Butter Churn

This is a stoneware butter churn jar. My parents used to keep it on the the fireplace hearth and use it to store fatwood. I have never seen the lid to it, nor the dasher (the part used to churn butter), most likely because they were probably made of wood and eventually rotted away. The lid would have been a circular disc with a hole in it, and the dasher would have been a stick like a broom handle with an "x" shaped crosspiece attached to the business end.

I have no idea how old this thing is...about all I can say is old. It was an antique the first time I ever saw it, and the first time I ever saw it, I was a toddler.

I ain't gonna say how old I am, but suffice it to say that the birthday cake presented to me yesterday did not have any candles on it due to fire code regulations. Lets just say I was a toddler a long ass time ago and leave it at that.

Anyways, see that "2" stamped on there? I am guessing that means it holds two gallons.

I noticed  that this churn has a perfectly round hollow in the bottom of it. I cleaned it up and looked at it closely and realized that the hollow had no glaze in it, while the rest of the churn did.  (it is shiny in the picture down below because it got wet when I washed it out and there is water in the hole) I am thinking that hollow was worn down by whatever was holding the crosspiece on the dasher. It does not look like it was part of the deliberate design of the jar, so I am thinking it was worn there by years of use.

The way this thing worked was you simply dumped some cold cream in there, dropped in the dasher, fitted the lid, and then sat down for a long session of whipping the dasher around in the cream. That's it. You just froth the cream around and it will turn into whipped cream, getting harder and harder to churn. The whipped cream will get stiffer and stiffer and then all of a sudden it will start liquefying again and start sloshing around as the milkfat starts separating from the whey. Keep going and what you will have is clots of butter sticking to the crock and the dasher and floating in the remaining buttermilk.

There is no mystery here. You can do this, as I do, in the kitchen with a bread machine (should have a butter function or simply a knead function. Either should work.). You can use a mixer (I tried using a blender once, results not awesome with that.). My dad used to make butter using an old mason jar. Just put the cream in and shake till it throws the milkfat.

Then you pour strain out the buttermilk and rinse the butter in cold water. Rinse well, as the remaining buttermilk can make it go rancid more quickly. Blot dry and maybe mix it up with a little salt, if you like salted butter.

You can then press the butter into a mold (I even have a pretty stamp to put on mine) or just scoop it into a bowl.

Musings

So, yeah. The pacing of this thing.

Here is the problem: some people read this thing all at once. They sit down, and rip through it all at once. And some people read it weekly, in thousand word (more or less) bites.

It seems like the time from the start of the story has been forever, but really, it hasn't. Only a couple weeks have passed, really. Granted, they are busy weeks, but there you go.

So I am constantly torn between feeling like time is passing too quickly to feeling like it is dragging.

Not a problem you have with a normal, printed type book. Nor something I foresaw when I started this thing.

Anyways, I would love some of you to chime in with your thoughts on this since you are the ones reading it. Stories, after all, are as much about how they are interpreted as how they are told.

In other news, the Zuda thing. Kaput. No Five Dollar Mail comic, at least at this time. Evidently, DC Comics pulled the rug out from under the thing, leaving some of the creative teams involved high and dry. I am frankly sick and horribly disappointed about this development. However, as sick as I am over it, I can't even begin to imagine how bad the creative teams that have actual submissions in the works over there feel. To have all that work and money invested in a project and then have it all evaporate like smoke...well...it must really, really suck.

The good news is that it looks like we will be doing an illustrated stand alone short story about a particular coach run involving Saint and Wash, so I will keep you posted on that. The story is the same one we were going to use for the Zuda competition, and is written by myself and guest poster Evelyn. It will be illustrated by the wonderful Diego.

And, on a completely different and off topic note, for those of you who will be at a certain very large campground in western Pennsylvania later this summer, I will be there for War Week and if you find yourself there too, I would love to meet you.


'gina

Write Chapter 11 Contest!

It has come to my attention that I am not very good at numbering my chapters. In fact, I suck at it.

So much so that I am sure most of you know by now that there is no Chapter 11.

A friend suggested I write the scene where Luis booby traps the crapper over at the Yarl's place, but I think we've come up with something a little less predictable: have one of you talented and creative readers write it. And it does not have to be the story of Luis and the outhouse.

I am currently in the process of putting together a Cafe Press storefront. As of now, the prize will be a choice of items from the merchandise collection. I am at the moment limited in what I can put up there for sale, but I am NOT so limited in what I can create on the fly and just order myself. (they only let you make one of each item, otherwise there would be a mug with each character on it, for instance.) So if you would like an item with a picture you don't see available, contact me and I can probably make you up a custom piece.

Guidlines

1. It does not have to be the scene with the outhouse unless you want it to be. It can be anything taking place before or during chapter twelve.

2. It does not have to be any of the established characters here, but it can be.

3. It must take place at any location between Salt Lake House and Three Crossings (Green River Station being between those).

