How Clean is Clean?

I don't mean to be too preachy.  But wait a second, I'm about to lauch a rant.  So if you don't like that, you may be excused. 

I'm 51 years old.  I rather like that I've reached a certain age and think I have a perspective that the young ones haven't yet reached.  They don't agree, but that's fine too.

It is very difficult to purchase a soap product at the grocery store that doesn't have words "anti-bacterial" on it somewhere.  At some point, it was cool and very commercial to advertise that your product killed germs.  And who wouldn't want that?  You want your house, your kitchen and bathrooms clean.  You don't want germs.  No one can argue.  But is clean clean enough?  Can you get too clean?

Please understand that being my age means that my parents were children in the early Depression.  The last one.  My grandparents were young adults.  All in rural Oklahoma.  My mother's parents were farmers.  Watermellon was a main crop.  My father's parents were ranchers and lived just miles away.  Their families knew each other. 

Both families lived in houses without plumbing until the children were big.  I don't mean to over-explain here.  That means there were no flush toilets, no sinks, no bath tubs, no running water of any type.  No hot water heater.  You get it. 

They went to the outhouse to use the bathroom.  My mom spent her entire life terrified of snakes.  And with good reason.  During the time she was my Mom, we lived in a place with small non-threatening garter snakes.  Who could be afraid of that?  But during her youth, she went to outhouse, warm and wet.  Various creatures liked to hang out there, including rattlesnakes.  My grandmother would take her children to the outhouse and guard them with a shovel while they used the outhouse.  According to family history, my grandmother was very good at killing large snakes by chopping at their heads with the end of the shovel.  There are many details about my family heritage that I doubt, but that's what Grandpa always told us.  There was no sink to wash up, no antibacterial soap.

They raised chickens and killed them for food, chopping off their heads, gutting and plucking them.  Never done it myself.  But I've killed a few critters in my time.  This wouldn't have been a process where everyone stopped and washed up with paper towels and antibacterial soap.  

My mom told the story of once-a-week baths.  In dry hot dusty Oklahoma summers it is hard for those with modern sensibilites to imagine hawling water to a tub, then each person bathing in the same water until the last person.  And repeating next week. 

Understand, we are not talking about the Pilgrams, the Middle Ages, George and Martha Washington.  We are talking about my parents.  I'm old, but really not.  This wasn't that long ago that this was not an uncommon lifestyle.  

Both of my Grandmothers saw 90.  My Mom is alive and 73.  I come from a family that is very healthy, more than most.  The human being is an incredibly strong and powerful being, much more than we commonly realize on a daily basis.  Built into us is this amazing imune system.  I don't have any medical training, but I believe that we are exposed all of the time to germs and bacteria of all types.  That our immune system is supported by this continued exposure, this continued fighting off of bugs.  Of course, this may not be true of people with impared immune systems.  I don't mean to make statements for others.

So what is clean enough?  I was taught that anything that got dirty could be cleaned.  Soap and "elbow grease" (meaning physical effort) applied liberally and often, cleaned everything.  Repeat the next day.  I don't get manicures.  My hands are working hands.  They do things.  And when I'm done, I "wash up" with soap.

When I prepare chicken, I wash my sink, put the chicken in it to clean and pick over it, then wash the sink again.  Am I concerned about getting sick?  Hasn't happened yet? 

Pheasant, an ethnic food, and other issues

I'm a big fan of the show, Iron Chef, on Food Network.  Each show there is a featured food.   I just watched one where the featured food was Pheasant. 

The Iron Chef was Morimoto, who is of Japanese descent.  I hope not to offend anyone.  My heart is pure on this.  Morimoto made really grand dishes saying that in Japanese culture, pheasant was reserved for Royalty.  Because he is not royalty, he said this was very special to him.

My grandfather was a farmer in mid-northern Willamette Valley in Oregon when I was in my teens.  His main money making crop during my teen years was Peppermint.  I've blogged extensively about that prior to very many people coming to my blog, when I was still talking to myself, so I should do that again in some form.

My grandfather had no grandsons, but he had 5 granddaughters and I has the oldest, plus 2 step grand kids.  His first name was Lee.  I was named after him and had a very special relationship with him.  But, he did not treat me delicately.  I was his grandson for every purpose.  To me, he was someone I admired and desperately wanted to please. 

For 2 years of high school and 1 year of college, he let me drive the Swather that harvested the peppermint.  Well, the truth is that the Swather cut down the peppermint.  It was fallowed by a machine we called the Chopper which picked it up and shot it into a tub on wheels which was sent to the mint still to de-still the mint oil. 

My grandfather insisted that any vehicle that I drove I was able to do basic service to.  Every morning, 5 - 6 a.m. or so depending upon weather, we fueled the equipment and serviced it.  I was proud and felt special that I could perform his service protocol and get out to the field doing exact what he asked.  But, the rest of the day was boring, and not difficult, but I felt that I was part of a bigger vision.  Back and forth across the field, turn and back, turn and back.  Grandma and the younger cousins brought presents which were stowed at the end of the row.  Bottles of cold/ice water or Ice Tea.  Boxes of sandwiches, pickles, other salad and pickles items, sweets. 

