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Daisy gets her butt in gear.

Spring has sprung at the Green Goddess Gardens.  No matter what your calendar says, or how much snow is currently outside YOUR front door (sorry Aida), winter is over here in Savannah.  Ring the bells!  Hooray!  Hooray!  Okay, fine, so it does still get down to the upper 30s some nights, and we’ll have at least one more good freeze before the warm weather is here for good – BUT –

The robins are back.  The trees are budding.  Green shoots are breaking out of the earth and reaching for the sun, who climbs higher in the sky and stays longer every day.  I have all but abandoned my socks.  This is a time of much rejoicing for our heroine Daisy.

And yet…

I spent as much of the winter as I could snuggled in my bed.  I read there.  I wrote there.  I ate there.  I made my phone calls there.  I watched movies with Little Boy and the Herban Cowboy there.  I was, as ol’ Bill Shakespeare would say, a slugabed.  It was glorious.

Now that the weather is turning, there is suddenly SO MUCH to do.  All the crap I procrastinated all winter is piling up and beginning to laugh at me behind my back.  Tree removal.  Toilet repair.  Little Boy’s haircut.  Making skin cream.  Fixing bikes.  Pruning plants.  Cleaning the chicken coop.  Oil change. 

And that’s just what I’ve been putting off because it was “too cold.”  I’ve also got a filthy house, no clean laundry, and an empty refrigerator/freezer.  There’s also the spring garden to prepare and plant. 

My To Do List has somehow achieved sentience and is trying to kill me.  And my winter inertia is making that a very real possibility. 

So today Little Boy and I hauled our lazy behinds outside, blinking hard at the bright sunshine.  We breathed deep, clear breaths into our dusty lungs.  We shook off the winter and got to work, shoveling compost, raking pine straw, and sharing our sandwiches with the chickens. 

It does feel good to get moving, though you couldn’t have told me that yesterday.  I guess that’s it then.  My winter pity party is over, and my butt is officially in gear.  Time to stop driving the Herban Cowboy to work and let him ride his bike for the workout.  Time to start my morning walks back up.  Time to haul Little Boy to the library in the bike trailer.  Time to forage for wild greens and herbs.  Time to go outside and play.

Meet me out back by Aida’s glider and wear your play clothes.

Roses from the Herban Cowboy, sent backstage when he came to see my play (The Good Body @ Muse Arts Warehouse). Also pictured: seeds for the spring garden!

When summer comes, I'll plant cucumbers here again. This year I'll plant them in these raised cement thingies I found at the dump.

Is it me, or is my compost pile starting to look like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock?

Yarrow sprouting through the pine straw outside Little Boy's bedroom.

First veggie bed is ready for compost, mulch, then planting. I'll have to protect this bed from any freezes we still might get.

I need to move that wagon before they figure out how to hop the fence with it and devour the garden.

That is my toe, not a juicy worm Mavis. Back off, bad girl.

Aw. Looked like 5 fat, pink worms to me... --Mavis

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Daisy tells a graphic birth story.  You have been warned.

Well dear readers, Fern has had herself a Baby Boy.  As of this writing, he is exactly 48 hours old, 6 pounds and some change, and he looks like a pink Mr. Magoo with long hands and feet.  I’m totally his favorite.  Fern and her Honeyman are busy adjusting to life +1, so I shall unfold the tale for you….

In the wee, wee hours of Monday morning (or late, late Sunday night really), Baby Boy let Fern know it was time to be born.  So Fern and the Honeyman set off for the birthing center, calling cowgirl M to join them.  The predawn hours were spent in the first stages of labor, sleeping when possible, singing and breathing when sleep wasn’t possible.

I, meanwhile, was sleeping peacefully, then having my usual morning of coffee and cats and chickens and Little Boy and getting the Herban Cowboy off to work.  Just before 8am, M calls me and tells me Fern is 6cm and progressing nicely, so I have another cup of coffee and read another chapter of my book.  At this point, I assumed we had hours and hours and hours, so I casually dressed Little Boy and we finally dragged our butts to the car and headed out the door.

I called M as I left, wondering if I should go let Fern’s chickens out on the way, but the urgency in M’s voice dispersed all other thoughts.  “Um, I think you need to come right now and hurry.  She’s at 10cm.

“What?  Already?  Ohmigod.  I’m on my way.”  Pedal to the metal.  I decided if I got pulled over, I’d stick my belly way out and tell the cop I had to get to the birthing center to have a baby (technically that would not be a lie).

