I just sent off a birthday card to my great-granddaughter Keely. She will be 2 tomorrow.
My grandson Christopher is getting married Saturday. I haven’t sent them anything yet. I notified my daughter, and told her I would be sending something, so they won’t be disappointed not to have heard from me. I wanted Mike to make an image of a Magnaclam bride and groom for a card for them, but I don’t think he’s gonna do it. I wanted a baby Magnaclam for Keely’s birthday card, and didn’t get that either.
My brother-in-law & my nephew Rich installed a signal-booster on our TV antenna so that we can get digital TV. So far, we still can’t get it. The only option left to us is to buy a new antenna, and I hesitate to do that, because, what if, after spending all that money, it still doesn’t work?
Rich hauled some rocks in my yard down to where I want to set up a place for burning stuff, and at the same time, getting the rocks out of a place where I want to mow. He missed a few. He set up the rocks in a circle, but (shhh, don’t tell him) I’m doing it over. He set it up just a little too close to my garden fence. Also, there are some concrete blocks in it, and they don’t hold up very good with fire. Today I hauled down the rest of the rocks he’d missed, and started rebuilding the circle. I wanted to be able to burn stuff without going half-way up the hill, where I’ve been burning stuff for some time.
I may finally have got the “check engine” light on my car fixed. The tech caught it just at the right time with an intermittent problem, and replaced a part. So far, it’s gone over 160 miles without the light coming on. Those intermittent problems are really the bear to find.
I had to replace my hot-water heater a couple of weeks ago. I may have to replace my clothes dryer, too, before the year is out.
Life is never dull!
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Friday, September 5, 2008
Drying Apples
I have 2 Northern Spy trees. These apples are great for apple pies. Every year that I have a decent crop, I can apple pie filling. Then, any time during the year, when I want a pie, I just have to make (or buy) the pie crusts, and just dump the filling in and seal and bake them.
One year, we had a lot of early windfall apples, and I kept them picked up. They weren’t quite ripe enough to eat, nor did I get enough at one time to make a canner load. So I sliced them, and froze them. Eventually, I used them to make apple cobbler. The last batch of them (already almost 3 years old) I used about a month or so ago. As I had them setting out to thaw, I would periodically pull a piece off and eat it. I realized that it tasted a lot like dried apples, and thought, “I’ve got to get a food dehydrator, and dry some apples this year.” The crop looks to be pretty abundant this year, so there will be plenty to can, and I can still dry some. So, I got my food dehydrator last week. There are a few apples falling, but I’m not sure they’re really ripe enough to dry. I may try some of them anyway, to see how they turn out – when I get enough to load the dehydrator.
Now thinking about drying apples reminded me of a piece of doggerel my father quoted a couple of times. I couldn’t remember all of it, but I found it on the internet, and also a small write up on how it came about. At this link Overland Stage, scroll down to page 97 (don't worry, it's just one page, starts with Page 93). The little poem doesn’t have a specific author; my understanding of it is that it just sort-of grew – contributions by people who shared the sentiments thereof. And here is the little poem:
Dried Apple Pies
I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it's made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don't pass me dried-apple pies.
One year, we had a lot of early windfall apples, and I kept them picked up. They weren’t quite ripe enough to eat, nor did I get enough at one time to make a canner load. So I sliced them, and froze them. Eventually, I used them to make apple cobbler. The last batch of them (already almost 3 years old) I used about a month or so ago. As I had them setting out to thaw, I would periodically pull a piece off and eat it. I realized that it tasted a lot like dried apples, and thought, “I’ve got to get a food dehydrator, and dry some apples this year.” The crop looks to be pretty abundant this year, so there will be plenty to can, and I can still dry some. So, I got my food dehydrator last week. There are a few apples falling, but I’m not sure they’re really ripe enough to dry. I may try some of them anyway, to see how they turn out – when I get enough to load the dehydrator.
Now thinking about drying apples reminded me of a piece of doggerel my father quoted a couple of times. I couldn’t remember all of it, but I found it on the internet, and also a small write up on how it came about. At this link Overland Stage, scroll down to page 97 (don't worry, it's just one page, starts with Page 93). The little poem doesn’t have a specific author; my understanding of it is that it just sort-of grew – contributions by people who shared the sentiments thereof. And here is the little poem:
Dried Apple Pies
I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it's made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don't pass me dried-apple pies.
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