Thank You, Mama!!

Today is my Mama's birthday. So I thought I would share a few stories about her and try to explain why she is so important and special to me.

Last month we had a Christmas party at work. It was a "pot luck" of sorts, with everybody bringing a homemade dish to share. I brought a couple jars of my garden's green beans, and some home made corn pudding. After we got done eating, my bosse's husband was heard to say, "Amanda's mama musta taught her a few things before she threw her out of the house. That girl can cook."

While I do enjoy cooking and like to think I have a knack for it, I certainly cannot credit myself with any talent that I may have. My mama taught me everything I know.

Growing up, my sister and I would help her prepare supper. We rolled homemade pasta, chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes. As we got older, my sister and I were in charge of preparing hearty breakfasts for the family to fuel us for a hard day on the farm. We fried eggs, made sausage gravy and coffee cakes. On rare occasions, mama would make homemade donuts and we would help her dunk them in big bowls of vanilla glaze.

Mama taught us how to bake her amazing homemade bread. There was a time when my incredibly hard-working mama made over 100 loaves of bread a week to sell at the farmer's market. I think it is safe to say she's an expert in that field. I still can't quite make bread like hers. Yeasty, wheaty and soft, there's nothing quite like mama's homemade bread right out of the oven.

There's nothing like mama's fried chicken, either. (Yes, fried in a cast-iron skillet!) After trying to copy her recipe by memory and failing miserably, I made a phone call, asking for advice. Mama took the time to send me an email with the directions to her amazing fried chicken and light-as-air homemade biscuits. While still not as good as mama's, my next attempt was a lot better.

Lessons learned from mama weren't just from the kitchen. While we sat on the front porch snapping green beans for canning or took a long walk down the back roads, mama taught us more than I can ever thank her for. In my teens, I often thought she was wrong and I was right, but looking back, I shake my head and smile. Mama was right after all!

Mama taught us to value hard work and have fun too. We worked hard, but never went a day without stopping for some well-deserved fun. After a hard day unloading hay or butchering chickens, we would often stop for an ice-cream treat, or even a minute on the front porch with a tall glass of sweet tea. In the summer time we would have hot-dog roasts in the field, sitting around a bonfire until dark. My sister and I would catch marshmallows on fire while mama and papa looked on and laugh at our antics.

Growing up on the farm, we learned to have faith in God. Just watching our parents taught us that. Being a farmer requires a large amount of faith to begin with. Droughts, too much rain, wind storms, or cold snaps could ruin an entire crop. I remember my Papa and mama praying for rain before every meal one summer when a drought parched the entire county. I found a certain comfort in their prayers, and I learned to pray too. Even as a young'un, I knelt by my bedside and prayed for rain. And sure enough, it always rained. Maybe not exactly when we thought we needed it, but God always provided for us.


But most of all, I thank my mama for always being there. Somehow she managed to balance being a mom, a counsellor, and a friend. When I was eight and couldn't sleep due to a bad dream, she would sit next to me and stoke my hair until I fell asleep again. when I was 14 and worried about my future, she reminded me to have faith in God. When I was 17 and all i wanted was a purple ribbon at the fair with my market lambs, she took time out of her busy schedule to be there for help and support. When I was 18 and some boy broke my heart, she told me it was okay to be sad, but that I deserved better. When I turned 20, I met the man of my dreams and we got married. And where was mama? Still there, willing to offer advice when needed, but never pushing her opinions on me. And I know, even though I live in a different end of the county now, whenever I need her, Mama is there. Thank you, Mama.

And Thank God for Mama!

The ol' F 150

It still makes me kinda sad when I go back home and the ol' rusty truck isn't out sitting beside the barn anymore. While I can't blame my dad for selling the rust-bucket, I sure had a lot of good memories wrapped up in that ol' ford.

For awhile, it was our only vehicle. Betsy and I sat on the tiny bench seat in the back: Betsy behind Papa, who always drove, and me behind mama, who was always in the passenger side. I only remember one time that Mama drove Papa somewhere, and that was when he had bronchitis really bad and couldn't hardly breathe. When the truck was still new and shiny, I spilled an orange drink all over the back seat (and my sister), causing my papa to have a conniption fit. A long time ago, the truck was washed and waxed on a regular basis.

