimp means “popping” the heads off with a quick snap with your fingers or a sharp knife, if one desires. Deveining shrimp is done quickly and easily with a knife or an inexpensive deveining tool found at many grocery or department stores. Removal of the back vein provides a cleaner flavor and makes shelling shrimp easier.

To avoid overcooking shrimp, only cook them a few minutes until they turn orange and the meat is no longer clear. This will ensure a more delicate texture and flavor rather than the tough, stringy texture associated with overcooked seafood.

Fresh crabs are both easy to prepare and incredibly yummy to eat. Our trips to St. Mary’s and Jekyll Island usually produce a dozen or so crabs for a meal, but this trip we didn’t fare as well and resorted to dropping by Lofton Creek Seafood to fill in the gaps. As I waited on the two boxes of live blue crab to be delivered, I chatted with Ricky and gleaned a little more seafood expertise.

Blue crabs are plentiful in the Atlantic and along the Gulf Coast. They’re about 4 to 6-inches across and a muddy blue to bright blue in color. They’re aggressive and when stealing bait will hold on even when dragged across the surface of the water on the end of a fishing line. Many times we’ve pulled in these little water skiers as they cling fiercely to a hunk of squid attached to our hook.

To lift them up to the fishing pier, we dangle a crab basket over the side at water level and haul them up. If, perchance, one grabs hold of your finger, let it dangle in the air. The little devils can’t support their own weight and will quickly fall to the ground. Be sure to grab them from behind out of harm’s way or use a set of kitchen tongs to do the deed.

The main rule of thumb when dealing with fresh crabs is if it ain’t crawlin’, it ain’t cookin’. To safely transport live crabs, either bag them in burlap and keep them cool or if you’re traveling more than a couple of hours away, ice them down. The cold sends them into a sort of suspended animation and will keep them fresh for cooking. If a crab dies in transport, the choice is yours. If you know it was alive when you got it, cooking it should be fine. If you’re unsure, toss it.

Crab is great boiled or steamed. For a good steam, pour 1 cup vinegar, 1 cup beer, 3 bay leaves and 2 teaspoons Old Bay Seasoning into a deep pot. Place a rack about an inch above the liquid. Bring liquid to a boil and add live crab to the rack. Cover and return to a boil. Steam crabs about 10 to 15 minutes until they turn bright red.

To clean a cooked crab, flip it onto its back and remove the apron by lifting and pulling. It will snap off easily. The apron is a “U” or “V” shaped piece on the bottom of the crab. Flip the crab over and pry off the top shell.

Using a sharp knife cut off the head and carefully scrape away the feathery gills and two spongy-looking strips. Ricky warns these are called devil fingers and can make one very ill if eaten.
Thoroughly rinse crab under running water and remove any other interior oddities leaving the white meat intact. Crack crab in half and pick meat out to dip in a tasty sauce or use in a favorite recipe.

Crab meat is categorized into lump meat or backfin which are large chunks taken from the backfin and are usually the most expensive; special or regular which are the small white flakes taken from the body of the crab; and claw meat which is darker and richer in flavor and is usually the least expensive. Lump or backfin give a pretty appearance to recipes.

While hard-shell crabs need to be picked of their meat, soft-shell crabs can be eaten whole after cleaning and cooking. In order to grow, blue crabs shed their shell much like a snake sheds its skin. After molting, the crab’s new shell is soft and remains so for only a couple of hours. If left in the water, the shell will harden. Soft-shell crabs are harvested, properly cleaned and frozen for consumer use.

Whether you buy seafood from the local supermarket or from a clean and well-run roadside market like Lofton Creek Seafood from our new friend Ricky, enjoying a well-prepared meal with plenty of flavor and variety should be a little easier with a few of these helpful tips.

*****

Recipes

*****

Seafood Bisque

2 Tablespoons butter

1/2 cup diced onion

1/2 cup diced celery1 pound fresh crab meat

1 Tablespoon Old Bay Seafood Seasoning

1/4 pound cheddar cheese, shredded

1/4 fresh shrimp, cleaned and

1/4 pound fresh mushrooms, chopped

1 teaspoon parsley

1 1/2 cups milk

1/2 cups sherry

Melt butter in skillet. Sauté onion and celery until clear. Add remaining ingredients and simmer until steaming. Serve with garlic and cheese biscuits. Reheats well.

