Responses to a Cranberry Chutney Request
In a recent issue, Dee Martin from Brooklyn Park, Maryland, submit-ted a Countryside Cookbook (see new recipes on page 42) recipe and a request: does anyone have a good, old-fashioned cranberry chutney recipe? The ingredients are listed as water, sugar, cranberries, corn syrup, distilled vinegar, golden raisins, orange peel, ginger, pectin salt, onion powder, dried red peppers, spice. Countryside readers responded. Here are a few:
FROM ANN MCNEAL IN WISCONSIN:
Countryside: In the recent issue, a person asked for this recipe. I found it in an old Ideals Quick and Delicious Gourmet Cookbook out of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
1 lb. cranberries, washed and dried
1 ½ cups of sugar
1 ½ cups of water
1 orange unpeeled, cut up
½ onion, minced
1 cup white or golden raisins
1 apple, diced
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped walnuts
1 teaspoon ground ginger
In a 3-quart saucepan, bring cranberries, sugar, water and orange to a boil. Add onions and raisins and simmer for 10 minutes. Add apple, celery, walnuts and ginger and simmer another 5 minutes. Chill in a glass jar.
FROM RICHARD JERGE IN SANFORD, FLORIDA:
This is the version I found:
1 cup light seedless raisins
1 8 oz. package pitted dates, chopped
2 16 oz. cans whole cranberry sauce
¼ cup sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground all spice
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
¼ cup apple cider vinegar
Maybe you could experiment by adding any missing ingredients and allow them to be stored in a jar with a lid.
FROM ALICIA, NEAR WINSTON-SALEM, NORTH CAROLINA:
Countryside: My name is Alicia and I saw your request. There are two recipes at www.myrecipes.com. One is a chutney and the other a cranberry sauce. Maybe you could adapt the sauce recipe to include any ingredients missing? Thanks for the apple pie filling recipe! I’ll be using it this fall when we process five to seven bushels.
My $325 Cat Story
Countryside: First of all, I want to express how much I love reading Countryside, along with so many other people who express their enjoyment of sharing common country experiences.
Not having time to read my magazines in a more timely fashion, I have fallen behind by two years. Recently I was reading the March/April 2014 issue on a Sunday morning in December 2015, sitting curled on the couch behind my neck was my youngest cat I named “Tuff.” I just finished reading when a light bulb went on in my head and it dawned on me that I, too, had a story to share about my cat.
I grew up on a farm in rural Wisconsin where my dad milked 20 to 30 cows and grew enough feed for our own animals, which also included some chickens and a few pigs once in a while. My mother’s job was helping Dad on the farm, and we ate the bounty from the garden, cows and chickens. Sometimes we had a dog, and sometimes not, but we always had stray cats that wandered in and out of the barn. They always seem to know their place, or leave on their own if they couldn’t get along. My parents were kind to animals; fed the stray cats extra milk, and I guess that put the “Welcome” sign out to the critters.
I grew up, moved away, and 15 years later came back to the area and now live about five miles from where I grew up, and about five miles from the nearest town. I have my own little chicken flock (normally around 12), a rescue dog two rescue cats, and raise a garden that provides enough vegetables and herbs for the household. Some people think country living is “boring,” but some of us, especially those raised on a farm, think that this is the absolute best way to spend a day.
Now to my cat story, which starts on June 29, 2015. I have an Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler mix dog named Dexter. At night he sleeps on the floor beside my bed. There is a window about his eye level at that same spot. Many moonlit nights he looks out to see deer or rabbits in the yard and will bark or growl at all times of the early morn to let me know there is action in close proximity. (At which time he gets hollered at for waking me out of a sound sleep!)
In the early morning hours of the 29th, he got up and was barking at the front door. I got up to look out and saw nothing, scolded the dog and went back to bed. The next night, the same thing. This time I let him outside and he tore out the front door barking, running in the dark toward who-knows-what! This is typical of his breed—so alert and protective. I went onto the front deck to look, but nothing, and then I hear this faint meowing. The dog comes back. I call to the cat but it quits meowing, so I go back to bed.
The next morning I took my coffee out on the deck and was enjoy-ing the sunshine. Dexter was doing his dog duties, sniffing around the yard, and I heard the meowing again. Finally a gray and white kitten came out from the weeds, but it was wild and wouldn’t let me close to it. I figured it got separated from its mama, so I put some cat food in a dish by the tree. I saw it go to the dish, sniff at it, but then went back into the weeds. It was very small, so I was thinking it wasn’t weaned yet.