The old truck started having problems when it was retired to a "farm vehicle." One cold winter day, papa was gone and Mama and we girls had to go to the Farm Bureau for something. As we were preparing to leave, mama was heard to say "Oh my gosh, I don't have any brakes!" she quickly shut off the truck and started to think. Papa was out of town and I don't think we even had a cell phone at the time to get in contact with him. So, mama figured the best thing to do was walk to the farm bureau's service station, just a little bit down the road.

Once we got there, the rough-and-tumble but helpful staff was more than willing to assist us. It was decided that the truck had a busted brake line, and the part was ordered from another local shop. The mechanic told the people on the other line that my mom was pregnant (which she certainly was not) just to get them to hurry up!

We walked to the local burger joint for lunch while the guys fixed our truck. A few hours later we were ready to roll again. The next week, Mama made the mechanics a pan of cinnamon rolls to thank them for their help. I still think they all flattered themselves to think she was a little sweet on them.

A few years later, I decided I must learn to drive or I would die. My poor patient Papa risked death by taking me out on the back roads, no doubt cringing with every stall and gear-grinding shift. I cried from sheer frustration, trying to learn to stop and start on the steep hills without rolling all the way back to the bottom. I am forever grateful for his teaching, however, because I finally learned, and to this day I drive a stick-shift.

After I finally mastered the art of stick, the old F150 became my commute vehicle. Several times a day, I drove down the road to the neighbor's farm where I fed lambs, calves, feeder steers, and the wicked demons known as hogs (I will have to elaborate on this at a later date). I pretty much trashed that old truck with my manure-encrusted boots. I also used the truck to run into town for show-lamb feed. With my new-found freedom, I cruised down the back roads, wind blowing through my bleach-blond hair. (I went through some kind of country beauty queen phase and was pretty vain about my appearance) The radio had this weird habit of getting really loud, and then fading out. But it played a Clint Black cassette pretty well. It was the only one I had, if I recall, but I remember singing along with "Better man" and "Killin' Time." I took myself and my lambs to the local fairs, one time getting lost in downtown Lexington with a load to frightened sheep. (not one of my prouder moments) I spent a good deal of that summer in that truck. Sitting in the bed one summer night, I broke up with a boy. I cried in the cab all the way home. Somehow, I drove that truck home after a calf kicked me in the knee. I probably came close to having a few accidents, and I backed into several stationary objects, denting the bumper a couple times.

If that old truck could talk, I bet it would tell some crazy stories. It would tell of chasing cows across the field, of hauling hay and feed and lambs, and of a crazy kid learning how to drive and learning about life. I bet there's still corn and manure from my boots on the pedals, and there might even be a hairbrush or a stick of lip gloss rolling around in the back seat.

So wherever you are, ol' F150, I hope you're still running, and if you're not, may you rust in peace.

Pon Hoss

According to Wikipedia: What we call "Pon Hoss" or "Scrapple" is as follows:

Locally called "everything but the oink" or made with "everything but the squeal",[3] scrapple is typically made of hog offal, such as the head, heart, liver, and other scraps, which are boiled with any bones attached (often the entire head), to make a broth. Once cooked, bones and fat are discarded, the meat is reserved, and (dry) cornmeal is boiled in the broth to make a mush. The meat, finely minced, is returned to the pot and seasonings, typically sage, thyme, savory, black pepper, and others, are added.[2][4] The mush is formed into loaves and allowed to cool thoroughly until set. The proportions and seasoning are very much a matter of the region and the cook's taste.[5]


A good friend of mine is an expert at making this country delicacy. A few days back, he called me up, telling me he had just butchered some hogs and had a new batch of Pon Hoss. I met him in town with some of my homemade relish for trade. As soon as I got home, I heated up my cast iron skillet and floured up a few slices for frying.

As a side note, a cast iron skillet is a girl's best friend. While I do enjoy the beautiful diamond engagement ring my husband bought for me (with the money earned from selling his old Chevy pickup;) my cast iron skillet is one of my most prized possessions. It cooks meat and taters like nobody's business, resulting in a crispiness and flavor a regular skillet can only dream of.