*****

Shrimp and Crab Creole

1 large sweet onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, minced

1 cup green pepper, diced

1/2 cup celery, chopped

1 cup okra, sliced into rounds

4 Tablespoons bacon grease

1/2 pound crab meat, cleaned

1/2 pound shrimp, cleaned

16-ounce can diced tomatoes

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

dash of hot pepper sauce

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon black pepper

cooked rice

In large skillet, sauté onions, garlic, green pepper, celery and okra in bacon fat until tender. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 20 minutes. Serve over rice.

Georgia's Hamburg Mill and State Park

Story and photos by Valerie. Printed in the Summer '08 edition of the Sandersville Scene magazine.

Hamburg State Park lies 20 miles north of Sandersville on a quiet country road lined with ancient trees and old farm houses. Driving into the depths of the Georgia wilderness begins to calm body and mind and promises a renewal of spirit. It also presents hidden keys to the not so distant past.

The attractive white 1920s mill situated on park property near the country store is the second of its kind in the area. The first was built 75 feet upstream in the late 1700s by the Warthen family who had acquired the land through grants for their part in the Revolutionary War. With the now extinct Georgetown just down stream, the mill did well in its early years.

Eventually the property landed in the hands of the Gilmore brothers who built the current mill, dam and cotton gin in 1921 and 1922. The mill operated until the mid 1940s and from that point, it was used as store house until it was purchased by the state in 1968.

In recent years, it has been lovingly restored and maintained and provides a first hand look into Georgia’s agricultural history which sustained local land owners for generations.

Wiping the sweat lightly beading his brow, Hamburg State Park Manager Daniel Hill pointed toward the forest around us. “Wherever you see pine trees, this was all corn and cotton,” he said as he motioned to majestic pines towering above.

It was hard to imagine that just over 85 years ago, the soil crunching beneath the soles of Daniel’s boots as he walked toward the mill was fertile and heavy with crops. “These are different scrapes attached to horse drawn plows,” he said indicating the row of well worn early farm equipment along one wall inside Hamburg Mill. Cotton planters, fertilizer distributors and the like at one time pulled by horses or oxen across the dusty land stood resting happily nearby.
On the opposite side of the large room cooled only by a cross breeze through huge open doors, early machinery used in cotton or corn mills sat idle for museum patrons to investigate. In the days when cotton was king, the mill standing on the banks of Hamburg Lake was used to process cotton from wagon to bale.

A flue running across the ceiling carried the cotton in. Cotton farmers would bring horse drawn wagons under the outside porch and toss raw cotton into the hopper above. The cotton would be sucked in through blowers and then processed.

“We don’t have any early diagrams on how things were set up, but the main shaft would turn under water power from the dam and was hooked up to several belts,” Daniel explained as he walked past distinct styles of early cotton gins.
“Cotton was separated from the seeds through a cotton seed cleaner which got rid of loose bits of lint,” he said. Seeds would then go through a blower and into chutes which emptied into the adjacent building functioning as a storehouse. Pointing to a tin contraption, he indicated that it was used to boil the cotton seeds themselves which was then used for oil and animal feed.

Motioning to a large octagonal patched area on the floor, Daniel explained that the cotton press was most likely in that particular area. It was a large screw assembly that would compress the cotton and bale it into about 50- to 100-pound bails. From there it was heaved on wagons underneath the building and taken off to market. From door to bale, he was unsure of how long the entire process took. Records for the mill were not adequately kept or passed on from owner to owner.
Moving through the museum and into a much cooler breezeway connecting the old cotton gin with the grist mill, Daniel paused a moment to unlock a heavy door that opened into a well maintained prep room complete with charts and drawings depicting the grist mill operation from top to bottom.

Old black and white photographs hanging on the wall portray the building of the present day dam and foundation while the older mill sat idle in the blurred background. Looking closely, Daniel pointed out where the old foundation and slush way ran just up stream.

“It’s interesting how well water preserves things,” Daniel comments. “When we had the lake drawn down recently to replace the old wooden gates with metal, that stump was still there,” he said indicating a spot on the photograph. As the water rises, oxygen can’t get to the wood to rot it out.

When people think about grist mills, an idyllic vision of a charming overshot water wheel comes to mind. The Hamburg Mill uses a turbine that can produce about 50-hp which was substantial for its day considering the first Model T’s were lumbering down country roads.

