The lame-stream media are making quite an on-going news story about the fact that in the U.S. 40 percent of all the food produced is wasted — most of it uneaten on plates or unsold in supermarkets.
I admit that wasted food is a minor league sin, but I want to assure my readers that ol’ Nevah and me on Damphewmore Acres are not contributing much to the nation’s food waste.
For starters, nearly every table scrap and food preparation leaf, peel, core and trim ends up as food for the chickens or my bird dogs.
Second, our edible food waste is negligible becuz we eat so much “rechouffe.” Just in case that word is not in your vocabulary, I want to assure you that it wuzn’t in ours either until I stumbled onto it many years ago. But, I’ll bet a dollar to a donut that most rural folks eat lots of rechouffe, too.
Before I tell you what rechouffe is, let me describe it. Rechouffe comes in many sizes, shapes, tastes and volumes. It’s easy to fix and it reduces the ol’ food bill substantially.
OK, I’ll fess up. Rechouffe is nothing more than left-overs (in French). Or the Spanish call it “bazofia.” And the Polish call it “resztri.” And to the Germans, it’s “speisereste.”
So, you thought that you ate a simple diet. But, it turns out that you’re eating a much more cosmopolitan diet than you thought — all thanks to your almost daily consumption of rechouffe.
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A newly-wed farm wife, being the romantic sort, sent her husband this message:
“If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.”
Her newly-wed hubby messaged back: “I’m sitting in the bathroom. What should I do?”
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Here’s a thought-provoking e-mail that I received a few days ago:
“A few years after I was born, my Dad and mom met a stranger who was new to our rural community. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
“As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger … ah, he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mystery and humor.
“If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to our first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.
“Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home – not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our long-time visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My Dad didn’t permit the liberal use of alcohol, but the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.
“I now know that my early concepts about relationships and worldliness were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked … and never asked to leave.
“More than 50 years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parents’ living room today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch his visual artistry at work.
“This stranger’s name? Why, we just called him by his initials — ‘T.V.’
As a side-note, T. V. has a wife now. We call her ‘Apple.’ Their first child is ‘Cell Phone’, their second child “I Pod, and their grandchildren are ‘I Pad,’ ‘Samsung’ and ‘Smart Phone.’”
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Hope the fine fall weather holds for the upcoming huge Ozark Fall Farmfest in Springfield, Mo. Ol’ Nevah and I are contemplating making a fall excursion into the Ozarks that weekend, and if we do, we’ll stop by the show for a few hours.
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Until next week, I hope your corn harvest is over, your soybeans are filling 3 or 4 beans to a pod, and that the check from your calf crop is already in the bank.
Have a good ‘un.