You'd see amazing things as you drove at 2 miles per hour across a 50 acre field of pepper mint.  Various birds and other critters.  From time to time, you'd see wild birds including pheasants which would be scared up by the machinery.  It was nearly an out of body experience, the things I saw.  Being boyish by nature, this was an interesting experience because the boys around would hunt the game that scared up.  I remember eating pheasant which I believe was cooked on a Weber kettle in the back yard.  My memory is a poultry that was flavorful and rich , but oily.  Game is not special to me and not regal.  It is very basic and earthy.  

Remember to deal with reality and earthy things first.

Santiam Cannery

I was raised in the central Willamette Valley in Oregon to parents and grandparents who  migrated together from Oklahoma.  My grandparents purchased a farm when they arrived in Marion, OR.  My parents, newlyweds that year, settled close by.  I went to school in Albany, OR.

My grandfather's crop was hawled to Stayton.  I'll try to say what I remember about that.  My grandfather made a contract with the cannery that he would plant the number of acres of whatever crop they needed, beans, corn, whatever.  The cannery agreed to purchase the whole crop, whatever could be harvested at a previously agreed to price per pound.


When the crop was harvested, it would be hawled, truckload after truckload to the cannery at Stayton.  The truck would be logged in and weighed coming in and out.  It would get emptied and head back for another load.  When a crop was ready, if weather allowed, they would harvest around the clock.  I remember making sandwiches in my grandmother's kitchen and walking them across the fields for my grandfather and who ever was with him.  I remember carrying jars of ice tea and setting them at the end of a row, so that they could stop and pick them up.  I remember standing in the yard behind my grandparents house and looking out into the field in the dark watching the lighted vehicles slowly cross the field as they harvested. 


I'm remembering an employee of my Grandfather, Allen Bagger,  (if you are out there, Allen, let me know how you are).  He was tasked to run some machinery during the night while my grandfather slept.  He got the machinery stuck in the field and couldn't get it out.  He was my age at the time, maybe 17 and didn't know what to do, so he slept in the truck until day light and grandpa came out.  They went together to the shop and got the big tractor to pull it out.  I remember Allen being embarrassed and sorry.  I never saw Grandpa be really angry about things like that.  I remember him saying "well, what did you learn?"  I used to say that to my step kids during tough times, but it was clear they thought I was talking a foreign language, so I stopped. 

Last time I was there, about a year ago, it was planted to rye grass by the renters. 

And Onions. One thing I know for sure - a farmer plants what he thinks he can make money at.  That's is the decision.  There is nothing quaint or sentimental or Laura Ingalls about it.  My cousins say there is no money in farming any more.  A shame.  When local farmers can't make a living, you have to wonder what will happen to those people the local farmer used to feed.  Will China and Mexico be able to fill the spot?  What does it mean that we can't, don't, won't grow our own food.

Remember to get your hands dirty.  And what did you learn? 

Food Inc.

I'm totally into the documentary Food, Inc. The basic premise resonates with me very well, that farming and where our food comes from has changed from a sustainable business, owned and managed by individual farmers, to a few huge companies, controling everything.  It describes contracts with poultry farmers, which from my limited knowledge of business law, should be illegal.

This is outside of my own experience.  My grandfather negotiated a contract with 'The Cannery each year that he would plant a certain specified number of acres of various crops and The Cannery agreed to buy all of that crop for a preagreed price per pound.  My grandfather grew beans, corn, wheat, that kind of thing.  It was a simple arrangement.  The Cannery got what it needed at a price it could plan for.  My grandfather was rewarded for his hard work and good stewardship by having a prearranged contract. 

I remember being about 14 or so.  Some nice lady came to the front door and said she was with an organization which protected family farmers against "Corporate Farms."  My grandmother quickly got my grandfather which listened to what the nice lady said and told her that his farm was a family farm and also a corporation and that he didn't know what she was talking about.  He said that he knew all of the "old boys" around and most of them had come from Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas to our little bit of the Willamette Valley and that they were independent farmers making their way as best they could.  And if they were smart and worked hard, they would have something for their sons (just the kind of "old boy" my granddad was).  He told her he didn't know of any big corporate farms around his area that wasn't run the owners.  Have a nice day!

On the other hand, grocery stores and markets of my youth, the 60s, the 70s, were much smaller.  There were many fewer products, less packaged food.  What little "convenience food" was available seemed like a good idea but Mom and Grandma were sceptical about it and thought it was too expensive.  Now, there is little else. 

Eat Local and in season.  Cook and teach your kids to cook.  If it comes in a box, it isn't food.  If you aren't convinced, find the ingredient list and read it.  If you don't recognize the ingredients, it isn't food.  It is manufactured to resemble food.  It is a trick.  Cook and teach your kids to cook.