On the wall hangs a diagram indicating how the turbine actually works. A large chamber sits behind the dam wall containing the turbine and raising the gate fills the chamber to lake level. A control wheel above the turbine opens up the veins channeling water through the turbine turning the main shaft which is connected to pulleys and ultimately to the stones themselves.
Grinding grain in the mill not only provided cornmeal and at one point wheat into flour, it was a way of life for many locals. Today the mill is used for demonstrations and during special park events. Wheat is no longer ground because wheat dust is highly explosive, but fresh ground cornmeal products can be purchased in the Country Store at the park.

Farmers used to haul corn dried in the fields and still on the cob by horse and buggy to the mill. Early models of corn shellers were either hand-cranked or water powered through pulleys. Whole ears would go in the sheller and process kernels from the cob sifting shelled corn through the machine and into a bucket, basket or sack beneath it.

One of the first models of corn shellers is housed in the museum and was made in Joliet, Illinois. It has wooden pulleys which is one of the indicators of its age. Wood was used before mass production of metal pulleys as the machinery advanced.

Passing through another door, the business end of the operation stands ready to roll.

“Basically everything on this side of the stone is just to clean the corn before it gets up to the stone,” Daniel explained once again wiping his brow in the afternoon heat. Although originally the mill would grind corn from local farmers, for demonstration purposes Daniel and his team grind food grade white and yellow corn purchased near Athens.
Dried kernels are poured through a large hopper on the first floor, through a screen and into diagonal chute under the floor. The grain is then picked up by little buckets on a boxed in belt and lifted to the third floor where it’s dumped into another hopper, through another screen, and back down to the first floor where a fan blows the chaff and any light material away. The corn falls through another screen, is picked up by another bucket belt and carried back to the third floor where it is transferred to another chute that falls directly above the stone.

On a platform independent of the building itself, three huge stones and their assemblies lay disassembled after being cleaned and prepared for the next grinding.
“It’s interesting how it’s constructed,” Daniel commented. “The platform where the stones lie is completely independent of the rest of the building itself and can move independently from the building. The reason for that is these stones can become unbalanced over time. A lot of the old mills of the 1800 era would literally grind themselves apart because of all of the vibration and literally loosen all the fittings. We’ve been real fortunate to be able to figure out how to get everything back in line,” he finished.

In the Hamburg Mill, the peg and hole design was used to bind the timbers together. It was a lot cheaper, wood on wood won’t abrade like wood on metal, and it lent a stronger connection.

To set up for grinding, a millstone crane moves the top stone on the spindle and a round wooden box sits on top of whole assembly. A wooden chute folds down into the hopper. Above the stone is the shaker box chute which feeds corn to the stone.

“It’s an ingenious design because after everything’s adjusted, it will regulate itself as far as the speed goes,” Daniel said with a hint of pride in his voice. “If it speeds up, it will feed more corn in and slow down. As it slows down, less corn will fall in. It regulates itself to an extent.”
The stones have u-shaped grooves which are cut in at an angle and turn up. The opposite pattern is on top stone creating a scissor-like action trapping the grain between them. There are fewer grooves as you go in toward the center of the stone, but they’re deeper so as kernels fall in they are quickly broken up. The stone pattern works the grain farther out grinding it more finely along the way. Eventually, it gets trapped between the rotating top stone and the box and the rotation of the stone runs the meal out into the chute and into the hopper for bagging in 2- or 5-pound bags.

The mill was primarily set up to grind white corn, yellow corn and wheat flour under original water power. A wheel next to the stone raises and lowers the spindle connected to the top stone to adjust for texture of the mill.

“We want to get it as fine as possible,” Daniel explains, “but some people like theirs real course. We can adjust it that way.”

If a miller gets the stones too close together, there a possibility of too much friction. The result can be scorched meal. Daniel knows there’s a definite scent to hot stones. When grinding, it pays to keep your nose to the grindstone in order to make sure everything is running right.

As the meal is ground, it is bagged, weighed and packaged for sale in the Country Store at the park and at a convenience store up the road in Warthen.

“It’s a blast,” Daniel exclaims with sincerity. “It’s one of those things, you’re working at it and you say, ‘Man, I can’t believe I’m getting paid to do this!’”

(Daniel Hill and Kay Clarke, park employees. Miss Kay grew up at Hamburg when it was farmland and worked in the general store she still manages on park property.)