I was the last of the birthing party to arrive.  Back in the birthing room, Fern was in the whirlpool tub with her Honeyman behind her, supporting her.  I joined the midwives, M and the photographer, who documented the event.  The lighting was dim and the only sounds were the whispers of the women and the bubbling of the water in the tub.

And that was what astonished M and I the most.  Here was this woman, with a baby’s head pushing past her pelvic bone, and she squatted quietly in the water, occasionally moaning with her breath as she pushed through the contractions.  Um, wow.  M and I shared giggled confessions behind our hands at how much we had screamed and cursed as we’d pushed our children out of our bodies.

And Fern was so beautiful!  And not in an “oh isn’t childbirth beautiful” kind of way.  I mean literally, truly, powerfully beautiful.  She is a slender woman anyway, and her pregnant belly only added a graceful curve to her middle.  Her skin was dewy and unblemished, her chestnut hair piled gently on top of her head.  I couldn’t stop staring at her, naked and laboring, every part of her perfect and gorgeous.

You know a woman’s true self when she gives birth.  Y’all, when it happened to me, it was awful.  I was a fat, sweaty, naked, angry animal with a puffy face and frizzy hair.  I screamed like a Viking during every contraction, cursing and belching and crying in between.  There was so much sweat and poop and blood.  At one point, I even begged Death to take me.  There was no such drama for Fern.

After more than an hour of coaxing the kid towards the light at the end of the tunnel, the midwives got Fern out of the tub and into the bed to move around and change positions.  We tried a few different ones, everyone taking turns holding her up or squeezing her hands.

Standing?  No.  Hands and knees?  No.  Laying over a yoga ball?  Um, no.  Finally, Jill (the midwife leading our team) says in her thick South Georgia accent, “Well.  I hate to do this, ‘cuz usually the mamas hate it, but let’s get you on your back honey.  I hate to do it, but sometimes it’s just the magic you need.”

So we flipped Fern like a pancake and propped her up with some pillows, the Honeyman snuggling beside her in the bed.  Sure enough, not long after that, Baby Boy’s head starts coming out.

Okay.  So even though I’ve actually had a baby this way before, and I’ve seen pictures and videos, I have never actually witnessed a live human birth.  And that right there Ladies and Gentlewitches, is the coolest thing I have ever seen.

Jill said, “Somebody get the mirror.”  Ooh!  I’m on it.  I can do that.  I grabbed the big hand mirror and held it up between Fern and Jill, angling it so Fern could see all that was happening.  And Fern, who had had her eyes closed the entire time I had been there, suddenly opened her eyes wide and watched.

The waves of the contractions crashed bigger and bigger, each crest bringing us closer and closer.  With each push, Fern saw more and more of the baby she’d been growing inside her.  We held her up, we murmured our encouragement and love, we watched in agony until finally –

POP!

We all gasped as his little face appeared.  M and I began quietly sobbing with joy (such a strange feeling).  And then with an unceremonious mmmmbloomp, he was out.  Jill wiped him off and put him on Fern’s chest to be kissed and cooed at and fallen in love with, while the rest of the team sprang into action, cleaning up various fluids and baby’s first poop (mmmm is for meconium!), delivering the placenta and finishing the paperwork.

With the hand holding part over, M and I decided to make a graceful exit.  We left the happy new family in the bed, Baby Boy already a champ at latching on and nursing.

So that’s it kids.  Our newest little Herban Cowboy has arrived.  Fern has requested no visitors or phone calls if possible for this first week.  Facebook messages are fine, since she can get to them at her leisure.  If you are one of her friends and you are dying to be helpful, bring food!  Visitors are overwhelming, but food is necessary.  M and I are doing our best to keep the new family fed, but more help is always needed.  You can always call me or M to find out what you can do.

Thanks to all who have breathlessly awaited our new arrival.  And in the coming weeks, Fern will emerge from her New Mommy Cave to tell us her story herself.  And post pictures.

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Daisy catches up.  A little.

Today is partly sunny and almost 70 degrees.  That seems to be how winter in Savannah goes.  It’s freezing for 2 or 3 weeks, then for about a week it’s 70 degrees with alternating rain and sunshine.  It’s a delightful taste of spring every few weeks, and it makes the winters here very tolerable for a cold hater like me.

