According to National Geographic, about one-third of all global food production goes to waste. Even more staggering, nearly two-thirds of that waste is caused neither by drought, poor refrigeration nor insects, but rather results from the way the food looks. That means that “an estimated six billion pounds of fruits and vegetables are wasted every year in the U.S. because they are ugly” (Huffington Post).
While many restaurants repurpose so-called ugly food in order to cut cost and minimize waste in the kitchen and while certain grocery stores and organizations have programs to sell and promote ugly food, the solution to the problem lies primarily with the consumer (Think Progress).
According to the produce manager at my local Whole Foods Market, team members can’t display ugly items, a common practice among nearly all grocery stores. Any fruit or vegetable with a bruise, a scratch or…
Reblogged from tricksterchase.com. Thanks Elan Mudrow for a fun, satirical list that many of us have had a part in!
For a “Senior Moment” Stop at #6. Pay for groceries. Drive gas-guzzling SUV back home, ignoring that nagging feeling that you forgot something. Once home, remember #7. Drive back to store. Complete rest of steps. Return home too exhausted to publish original content on personal blog. Reblog someone else’s creative post. Whew! Thanks again Elan!
Despite years of providing art education and related services today’s prompt does not call to my mind the studio classroom. Its air filled with pungent smell of turpentine and workspaces littered with battered tubes of pigment.
No, the Daily Prompt: Paint puts me squarely in my kitchen canning pears. The connection? My southern drawl. Despite my academic background my accent remains thick as molasses in the winter. And just as sweet, Honey! So proper enunciation sometimes eludes me.
As noted in a previous post, I’d been fretting about our fire-blighted pear tree. I was certain that the weaken tree would no longer produce any edible fruit. But to my surprise it yielded fruit – an abundance of small, but tasty pears. A few weeks ago I processed our first harvest. Proudly ladling the pears into pint jars, I announced to my husband the completion of the batch.
“Really? How much have you canned?” He was pleased too.
“Today I put up 4 paints.” I was triumphant!
“I put up 4 paints.” I repeated.
“Mmm.” Billy paused then asked: “Are you referring to canning pears or what you do to make art? Its pronounced pint not paint. You put up 4 pints of pears.”
“I know! I know! 4 paints of pears. That’s what I said – I put up 4 paaaints of pears.” I retorted making sure I placed special emphasis on the word in question. And sulked back to the kitchen.
Billy smiled. Later he told me he thinks its cute the way I mispronounce the word pint. “Don’t change a thing. I love you just the way you are.”
Aww! Wonderful man. I think I’ll make his favorite breakfast tomorrow – biscuits smothered in gravy and a juicy link of saawshag.
Four stray bananas tumbled out of the grocery bag onto the kitchen counter, “You know Shuggy, you can buy bananas in bunches. You can even buy more than 4 at a time.” My banana buying habit was an enigma to my husband.
“Oh I know. That’s just the way I buy them. Besides I used to buy 2 per week when I was single. So I logically I buy 4 now.” I smiled triumphantly at my rational explanation. But deep inside I knew my counting bananas was far from logic. I’d learned about the importance of counting bananas from Brother decades earlier.
As the youngest child of a single, working mother, I was given over to the care of my siblings. Two active sisters – a protective 11 year, a curious 8 year old and her twin brother.
Brother intrigued me as a child. He was so unlike my sisters who were popular, outgoing. Brother was quiet and shrouded in mystery. Why was his room off limits? Who were his friends? Where did he go after school? Sometimes I would ask about his mysterious travels.
“Just taking care of business.” He would say in a quiet, low voice as if almost revealing a great secret. Today I question how much “business” could a 13 year old boy have. But to a 5 year-old this was brilliant! Brother didn’t talk much, but when he did I believed every outlandish word.
One day Brother watched me devouring bananas. I had gleefully snagged another one from the bunch. Momma didn’t put limits on healthy snacks. And bananas, unlike the more troublesome oranges or grapefruits, was a food my little fingers could undress with ease. As I cheerfully ate my second banana, Brother bent down and whispered another secret in my ear.
“You know, if you eat more than 3 bananas in one day you’ll turn into a monkey.”