Walking back toward the Country Store where his office is located, Daniel hesitates thoughtfully as he begins, “Most places it’s a historic site, just something to look at. This place comes alive. When you turn everything on and you have everything when it just clicks, then you’re there. You’re back there when everything’s going the way it always used to go. Someone walking in today would hear, see and smell everything they would if they were walking in during the 1920s. That’s the real cool part about it, it’s living history at its best, I think.”

Olive Forge Herb Farm

(Story and photos by Valerie and printed in the Spring '09 Milledgeville Scene magazine. Pics are my favorite shots of Olive Forge. Some were used in the photo spread.)

The lush gardens of Olive Forge Herb Farm must leave one as breathless as a peaceful walk through the Garden of Eden. The pale greens and sun-glinted gold act like a soothing compress on a deep nagging ache. Tense muscles begin to relax as eyes drink in the goodness all around. Slowly, senses begin to awaken and dreams begin to drift into reality. Gravel covered paths and stepping stones lead the way to quiet alcoves draped in ivy. Perfectly placed benches rest in the sun or beckon from the shade inviting travelers to pause. Flowering trees and bushes push their bloom laden branches into the air aching to share their enticing scent with passersby. Fleeting as they are, it’s only a matter of time before blooms give way to fruit.
Every plant, tree and bush has a name and every growing thing has a place. To everything there is a season and each has a purpose. Some herbs are flavorful, medicinal, beneficial, or just plain pretty. Some serve as teaching aids, others are purely aesthetic in nature. Whatever their purpose, it is known and respected by their caretakers. Over 18 varieties of rosemary grace the property as the farm’s signature herb.
An intriguing and comfortable home nestles within the confines of the farm. Built piece by piece, the wooden structure is as much a part of the landscape as the myriad of herbs, plants, trees and bushes that call Olive Forge home. Herbalists, writers, authors, gardeners and thinkers, Darryl and Marsha Herren invite friends and strangers alike into their home for a cup of tea and homemade cookies.
A fifty-year love affair has kept the Herrens grounded. Still giggling like newlyweds, the couple has spent year upon year cultivating their land, raising children, building their home, and creating a haven to share with the world around them. With over 360 varieties of plants growing in peaceful display gardens and nurseries, it’s a wonder the couple has time to converse with each other let alone the neighbors. Happy and contented, the pair left the work-a-day world behind and settled into a semi-quiet retirement until their lifelong passion for a greener, cleaner environment and holistic living took a firm hold nearly 20 years ago. Named after Olive Sylvie who gave the couple firm encouragement and the will to follow their dreams, Olive Forge Herb Farm was born.

With today’s economy dragging and spending on a downswing, the Herrens haven’t felt the impact as greatly as some.

“We’ve had a lot of customers come out asking about gardening and what plants work best where,” mused Marsha over a cup of tea. “It seems they’re interested in putting time and energy into herbs and gardens more than ever.”

Judging by the books and magazines neatly placed on bookshelves and table tops, the Herrens are no strangers to living off the land. Darryl casually tapped away at a computer keyboard in the corner researching recipes and uses for common herbs as more customers mill about sampling whole grain oat meal cookies and chatting about kitchen gardens.

(Above pic was chosen as FRONT COVER of magazine. What an honor!)

Home school, school groups, scouts and others visit the farm for pre-booked guided educational tours. Several garden beds have been cultivated for small hands to dig. Shakespearean herbs wave lazily in the breeze while tea bushes and fruit trees stand ready to demonstrate their multitude of uses.

A well stocked gift shop invites casual shoppers as well as those serious about acquiring the perfect tea combinations, dried herbs and spice mixes, jellies, handmade soaps lotions or fragrant soy candles.

Little surprises are hidden in every corner from wind chimes to tea pots. Mortar and pestle sets are available for grinding herbs. Many items are created right in the shop while others are on consignment from local artists and potters.

In the corner stands a large wooden cabinet with the words “Olive Forge” artistically created in wood and iron which serve as unique door handles and locks. The cabinet swings open to display a myriad of essential oils and liniments.

“A young man came in one day and measured that corner,” explained Marsha. About a year later he returned with the breathtaking cabinet as a gift for the Herrens. “It fits perfectly in the space and keeps my things so organized.”

A monthly e-mail newsletter the Herrens call TOFU (Teased Out For You) is sent out to subscribers and includes gardening and herbal tidbits as well as other interesting topics of discussion relevant to healthy living and the environment. Gardening tips are given freely and with wisdom, patience, and humor. As herbs are the bulk of their business, growing and cultivating them has become a way of life for the energetic couple. The first warning given by Darryl when quizzed as to how to start an herb garden is to refrain from attempting to grow herbs in pots inside on a window sill. “It’s virtually impossible,” he said with a smile.

