20 April 2013


Well, I knew it had to happen eventually. The writing was on the wall for a few years now. Things were just changing too fast, and it really was just a matter of time before someone caught me.

My daddy would be so ashamed.

I guess it all started after a brush with cancer a few years ago, when I started taking a hard look at what my family ate. Sweetheart and I decided that if she, as a biochemist, couldn't pronounce the ingredients list of a prospective food, we weren't going to eat it. We started cooking with primary ingredients from scratch. Then I started baking. Well, that all led to an eye opening price check. When I started grinding wheat (yes, the grinder is electric) and baking loaves of bread for 25 cents a loaf, I discovered an inner frugaholic that I had never known existed. I started finding ways to incorporate all kinds of cost saving, quality enhancing items into our lives. I found castile soap and essential oils and started cleaning better and oh so much cheaper. Then I got a vacuum packer. I love my vacuum packer. Sweetheart had to make me promise to never vac-pac the kids or the dog, but after that she just let me go. Now she finds the sales and I process it for storage. My goal is a herd of longhorns. I think I can do 'em. I've got me a 60 gallon tote full of assorted sizes of sealer rolls and pouches and a spare foodsaver to boot. I can seal 'em and  freeze 'em or batch cook 'em as soon as she rolls 'em through the doorway.

Aaahhhaa! I do love me a good meat sale.
This last one though bit me in the butt and exposed my secret double life.

It all happened 'cuz my revered Most Redneck Brother came over to pressure wash my fence for restaining. Sweetheart had caught a good sale and as I was processing chicken and chops to be grilled in a weekly batch, I saw the beef ribs. Now I don't like eating ribs off the bone. I like a little less of a mess. Especially with two kids to clean up. So I like the ribs to melt off the bone - which is why I bake 'em.

There I said it! It's out now and the world can shake their heads in disgust if they want. Most Redneck was so shocked I though he was going to drop his cold beer. He told me that I was doing wrong. And their could be no excuse. He said he could never suffer to touch ribs from an oven.

That was probably the wrong time to wonder aloud if Sweetheart was finding the pair of crocs I was interested on trying out after years of her trying to tell me it would be fine of I wore plastic shows with no socks.

Most Redneck set down his beer, picked it right back up and said,"I'm formally revoking your redneck license, bubba. You done got too danged crunchy.

Hello, my name is TrekkerDad, and I am a crunchy, recycling, half hippy half redneck.

Wonder if I'm too old to learn how to play hacky sack?