I wondered how it came to be here, so far from any other houses. Then I remembered seeing an adult cat, apparently hit by a car, about a quarter-mile down the road. The cat had been laying there for about a week.
I set out a small animal live trap with a dish of milk, hoping to capture it, but the rest of the day was uneventful. The next day the kitten actually came up the steps of the deck, meowing in that pitiful “help me” manner. I figured it was now desperate for food, so I kept the dog in the house and went outside with a bowl of milk. The kitten crept up to the dish and drank a little. It was then I saw the middle of his tail was all bloody and dragging in the dirt with maggots on it, his fur was matted, his backbone stuck out—he looked in rough shape. He didn’t trust me and cautiously crept back down the steps and under the trailer house skirting. Oh great, I thought! After half an hour of saying “Here, kitty,” I switched to “Meow, meow,” and that kitten came out of his hiding place and walked right up to me! Amazingly I easily picked him up and put him in the puppy kennel. It was the perfect fit—large enough to move around in with room for food and water.
I mixed some vinegar, water and honey solution to spray on his tail wound. Vinegar and honey are anti-bacterial and that was all I had on hand, and it was too late to call the vet.
The next morning I dreaded to check on the kitten, as I had no idea if I would find him alive or dead. I called the vet and told him about my visitor, and this cat needed nursing, or an end to his misery—I wanted an expert’s advice and opinion. When I took the kitten in, the vet proceeded to take him to the nice big stainless steel sink, and holding the kitten by the nape of his neck, proceeded to rinse off those horrible maggots and flies. Once he could see what he was working with, he took the kitten to the examination table. “Is there hope or not?” I asked him. “Doc” said he would see what he could do—he had seen animals come out of some pretty bad situations.
Doc gave the kitten a sedative and because of his weight—3 ½ pounds—figured he was 3 or 4 months old. He ended up shaving off the fur all the way up to his neck and decided he could not save the tail, and cut off about one inch and stitched him up. After about 2 ½ hours of medical attention, Doc seemed satisfied he had done all he could, and the nurse brought in a nice clean towel for me to take him home in. Antibiotics and a can of tuna were given to me by the receptionist, who said he should eat ample amounts of protein. I hated to ask about the bill, but when I did, Doc and the receptionist looked at each other and I got the “Good Samaritan” deal, charging me only for the cost of antibiotics, anesthesia and thread.
They told me the kitten would be quite groggy for the next few hours, and as he woke up I should keep an eye on him. He would be cold because of the haircut, and I needed to administer the antibiotic every six hours with an eyedropper, and try to get him to eat and drink. (I recently retired, so I didn’t really have any pressing business.)
I hadn’t named him yet, because if he died I did not want that attachment. I picked him up on his little blanket to hold him to administer the antibiotic, and since he wasn’t used to drinking yet, I used the eyedropper to give him some warm milk. That first night I even got up at 2 a.m. to hold him and give him some nourishment, and he looked at me and started purring! I think he was so glad not to have those maggots eating him alive!
I kept him in the kennel in my office, and it wasn’t very long and he seemed to be feeling a lot better and trusting us all (the dog and two big cats). Now that I felt he was going to survive, I knew that his name would be “Tuff.”
So now when people ask about my nine-pound kitten that has no tail, I tell them the tale of my $325 cat!
Paula Knutson, Wisconsin
Returning to Countryside
Countryside: Please forgive my bluntness in advance. My husband and I gave up on Countryside (as well as other homestead-ing magazines) years back. With Countryside, it was when people began to write/argue about how to hang laundry. Sometimes, it seems better to agree than disagree.
Today at the market, I picked up this issue (March/April), and was unable to put it down (only long enough to pay for it). The entire issue is inspiring, fun, educational—so full of great stuff.
We have been homesteading for so long and to be able to pick up such a treasure is wonderful. The Middle East sweets, Monsanto straw info, climber and crawler plants were a part of a wonderful mix across the board. I’ve barely been able to put a dent into it, as sharing does not always bode well. Please keep up the great format.