A small patio herb garden is easy to maintain and it makes a fabulously fragrant addition to the usual fare. Pinch off enough to flavor a dull meal and watch your herb garden flourish. Grow a pot or two of marigolds, nasturtiums and pansies to brighten things up and then throw the pretty flowers in a green salad for added flavor and color.

Growing an herb garden doesn't take much space and only a little initiative. Herbs can be bought at just about any garden shop and because of the South's temperate weather, most herbs can be enjoyed throughout the year.

Fresh garden herbs make a delightful addition to old family recipes. Fresh herbs are best when baking or cooking, but remember to use less than you would of the dried ingredient as essential oils are still present in the leaves and flowers.

Our southern climate is much like that in the Mediterranean. Consequently, Mediterranean herb varieties fare quite well. Using a sandy soil mixture provides better drainage while morning sun is best in efforts to avoid the extreme afternoon heat. Mulching with white marble chips is helpful to reflect the sun and dry the underside of plants staving off any fungus or rot.

French tarragon would never survive a Georgia summer. “We have a variety called Mexican tarragon,” said Darryl. “It’s a perennial and does well here. It has the flavor of French tarragon and can be used in the same way.”

Lavender is another herb that has a few varieties that just won’t make the cut. English varieties can’t handle the heat while the French and Spanish variety is as fragrant and lovely as its counterpart and does well.
A basic herb garden consists of basil, thyme, oregano, chives and parsley. There are many varieties of mint that can be used in teas, drinks, as garnish and in many recipes. Dill is classic for pickling or seasoning fish or vegetable dishes. Once established, herbs are fairly easy to grow.

When creating a patio garden, choose large man made pots. Avoid ceramic or clay as they absorb and retain heat which can in essence cook the roots of delicate herbs. A large plastic or other nonporous pot allows heat to diffuse out of the soil and provides plenty of growing room.

Herb roots are relatively shallow except for taller plants like dill that need a bit deeper pot. Be sure to use a sandy mixture that allows for proper drainage. Drop several stones in the bottom of the pot before filling with soil to keep the bottom drainage holes from plugging. Water sparingly during dry conditions.

Frequent pruning will encourage herbs to grow and become more bushy than leggy. Use them immediately in favorite sauces and dishes or layer directly on a sandwich or toss in a salad for a delightfully fresh flavor.

Fresh cut chives are best clipped in small clumps near the roots rather than trimming tops. Chives are hollow making it easy for bacteria to make its way to the roots eventually destroying the plant.

Storing and drying fresh herbs is an easy process that takes a little time and preparation. The key is to complete the process as quickly as possible. Clip herbs and tie loosely in a clean paper bag with several holes poked in the bottom and sides. Gently shake several times over several days to keep leaves from sticking together and molding. When completely dry, store in airtight containers.

The simplest and best way to dry herbs is with an inexpensive food dehydrator. Layer herbs on racks, plug in the appliance and dry completely before storing. Hanging herbs from bits of twine doesn’t do the herbs justice as they absorb humidity and moisture over time leaving behind a leathery remnant that lacks flavor.

Flash freezing herbs such as cilantro, parsley and chives done simply by cutting herbs into small pieces and layering on a cookie sheet. Freeze the herbs overnight, then store in a freezer bag to be used at any time all year. Sprinkled in recipes or on salads, they taste nearly as good as fresh.

Olive Forge Herb Farm is located at 161 Brown's Crossing Road between Milledgeville and Haddock. Contact them by phone at (478) 932-5737 or Facebook Olive Forge Herb Farm. They are open Thursday, Friday and Saturday from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Bald Is Beautiful

About 4 years ago just before the holidays, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She quickly underwent a mastectomy and opted for removing both breasts. She didn't want to have to go through this again, so she took the road less traveled.

I live in another part of the country and at the holidays, money was too tight to fly home and be with her. My sister and brother were there for the surgery and just before Christmas she started Chemo. It broke my heart not to be there for her when she spent her life being there for me.

For Christmas, my then father-in-law gifted me with a plane ticket home. He said, "You don't know how long you're going to have her." I cried.