4. It can be Alternate Universe, if you like, or not. Be as creative as you like.

5. Please keep it "PG 13" enough that I can post it on this site without an adult content warning. I have no problem with adult content stories, or even adult fanfic about my characters, but I do not wish to have to go to a mature content label for this site. So keep that in mind if you want to see it posted here.

6. It should only be one chapter long (it is, after all, the lost Chapter 11.). However, there is no rule on how long or short that chapter has to be.

The winner will be reader's choice. I will put up a poll, post the stories here, and we can all vote.

I have decided to let it run until September 14. I may be talked into extending it, but no promises. This is to accomodate the various vacations we all seem to take over the late summer season.

Have fun and good luck!

Send submissions to paintedwheel(at)hotmail.com

Coffee Grinder

 This old coffee grinder has been sitting around my mom's house for literally my entire life. I ain't gonna say how long that is, but suffice it to say, long enough. I have no idea how old it is, but after a small amount of research, I think it is safe to say it was probably made sometime during the 1800's, and may even predate that.

It worked pretty much like the ones nowdays do, only instead of pushing a button and activating a motor driven steel blade, you just turned a crank. Ironically, I do not remember ever actually seeing this one in action. Probably should have demonstrated it, but the top is coming loose and I don't want to damage it further.

You just put the beans into the that little bowl on top, turn the crank, and the ground coffee sifts down into the drawer below. The drawer comes completely out, allowing Wash to dump the grounds directly into the coffee pot instead of into the percolator basket, where they belong.

I actually did clean it up a bit, that white haze is not dust. I think the wax finish is so old it now looks white and chalky. Probably need to hit it with a little lemon oil.

Aladdin Stove

Here it is: the contraption the girls use to keep the food hot in the kitchen. It is called an "Aladdin Stove" and also the "Atkinson Cooker." It has been in my family longer than I have. I actually used to think it was for just keeping food hot, but then I did a little research on it and discovered that you could actually cook with the thing. It is basically a slow cooker. You put hot stones inside it, put your pots on top of them, pack some insulation in there, and several hours later you got some hot, cooked food coming out of here. When you consider how low tech this thing is, that's pretty awesome.

I'll be perfectly honest here...I do not know exactly when the thing was invented and patented. So it might be period to the story or not, I can't exactly say. Usually, I am pretty religious about trying to make sure everything is period for the time, but c'mon, look at the thing. They woulda used one if they woulda had one. Plus, the natives cooked by dropping hot stones into a skin bag with their food in it, I don't think this thing is too much of a stretch. Humor me.

My mom has the stones around the house somewhere, I just couldn't find them. They look like flat stone discs the width of large serving plates and a couple inches thick, made of what looks like some fine-grained gray soapstone. If I can find them, I will post them.

I left the stuff on it to give you a sense of scale. Also, I didn't want to mess around with my mom's tv.

Here in this second picture, you can see a little vent hole in the top of the middle panel. The way I understand it, this hole allowed food to brown better. Slow cooking does not brown food, and evidently this stove is no different. However, someone along the way go the idea that letting out a little steam would help brown the food. There is supposed to be a lid for the vent that is missing here and that I have never seen.

Also, you can see the latches that hold the lid down. They give a little snap when you open and close them, putting pressure on the lids to hold them down tightly.

In this third picture, you can see what my mom uses the stove for these days. She stores linens in it, which is a great way to utilize a large, clunky antique rather than letting it moulder in some storage building somewhere, with dirt daubers making nests all over it.

Anyways, you can see the tin lining still in the lid. It is missing out of the rest of the stove for some reason, and I personally have never seen this thing with the full lining in it. I am not sure of why the lids have those large, circular protrusions on them. I am gonna guess that maybe they fit down snugly on top of the pots when they were inside. That one there in the picture you can see has a piercing where the vent is. The other two to either side are not vented like this.

Here the thing is at least a hundred or more years after it was made and still solid enough to have a second life as a sturdy trunk and tv stand (I find that ironic...this thing being used to hold up a flat screen tv. I bet it could tell some tales.) I challenge you to find a piece of modern anything built this well. Put it this way...I would not want to drop it on my toe.

Write Chapter 11 Contest In The Works

It has come to my attention that I am not very good at numbering my chapters. In fact, I suck at it.

So much so that I am sure most of you know by now that there is no Chapter 11.

A friend suggested I write the scene where Luis booby traps the crapper over at the Yarl's place, but I think we've come up with something a little less predictable: have one of you talented and creative readers write it.

The contest will start when I think of a suitable prize. I have a few ideas, but if you have any, I would love to hear them.

Here is the criteria Jim and I came up with. Again, suggestions welcome:

1. It does not have to be the scene with the outhouse unless you want it to be. It can be anything taking place before or during chapter twelve.

2. It does not have to be any of the established characters here, but it can be.

3. It must take place at any location between Salt Lake House and Three Crossings (Green River Station being between those).

4. It can be Alternate Universe, if you like, or not. Be as creative as you like.

5. Please keep it "PG 13" enough that I can post it on this site without an adult content warning. I have no problem with adult content stories, or even adult fanfic about my characters, but I do not wish to have to go to a mature content label for this site. So keep that in mind if you want to see it posted here.