Diane Hill, Vermont
Fuzzball and the Rat
Countryside: Life on a farm is generally pretty straightforward—keep the critters you want to keep alive (the livestock), and dispatch the critters that you don’t want to keep (the pests). Freeloading pests are good at what they do, but we as humans—“Masters of our domains,” as it were—think we alone stand in between the freeloaders and their free loads. Not always so.
I would usually carry a .22 rifle along on my morning and evening chores, on the off chance I’d catch a pest coming or going from his or her destination. And since the domesticated freeloaders—the ubiquitous farm cats—knew that if I scored a casualty, sometimes nothing more than a starling, crow or pigeon, they’d get a free meal, I’d almost always had some company.
Fuzzball, a small, yet quite ferocious dusty Calico cat, was almost always near me, and would often chase other cats away from “her” hunts with me. Yes, cats have a hierarchy, and she pretty much ran it. I would often give her a boost by kicking a bale of hay lying on the floor of the barn to see if there were any mice hiding under it, and watch the grace and fluid power of a five-pound cat launch-ing herself like a furry missile at any mouse foolish enough to show itself. Mutual of Omaha on a miniature scale, minus Jim tackling the lion.
One frosty morning in late October I was walking through the lower level of our barn on my way to feed the livestock and I kicked a pile of bales to see if any critters would show. A large Norway rat shot out from underneath the nearest bale and ran to the back wall. We mostly have grey rats in the country, but the larger, bolder Norways didn’t get the memo.
I took one quick shot at him and missed (even if I’d been ready, it’s a tough shot even at close range), and he flattened himself against the concrete blocks of the back wall. I couldn’t risk taking another shot because the bullet would ricochet—where was anyone’s guess—and the wall was a retaining wall set into a hill, so any damage to it would lead to worse things later.
I got a good look at the rat then. He was more than a foot long from nose to tail, tan and sleek, and looked to weigh at least two pounds, a bruiser in the rat world, and likely a breeder. I really needed to get rid of this rat before the colony (there’s always a colony if Norways are around) holed up for the winter and made a lot of baby rats for spring. Barns are warm, dry and quiet with plenty of food and hiding places, and an active colony would do some serious damage to the wellbeing of the livestock living there.
The rat was still crouched against the wall, giving himself a face-wash with his “little-old-man hands” paws, and I was leaning against a sup-port pole, waiting for him to move. There was no cover for about 15 feet either way down the wall, and if I didn’t move (rats have bad distance vision), he might try to get back to his hay bales, thinking I’d left.
Standoff at the OK Corral. It was a good 15 minutes that I stood there, looking at the rat who was convinced, just like I was, that if he didn’t move, he was invisible. A grey rat would have bailed for the exit a long time ago, but Norways know how to disappear.
Then Fuzz got tired of waiting. She exploded from her perch on top of the second row of bales and arched the dozen or so feet to land on top of the rat. I couldn’t watch. I had seen an-other rat—maybe this same one—kill a fairly sturdy tomcat not three weeks before, and I couldn’t get a shot off before he got under a feed trough.
And I couldn’t help Fuzz now for fear of either shooting her or clubbing her with the shovel hung on the wall to my left.
There was squealing and scream-ing and thumping and hissing and howling from the roiling wad of fur that was twisting and corkscrewing against the back wall of the barn.
I didn’t have the heart to watch my cat getting herself killed, and the livestock still needed their breakfast, so I hung the rifle by its shoulder strap on a nail on the wall next to the pole, climbed the steps to the hayloft, and busied myself pulling bales apart to toss down to the cows at the other end of the barn, then fill-ing the water trough for the geese in the adjacent building at upper-floor ground level. By the time I was done the ruckus was over, so I walked back through the hayloft and down the steps to the ground floor.
There was a disheveled pile of fur a few feet from where Fuzz had attacked the rat, and somebody was still breathing, but I couldn’t tell who from that angle. I retrieved my rifle and walked to the heap, and to my surprise and relief, it was Fuzz who was still breathing. She had the rat firmly in the “bite-hug-kick” thing kittens usually do on your arm. Now I knew what that adorable behavior was actually for.
I reached down to lift the rat and carry it to the front porch of the house—Fuzz had left many “presents” there and I figured this would be next anyway. But she growled and hissed around her teeth still clenched on the rat’s throat, and glared at me from her golden, sparkling, deep eyes. This is not your prize, she was saying very clearly.