The freezing temperatures over the last few weeks kept me and Little Boy mostly indoors.  I stayed in my warm bed with my fluffy comforter as much as possible,  reading, researching, and hanging out on Facebook way too much.  Little Boy built castles with his blocks, had parties with his plastic dinosaurs, and drew endless dragons on dollar store paper tablets.

But there’s no time for watching movies or making cookies today.  We’re busy catching up on the homestead chores here at the Green Goddess Gardens.  Spring is mere weeks away, and we have lots to do before we plant the first seeds in the spring gardens.

My serious little farmer. I interrupted him while he was "busy" working on some sticks.

The biggest problem we’ve been dealing with are the chickens.  With not as much green stuff growing in January, the girls have picked our backyard clean.  Nothing left but old grass roots and pine straw.  If I want to plant food for us to eat, I’ve got to keep those pesky birds out of the garden. 

I love when they follow him around the yard.

We started out by stringing chicken wire around about half the backyard.  Well, those acrobatic biddies were able to easily fly over the 4 foot barrier!  I began rescuing them from the back lane several times a day.  The Herban Cowboy and I despaired about being the white trash folks on the block whose chickens are always in the alley. 

I finally remembered I could clip their wings, and a bit of internet research and a few YouTube videos later all 5 girls got clipped.  Note:  If you’re going to do this, do it first thing in the morning before you open the coop.  Take them out one at a time, clip and release.  If you let them all out first, then you’ll just have to catch them, running around the muddy yard while your 3 year old laughs hysterically.  Trust me.

The wing clipping seems to have done the trick.  Only Mavis has gotten out since then, and only once.  Have to keep an eye on that one, that Mavis.

That brought the girls down to earth, but we had another enemy to conquer:  the crape myrtle tree in the garden.  She blocks so much sun, and we need all the rays we can get in our shady little backyard.  So last weekend, the Herban Cowboy climbed the ladder and sawed down the branches/trunks about halfway up.  I chopped them up with loppers and a hand saw, hauling the branches to the chicken side of the yard.  The bare trunks of the tree still stand, but those are a manageable enough size that I can saw them down and haul them off at my leisure, without jeopardizing the garden fence.

She'll be hauled to the dump and mulched (everyone sing with me): It's the CIRcle of LIIIIIFE!

As of this writing, the Herban Cowboy is outside stapling up a chicken wire fence.  Update:  He just came in and announced that he’s 5 minutes from completion, but has to run to Home Depot for more staples.  I love that guy.

Anyway, this is a huge deal here at the homestead.  The reasons our fall garden failed were lack of sufficient sunlight and the chickens, who kept flying over the barriers we created, eating everything they could get their beaks into that WAS growing.  I’m still mad about the turnips. 

Chicken wire fence!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  thank goodness I don’t have to live off this land!  I really can’t beat myself up too much, the yard was nothing but blackberry brambles and pokeweed when we bought it, and each season has brought more lessons and more food than the season before.

I haven’t been able to do much in my garden for the last few months, but now I have no more excuses.  Well, except when the freezing cold temperatures return.

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Daisy discusses death with a three year old.

Little Boy and I saw a dead squirrel today on our walk.  It was totally gross.  It floated in the murky water of the lake at Daffin Park, patches of skin gone, revealing nasty smooth white skin underneath.  Sick.  It took me a minute to even identify it as a squirrel it was so weird looking.

“Look at vat Mommy!” Little Boy shouted as he ran towards the concrete edge.  “Eew what IS it?” he crouched to get a better look.

“I think it’s a squirrel.  It’s dead.  Eew.”  and then I added, “Aw, poor thing.”

“Aw, poor fing!” my little parrot echoed.  Little Boy wanted to stay and observe the dead squirrel some more, but I was eager to continue our walk, so we moved on. 

As we walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Bye Dead Squirrel!  I hope you feel better soon!”

I had a moment.  Do I let it go, or correct his understanding of death?  We’ve had discussions about it before.  He has seen dead animals, we’ve told stories of long dead relatives (like the Herban Cowboy’s late father “Grandpa Andy”), and we’ve even discussed how the dinosaurs died a LONG, LONG time ago, before there were even any people on the planet.  I have done my best to answer his questions as honestly as I can, in terms I think he can understand.  So far he’s been very matter of fact about it all.

So I said, as gently as I could, “Well, Honey, that squirrel is dead.  She’s not going to get better.  She’s just gone now.”