I was horrified! Yet grateful. My Brother had saved me from the trauma of a drastic species change. My eyes widened as I imagined myself munching that fatal 4th banana and POOF! “Momma would be so mad to have a monkey baby.” My young mind carefully considered the consequences.
Unconsciously Brother’s simian warning stuck with me well into adulthood. I avoided buying bunches of bananas least a miscalculated bite ended in disaster.
I’ve since shared this childhood memory with my husband. Billy’s repeated reminders of banana availability has helped me make some progress.
Now I buy bunches of bananas. Sometimes up to 6 at a time. I’m so proud of myself! Then Billy snickers: “Mmmm … 3 for me and 3 for you. That should keep us both safe.”
This post was originally posted by Rachel Falco on her blog How to Provide for Your Family. I do not like referring to myself as a “homesteader.” Admittedly I have a garden. I preserve the harvest. I bake my own bread and make many other things from scratch. I use medicinal herbs to make muscle rubs and tinctures. I am a homemaker who employees traditional skills to supplement the family’s income. Yet I started on this road to have some “freedom from price increases, poor quality and excessive antibiotics.” Its challenging but I am enjoying the journey!
There I sat at the kitchen table sobbing into my flour covered apron. Its not a pretty picture when a middle-aged woman pitches a fit in her own kitchen. Why the meltdown? I wanted to make my own loaf bread.
I had became incensed at the high price of bread.
The hearty artisan breads were nearly $3.00. I craved their satisfying wholesomeness. But they were beyond my budget. Instead what I purchased was the bottom tier of the store brand – wheat bread at $0.99. No taste, no texture, diminished nutritional value. I’m not even sure why the bread was brown. It certainly was not whole wheat. Difficult digestive issues supported my suspicions. Use your imagination here.
I was miffed. Why did the most basic of human foods cost so much? Why so exclusive? For centuries grains have been grinded, mixed and kneaded into nourishing bread. How hard can it be? I decided to give it a try. I called on my friend Dee, a traditional homemaker, to became my bread making mentor.
“Denise its really nothing to it. You just have to feel your way through the process. The more you do it the more easier it will get.”
Dee described to me a rather straightforward process. Good. I like simple. I found a great recipe for whole wheat bread, got all my ingredients together and I was good to go.
AWE SHUCKS! The recipe called for 6 cups of whole wheat flour. That’s a normal amount. But what’s not normal is to keep adding a heavy, coarse flour even when the soft dough turns into the texture of sandpaper. The recipe said to knead the dough for about 11 minutes. So I did, often adding water to the keep the sandpaper stuck together. The results: 2 yummy smelling loaves of BRICKS. I pouted a little bit. No biggy. This was my first try. I called Dee for more advice.
“Sounds like you kneaded it too long. And your flour may have been too heavy. Different brands of flour will give you different results.” What?! Flour brands differ? But the recipe….
“Denise you’ve got to feel your way through the bread making process. Just pay attention to what the dough is doing.” I can’t wing this! I’m recipe dependent. I should be in a 12 step program sponsored by the Food Network.
Forget it. I bought a loaf of bread from the grocery store.
Two weeks later, Dee’s words were still echoing in my head: “Feel the dough. Let the dough guide what you do….” I tried a second batch.
WHAAAT?!! My nicely risen bread turned into a heavy lump in the oven. My eyes filled with tears.
I calmed myself – “Keep it together Denise. Its only bread. You can do this. Women do this everyday around the world. C’mon now. Put on your big girl panties and call Dee!” I’m my best cheerleader.
“But Dee I never knew that preheating the oven was all that important!!” Not during the dog days of a Georgia summer.
Forget it. I bought a loaf of bread.
Denial began to set in – maybe its not me, it’s the recipe. I found another recipe that called for a 50/50 mix of the softer white wheat flour and bread flour. O yeah. I got this!
WAHHH!! O DEAR LORD PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY NOW! I forgot to add SALT and had the complete meltdown described in the beginning.
My husband Billy – my second best cheerleader – encouraged me not to give up. As long as I kept trying I always stood a chance of succeeding.
Billy and Dee were right. It just takes practice. Now I make 2 loaves of bread each week.