“Masters of our domains,” indeed. We’re only supervisors at best.
Warren Bronson, Minnesota
Violence in the Hen HouseCountryside: I find it funny that once in a while the animal world seems to match our complicated human world in terms of psychological behavior. Take the following case as an example.
One sister has recently started a backyard farm. She made a little chicken coop and soon after five Silkies (ornamental Bantams) took up residence. These five lead a charmed and happy life. They get along well with one another and spend their days doing what young chickens do—primarily eating, growing, playing and sleeping. Another sister with a larger farm possessed a single Silkie hen. She was gentle and a fantastic mother. In fact, she had successfully set and hatched duck eggs placed beneath her and brooded them as only a proud mother can. Recently her life had become somewhat perilous with the arrival of a large number of young hens. They being young, smug and emboldened by their, “I just started laying eggs, so I’m amazing” attitude had been harassing the older hen. They had chased her about the yard, picked at her feathers and generally relegated her to spending much of her time hiding in one of the nest boxes.
Putting their heads together, my sisters decided that perhaps it would be better if the old Silkie hen retired to the backyard farm and joined some young chickens of the same breed. After all, in this idealistic setting, she could retire to a life of leisure and carefree living. She would be the senior larger chicken, capable of providing guidance and learning to the young backyard flock. So, she was gently boxed up and transported to what should be a poultry utopia.
She was unboxed and gently placed in the coop with the younger chickens. Here begins the part of my tale where the difference between expectations and reality is clearly delineated. Instead of walking to the nearest lounging area and stretching out in the toasty warm artificial sunlight, she went on what can only be described as a reign of terror. She began chasing the younger chickens around and pecking them. One of the young ones, a colorful young rooster, tried to stand up to her. She would have none of that. Utilizing skills she had obviously acquired in her “old neighborhood,” she quickly put the young rooster in his place. She was as aggressive as a drill sergeant two seconds after the bus door opens. She chased each of them outside into the yard and there they stayed, shocked at how utopia had suddenly changed. Then she wandered back in beneath the light and sat, watchful of any incursions into her, yes her, new home.
It was humorous in its way, though my sisters were both shocked at the old Silkie’s aggressive behavior. For two days she was a feathered terror, and the reactions of the young chickens around her demonstrated that they considered her to be the only thing in the world they should fear.
However, the story doesn’t end there. Now, four days later, she has come to the conclusion that she needn’t be so brutal. She is now sharing the house with the young birds. They all lounge beneath the glow of the artificial sun. During the day she has taken to following them around and learning about her new environment. She looks like a happier and healthier hen. In hindsight her initial behavior could be seen as a fear reaction: new place, new home, new companions. For the first time she could be the big biddy, able to set the terms of her existence. Or perhaps it was a little PTSD.
I’ve known a few people who have had trouble adjusting after departing a hostile environment for a bucolic, safer existence.
Now that she is adjusting, the setting has once again become utopian. She is happy, and so are the little ones. I don’t imagine there will be trouble again until that young rooster finishes growing and his voice changes. If that old biddy thought she had her claws full before, she is about to learn that there is nothing so maladjusted as a teenage male, learning to crow.
Patrick Purcell,Washington
Updates from Pennsylvania
Countryside: Winter has come, with snow on the ground and ice in water buckets. Chores take longer, but we wouldn’t trade our life for a diamond jewel! Country living is interesting and children need to grow up in it—it makes many happy childhood memories.
Our friends Rudy and Mary in Smicksburg, Pennsylvania, had a house fire in November 2015. They lost all of their Countryside magazines. A friend gave them some, plus some herb and organic farming books. We were hoping some of you would share your books with them. One of their biggest wishes is to someday meet someone who lives like that hermit Peter Jenkins met while walking across America.
Our friends have two goats that will kid in March and May, a henhouse with eight hens and a rooster. Mary is raising her own chicks the old-fashioned way—with two broody hens. They also have a horse and buggy they drive on the road. They are interested in buying a Welsh pony for their children for Christmas 2016, so if anyone has any information, please write to the Troyer’s at 1968 McCormick Rd., Smicksburg, PA 16256. They will be thankful and try to answer any letter they receive about homesteading, raising chickens and goats. Does anyone know about the horses the government gives away? We’ve read about it in your magazine.
Friends in Pennsylvania
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