He continued walking for a moment, then stopped and turned back toward the dead squirrel.  When he turned back, I was surprised to see big, fat tears welling up in his little eyes.  “Well…” he began in a cracking little voice.  “Well…”  He was obviously thinking very hard about what he needed to say.  “Well, Mommy, but I don’t WANT the animals to die.” 

“Oh Honey.”  I swooped down to be Mommy and we hugged for a few minutes.  I broke the embrace and got face to face with him.  “Are you feeling sad about that squirrel?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking honestly more heartbroken than I’ve seen him in a long time.  And then he repeated it, and I swear his cute little chin was actually quivering, “I don’t want the animals to die.”

What could I do?  I hugged him to me again and he let me hold him without wiggling free.  I said, “I don’t want the animals to die either, Sweetheart.  I know it’s hard for you to understand right now, but that is how things have to be.  That is life, my Love.”

We walked on and he muttered, “But I don’t WANT it to be.”  We held hands and walked to the playground and talked about how important it was to have as much fun as we can every day, having adventures and making people laugh and helping people along the way.  Before long, he was laughing and showing me how he can go down the slide backwards.  Showoff.  I don’t know where he gets it.

Little Boy in the backyard.

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Daisy takes a bath.

Winter is full upon us, and so is my winter skin.  I get so spoiled in the hot, humid summers here, rarely needing moisturizer, glistening like a frog in a bog.  Then winter creeps the cold and dry into all the cracks and my skin dries out until it looks and feels like paper.  Mmmm sexy.

I love to warm up on a chilly winter day with a hot bath, but soaking in a tub of hot water is murder on my skin – I dry up faster than Lindsay Lohan in rehab.  I used to douse myself with bottles and bottles of lotion afterwards, but my skin always seemed to soak it right up and be just as tight and dry as ever. 

But wait Gentle Reader!  Despair not!  I have discovered the secret to baby smooth winter skin, and because I love you all so much, I shall reveal it to you.  Drumroll please (you have to imagine the drumroll yourself)….    

Twice weekly oil massage/salt scrub/hot bath! 

It sounds decadent, which it is.  And it’s also easy and cheap, and don’t the Herban Cowgirls just LOVE easy and cheap?  So here’s how you do it.

Warm up the bathroom and gather your usual towel, washcloth and soap.  Go to the kitchen and get a dish of regular table salt.  Get some oil, a few tablespoons to a quarter cup.  Any kind of oil will do.  I use whatever’s cheapest or whatever’s going rancid (hey, can’t eat it, might as well use it!), usually olive oil.

DISCLAIMER:  I am about to suggest pouring oil on your naked body while sitting in a slippery tub!  This is clearly an idea fraught with peril!  If you have never done this before, BE CAREFUL!!  Rubber mats and extra towels can save you some bruises (or worse!), but use your judgment and BE SAFE.  Again:  DANGER!  SLIPPERY OIL!

Okay, now take your clothes off and rub the oil all over your body while you sit in the slippery tub.  Really massage it in there.  I like to go from the extremities towards the heart.  I usually do this part standing, since the tub is COLD under my butt, but you may feel safer sitting.  Again, the slippery oil.  Danger and all.

Once you’ve oiled yourself slippery, it’s time to salt scrub those hamhocks.  Get some salt on those hands and polish that skin, working in circles from the extremities towards the heart.  I hope I don’t have to tell everyone to avoid your face with this treatment.  Please do not scrub handfuls of salt into your face.  You will not feel spa fresh doing that.

When you’re covered shoulders to feet in oil and salt, it’s time for your hot bath.  Yay!  I like to add a few drops of lavender essential oil and swish it around.  Rinse off all the salt, letting it dissolve into the hot water.  Massage the oil into your skin, using the washcloth to remove excess oil from all your cracks and crevices.  After a good soaking, if I still feel overly oily, I rinse off a few minutes more in a hot shower.

HERE IS ANOTHER DISCLAIMER:  I am about to tell you to hoist your oiled body out of a ceramic tub!  Danger!!  Use a towel to dry your hands off, or put a hand towel on top of your rubber bathmat, or call someone in to help you – whatever you have to do to get out of the tub safely.  Also make sure you remove all excess oil with your washcloth and/or towel.  Oil will stain your clothing and sheets!  Use caution please!!

Okay now hoist your oiled body out of your tub.  Rub yourself dry with your towel.  Congratulations.  Your skin is now softer than it’s been since the day you were born.  Now put on your jammies and snuggle under the covers with a book and some hot chocolate. 

You’re welcome.