I flew home two days after Christmas and embraced her--flat chest and all. The next day we took a trip to the cancer center at the hospital. Mom had made an appointment to pick out a wig. She knew her hair would fall out and although not a vain woman, she wanted to have something ready so the grandkids wouldn't freak out at Gramma's bald head.

I sat in the tiny cramped office with my flat-chested mother looking so strong in the face of this horrible disease. She'd always been a fighter--I wasn't worried about her coming through this on the winning end. I just wanted to be there holding her hand as the battle raged.

There I sat as she chose a few humdrum wigs--looking as much like herself as she ever did. She tucked her natural hair under the scratchy caps and peered at herself in the mirror. I couldn't tell what was going on behind her blue/green eyes, but I sensed she was trying not so much to think about being bald as she was trying not to think of losing her hair to the disease feeling like she would be letting it win.

I made her try on a HUGE blonde wig with piles of curls. Then a black bob. A red 'come and get me' style. Eventually, after fits of laughter, we settled on what we knew was perfect. A golden brown pixie cut with a bit of a lift that fit her to a T. She looked young, vivacious, impish...and confident.

After choosing a couple of bandanas and trying on a few funny hats to keep the spirit light, we departed and thanked our new friend Kari.

The next morning over coffee, mom set her cup down on the table and fingered the clippers in front of her. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and fumbled with the creamer. She looked up and said, "I want you to shave my head this morining."

I damn near dropped my spoon. What? My fingers shook slightly as I slowly stirred the dark liquid in my cup and watched as the creamer melted away into a tan pool. I considered what she'd said and knew she needed me to respond. I also knew if I didn't do the deed, she would.

She lifted her cup, took a long sip and swallowed slowly as she explained, "I don't want to wake up in the morning with clumps of hair on my pillow."

Looking up, I caught her gaze and at that moment, my mother was most decidedly the bravest person I'd thought many others to be--all of them falling so short of her in so many ways. I was honored that she asked me to be the one to share that intimate moment with her.

We pulled a chair into the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and I plugged in the device. We removed the guard that she used to cut dad's hair down to a short, raised crew cut. I turned the machine on and we listened to the quiet whir for a moment before I gently ran my fingers through her soft waves.

Starting at the top, I took my first swipe. She couldn't see the curls that fell at my feet and I was glad. Her scalp was white and smooth underneath. The warm scent of her filled me with such tenderness. This woman had birthed me, fed me, tended to my hurts and loved me all of my life. In truth, she did not deserve this. In truth, what woman does?

I worked steadily. At first I asked her for guidance, but soon I knew what to do.

Love her. Love her and care for her and be tender to her. For the rest of her days...and for the rest of mine.

My mother's breasts were removed. She lost her hair. She lost her appetite. She lost her sense of smell. She sometimes lost her lunch. She lost her energy and freedom. She lost so much...but she never, ever, ever lost her will to live.

Today my mother is a little bit thinner, a little bit flatter, and has a few less curls on her little head. She is a wife, a mother of three, and a grandmother of 8. She is a passionate gardener and enjoys fishing, gathering nuts and berries in the woods, and creating culinary masterpieces in the kitchen I grew up in.

She is a survivor. I am humbled in her shadow.

The First of Many

Call me a lemming. Everyone else does it....why not me?

As do most who blog, I love to write. It relaxes me. I lose track of time as I slip into my mind's eye and write what I see there. Some of it makes sense, a lot of it doesn't.

I started out writing for myself. A sort of self-inflicted therapy meant to soothe and calm my young mind. Before long, it became a deeper part of me and I began to have a nagging urge to set it free.

Not for fame or fortune, although I wouldn't throw a shoe at it and beg it to go away. But for a purely selfish reason. Something rather hideous, actually.

I'm terrified of being forgotten. Of being buried deep in the ground under the cold earth with nothing but a slim stone engraved with name, date of birth, date of death, and maybe a cross to mark the entirety of my life. 100 years from now when my bones are powder, who will know me then?

If no one remembers, did I ever exist?

I'm 40 years old. I've lived a little. I've experienced a few things. Nothing extraordinary to the general population, but what wasn't extraordinary in time and space is phenomenal in detail and feeling.

The things many forget, I remember. The solemn marching of sea grass at Destin Beach, the silent whirl of snowflakes dancing on black ice, and the musty smell of stagnant back waters of a slow-moving creek.

Shared memories live on. Stories live on. In this blog, I hope that an essence of my life will somehow live on, as well.