Back to the Pon Hoss. While it is an "acquired taste" (Tyler will not eat it, no matter how I try to convince him how good it is), those who love Pon Hoss will all agree, there's nothing quite like it. While it is good eaten sliced right off the loaf, my favorite way to eat it is floured, salted and peppered, and then fried in oil or bacon grease until it's nice and crispy.

YUM.


I admit, it's probably not the healthiest food in the world, but eating it brings back good memories for me. Growing up, our neighbor would send his daughters over with homemade sausage and pon hoss every winter. My mom and I always got to eat the pon hoss, as my sister and dad were of the mind anything with boiled hog head in it couldn't be good to eat.

So if you ever get the chance, get you a loaf of pon hoss and fry a few slices. (be sure it's from a old-time country person that knows what they're doing) It will surprise you!

Mason Jars

I was washing out a mason jar this morning and got to thinking... I wonder how many different things that one jar has preserved over the years? My mama gave me several dozen of these wonderful inventions when I moved to my new home. That summer I dutifully filled them all with green beans, tomatoes, and sweet pickle relish. Then, after the contents were eaten or used in recipes, the jars were washed and stowed away 'til next summer. Next summer came, and I filled them again, with green beans, tomatoes, relish, peaches, applesauce,and apple pie filling. I canned and canned and canned, driven by some kind of desire to have my shelves full for winter.

People have been preserving food for years, either by drying, salting, canning or freezing. For some reason I enjoy the satisfying feeling of seeing all those mason jars filled with various and sundry kinds of food to enjoy during the bleak winter months.

Canning was something that my Mama taught my sister and I how to do. We peeled and sauced tomatoes, snapped green beans, and sliced up squash and stuffed them all in those re-used glass mason jars. My sister was the champion "bean stuffer" (to this day, I don't know how she could cram what seemed like a half-bushel of beans into a single quart jar.) I was the chief mess-maker. I would always be covered in tomato stains by the time the job was complete. Mama taught us how to make pickles, grape juice, and apple sauce. She showed us how to extract the juice from fruits and make jellies, or mash them up to make jams. Nothing can beat homemade strawberry jam on buttered homemade toast. Mmmmm....

One time, as I was discussing canning with Tyler's Nanna, his Grandfather asked me, "Amanda, how many girls your age do you know that can as much food as you do?" I just laughed and shrugged. I know I'm probably an odd ball, but it's important to me to preserve the garden's bounty, as well as preserve an art that not everyone knows about.



So, as I put the empty jars away, I plot and plan on what I will fill them with next summer. There's always a new recipe to try. And as long as my shelves are full, I know we will have food to eat, gifts to give, and in every jar there's some kind of memory that you just can't get in a can of Green Giant.

Howdy!

Hey there! I'm Amanda Rhodes, and I'm starting this blog for several reasons. Number 1 is to share some of my experiences, past and present. Number 2 is to share some fun memories of growing up on my parents farm in Southern Augusta County, VA, and number 3 is to keep my customers up to date on my small business, Country Rhodes Produce and Baked Goods. I'm looking forward to another successful season at the Staunton/Augusta Farmer's Market in 2012!



So I guess I will introduce myself a little. My Husband Tyler and I live out here in Augusta County, on top of a hill surrounded by mountains, mountains and more mountains. For the time being we only have a small plot of land, but it's enough to raise chickens, a few sheep, a calf, and lots of vegetables! Growing up on a market garden operation instilled in me a deep love of growing things. Even as a whiny 9 year old who despised picking green beans, a feeling of satisfaction and self-worth was forming inside. I thank my parents for the life they provided me growing up, as it made me who I am today.







I recently married a farm boy, Tyler, who is also a mechanic and trucker by trade. He works for a local tractor dealership, while I work for a local cannery. I also stay busy here at the house, growing a variety of vegetables and baking homemade granola bars (AKA: "Amanda's Famous Granola Bars") and cereal for the Farmer's Market.












When we're not at our jobs working, or preparing for the farmer's market, we have a great crew of country people we hang out with. One of Tyler's favorite pass-times is lawnmowers. Not just using them for the conventional purpose, but rebuilding them, "soupin' 'em up", off-roading with them, and yes, racing them. When I first met Tyler he denied being a "redneck" but according to his city cousins he's probably the biggest redneck they ever met.

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Well, I guess that's about it for now. I will try to keep posting whenever I have the time. I'll be seein' ya! :D