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Daisy butchers a Dickens classic.

I am not getting you a Christmas present.  There, there; dry your tears.  It’s not as bad as it sounds.  Really.  If you think I’m a Scrooge, join me for a Christmas Carol, Herban Cowgirl style.  First, let’s follow the Ghost of Christmas Past to an amalgam of Little Daisy’s childhood Christmases….

By Thanksgiving, my mother would always announce (quite emphatically and sadly) that This Year We Were Not Going To Have A Big Christmas.  She would explain to my younger sister and I that we were very fortunate to have all that we did, and Christmas isn’t about getting presents anyway.  Then, over the next few weeks, my sister and I would watch as the drifts of brightly wrapped packages got bigger and bigger under the tree, eventually spreading across the living room floor like an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.  Then of course, Christmas morning would arrive, and with it, all the rest of the toys and goodies that Santa had left for us in the night.  It was a toy orgy beyond most children’s wildest dreams.

I was always excited for Christmas, and eagerly anticipated its arrival, but so much about the holiday confused me, even at a young age.  Why do people put up decorations and do Christmas stuff for weeks before the actual day?  Nobody does that with any other holiday.  Why do we get/give so many presents?  In the stories, Santa only brings one, and what do presents have to do with Jesus being born anyway (my mom always said it was because of the Magi, but they only brought one present each as well)?

I was too young to be able to articulate it, but I always wished for a truly simple Christmas.  There was something about opening ALL those presents that made me feel uncomfortable.  I also spent a lot of time thinking about the Jewish kids, and wondering why Santa never left them any presents.  On a side note that the Herban Cowboy thinks is hilarious (he grew up Jewish), I always assumed that any undecorated houses at Christmastime were where the Jewish people lived.

Enough idyllic Christmas scenes from Daisy’s childhood; the Ghost of Christmas Present will take it from here.  First of all, I do love getting gifts for people.  I love finding something that makes me think of someone I love, knowing that they will love it.  I love the look on people’s faces when they receive a gift that truly touches them.  What’s so difficult about it?  Make a list, check it twice, shop, wrap, give.

Of course what works in theory often falls apart in practice.  Making the list, even when I check it twice, I invariably forget at least one very important person.  I really hate shopping, but when the stores are twice as crowded as normal and everyone seems to be rude and pushy and angry for some reason, it’s even worse.  I also hate wrapping presents.  I don’t know why, but I always have.  I’d rather be waterboarded for an entire minute than wrap any kind of gift. 

So the actual giving part is the only part of this entire process that doesn’t irritate me.  And don’t even get me started on the boring, awful Christmas music.  I know some of you love that stuff and that’s fine, but imagine the most annoying music you can think of being played everywhere you go for an entire month.  Gah!

Sometimes I make homemade gifts for people, but I do that year round anyway.  And some people think handmade gifts are cheap.  I’ve even had someone say to me, referencing the bath salts I just handed her, “It’s hard to be able to afford gifts for everyone.”  I just let it go, but I always want to explain to people that I have enough money to buy them a gift but I chose instead to… Uch.  You know what?  Nevermind.

I do feel pangs of guilt when I hear my mother or sister talk about how many gifts they’ve gotten for people and how much shopping they still have to do, because I know that all they’re getting from me are secondhand books and homemade soup mix (hastily wrapped in brown paper).  It’s hard not to judge myself because I’m not putting as much thought or effort into their Christmases as they do mine.

Perfect. The house is now decorated. Pass the eggnog.

So where do I go from here?  How do I celebrate the holiday in a personal and meaningful way without succumbing to the pressures of the perceived expectations of others?  This is where the Ghost of Christmas Future gently takes our hands and leads us to a vision of the Christmases to come.

Daisy’s utopian Christmas?  One present for Little Boy from mom and dad, and one present from Santa.  One small Christmas tree covered with two strings of lights and a bunch of old ornaments.  Homemade food and drink, freely shared with friends and family.  We’ll spend a weekend making presents for our extended family, each year a different project; salt dough ornaments or handmade cards or whatever crafty idea suits our fancy that year. 

In my imaginary future Christmases, I feel no guilt for not celebrating the way others do.  I give what I can, when I can.  I accept gifts with grace, without feeling the pressure to reciprocate. 

I’ve already started making these changes towards my ideal future Christmas.  This year I Freecycled all the decorations except the tree, two strands of lights, a box of ornaments and our stockings.  No garlands, no wreaths, no extra Christmas tchotchkes.  I got my nieces one book to share.  My mom is getting some homemade lentil soup mix in a jar.  The Herban Cowboy is getting some sexy flannel PJ pants (I’m going to burn his nasty sweatpants so help me).  A few of my Cowgirl friends will be the lucky recipients of some books I no longer want in my collection. 

And that’s it kids.  No guilt, no shame, no pressure, no excess.  This may sound crazy coming from a non-believer, but I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would have wanted.

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Daisy freezes her patootie off and makes lunch.

Pitiful, frozen elder trees. Don't worry. She'll be back.

My garden is frozen.  The chicken waterer is a solid block of ice.  There is a lovely miniature ski jump of ice coming out of the hose nozzle.  The elder and hibiscus hang with dark, frosty, withered leaves.  This is a serious cold snap for Savannah.  My old cat Mojo has been sleeping inside nights, something he usually avoids.  I’ve even had to actually turn the heat on, which I’ve avoided like the plague this year so far. 

With all this cold weather we’ve had, I would be smart to get cooking and let the oven heat the house, but for some reason (maybe I’m a glutton for punishment) I’ve been preparing food to freeze.  I’ve already written about making food and freezing it; so far I’ve done chili, soup, meatloaf and breakfast muffins. 

The tiny, frozen waterfall on the end of the garden hose.

I’ve tried cooking for the freezer years ago, but I never really got into it.  Right now it seems to work for me.  I do have to spend time in the kitchen cooking (which I hate), but I’ve been thinking of it like a part time job.  I clock in, make some food, and clock back out.  It’s a worthwhile investment of my time.  It sure beats having a real job.

So I clock in and make some homemade food for my family.

The other day I made some chicken soup and some burritos.  They’re all packaged and frozen and ready to be thawed and heated.  My new favorite freezer food, however, is sandwiches. 

Little Boy and I usually end up having sandwiches for lunch, either peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese.  It’s not that we’re particularly fond of these sandwiches (nor are they fabulously nutritious), but they are cheap and easy, and so they win by default.  Lazy, lazy lunch.

While researching freezer foods, I ran across a website with pages devoted to making and freezing buttloads of sandwiches.  Peanut butter and jelly and ham and cheese to be exact.  There’s a trick to making the PB&J.  None of the jelly can touch the bread, so you spread both sides of bread with peanut butter, and spread the jelly in the middle, leaving a small margin of peanut butter around the edges.  With the ham and cheese, the trick is to use Miracle Whip instead of regular mayonnaise.  Who knew?

So we gathered our ingredients.  Most were from the local Piggly Wiggly, but an impromptu trip to the dollar store yielded two loaves of bread and some strawberry jelly.  I also got some freezer bags to store all my delicious sandwiches.  Lay out the ingredients, make the sandwiches, mark which kind they are on the bag, and stack in the freezer.  It took me about half an hour.

L to R: Chicken soup, chili, frozen burritos, red cabbage and potatoes (behind burritos), sandwiches (with another stack of sandwiches behind), more burritos (in door).

I made 9 PB&Js for under $4.00.  That’s less than 50 cents a sandwich!  The ham and cheese were more expensive; I made 9 sandwiches for just over $7.00, but that’s still a sandwich for under a buck.  Not bad in my little world.  The best part is, just take them out of the freezer and they’re thawed by lunchtime.

Little Boy and I have been having picnic lunches outside with the chickens.  The girls quickly figured out that we’re holding the good stuff when we come out there, so they come running when they see us.  They’ve gotten quite cheeky in their attempts to sample our lunches.  Mavis has snatched a pickle right out of Little Boy’s hand (she then immediately discovered that she doesn’t like pickles), and yesterday she jumped right into my lap!  Naughty girls.  (By the way, Mavis has started laying her brown eggs, so now we’ve got two girls “in production”)

These freezer sandwiches are not totally eco-friendly (disposable plastic freezer bags).  They’re also not the most nourishing whole food (store bought bread, cheap meat, etc).

But will they keep me from driving through at Taco Bell?  Absolutely.  Will they stop me from blowing 15 bucks on 2 days worth of saturated fat at Wendys?  You betcha.  Will they prevent me from stressing about what to make for lunch?  Of course.  They already have. 

Expenses?  Down.

Caloric intake?  Down. 

Stress?  Down dooby do down down.

I’m in love with freezer sandwiches.  Tomorrow I’m having PB&J.

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