6. It should only be one chapter long (it is, after all, the lost Chapter 11.). However, there is no rule on how long or short that chapter has to be.

The winner will be reader's choice. I will put up a poll and we can all vote.

Contest has not started yet, so please don't send anything in quite yet. Let me iron out the details first. But at least you can be thinking about it, if you are interested in participating.

See you Friday (or, for those of you who have figured out I usually post last Thursday sometime so it will be up bright and early on Friday, see you in the wee hours Thursday night.)!

Hallelujah! : Guest Post by Evelyn

Bullets pounded the dirt, sending up spits of dusty soil into the air. The atmosphere hummed around the two dark forms of men as lead screamed like hornets. The ground was devoid of any protection aside from shrubs, the one exception being the hulking black form of a tipped over stage coach.

The two men huddled against the wooden paneling of the stagecoach’s side, taking advantage of where they had almost none. Gunshots rebounded off invisible canyon walls, creating an acoustics nightmare for any man trying to pinpoint the sound of an enemy. Rifles and revolvers fired into the darkness, blindly seeking out their quarry. The heavy scent of gun smoke intoxicated the dense air, choking the night. After a few quiet seconds, the gunshots faded into an uneasy silence. The taller of the two men got to his knees, moving quickly and quietly.

"Saint, what the hell do ye’ think you’re doing?" The second man hissed, jerking down on his colleague’s shoulder.

"Saving our asses. I want to know who the hell just tried to raid us. Shut up for a moment," Saint muttered back, taking advantage of the moment to reload his revolver.

"Saint..." The other man warned, keeping his hand on his peer’s shoulder.

"Just... watch my back, alright Wash? Just stay put for once." Wash grimaced but nodded, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Not once have I ever had a problem holdin’ still... it’s ye I’m worried about."

Saint didn’t wait for any more confirmation, nor did he pause to make a retort. He slunk into the blackness, crouching down low. He was well aware he was leaving behind the only bit of protection offered in this open expanse of dirt and sand, and he could already feel himself regretting it. His luck held- no further gunshots or cries of alarm rebounded when he reached the rocky walls of the canyon.

The day had started well enough. He’d woken up the way he always did, suffered through a cup of his trail mate’s coffee, and harnessed the horses before the sun had risen. Now the horses where dead or had run, his cargo had been raided, and it sounded as if they were outnumbered almost five to one by the sounds of their guns. Washington Monahan might’ve been a good shot, but his friend was nowhere near close enough to help him now, assuming he could still find him. He traveled silently for a few minutes, swearing occasionally as he tripped on some unseen features on the ground.

Saint darted along the wall of rock, letting it guide him until he found what he was looking for. He followed the curve of the sheetrock until it turned sharply, surprising him until he stumbled out... directly into open territory, a little too close to his quarry for his comfort. The soft glow of a fire sent long shadows dancing on the sheet of rock, causing Saint to swear and lower himself to the ground. The exposed backs of two blue-coated men sat not thirty feet away, murmuring silently. Saint froze. If one of the men thought so much as to just glance behind, it would all be over.

"Just leave them there... they won’t do much good anyway. We got the spoils, didn’ we? They should last us a while. ‘Sides, we got supplies, let’s just get out of here. If we can’t find ‘em, there’s no point wasting time. I just wanna get back to the rest of the camp before we’re declared deserters. I ain’t no deserter, and I sure as hell don’t wanna die as one," The first man murmured, the wind carrying his words to a frozen Saint.

The second man shook his head, glowering at his colleague. He bent his head, returning to cleaning something in his lap. Fire reflected off metal, briefly illuminating an army issued Springfield rifle for a second before it faded into the shadows again. Saint grimaced again, and began a very careful and entirely too slow journey backwards, keeping his exposed back to the rock. A horse whickered, causing Saint’s black head of curls to snap upwards in alarm.

It was then he noticed what was beyond the fire. It hadn’t been just the two men- a total of perhaps ten lay sprawled around the clearing, in various phases of contentment, all dressed in a union blue. The closest to Saint was drinking something that looked suspiciously like it had come from the stagecoach’s shipment of liquor- another was busy digging through a waterproof pouch of what had contained military documents. Saint stiffened and walked quicker now, concentrating less on silence and more on making it back to his trail partner alive. He breathed a sigh of relief when he cleared the corner.

His journey back seemed to take twice as long as it had to arrive, and he found himself worrying. The night was too silent, too still. Dawn was approaching, but still no living thing moved. The hulking shadow of the stagecoach loomed ahead now, sending a worried Saint into a trot.

"Wash?" He called hoarsely, suddenly afraid. It had been stupid to leave his colleague behind, he saw now. The move had left both of them unprotected and weak.

"Right here, where ye’ ditched me," came the none too-happy sounding reply. Saint breathed a sigh of relief and joined his trail mate in the shadow of the stagecoach.

"Sorry about that."

"It’s nothin’," He murmured gruffly, rubbing the back of his ragged blond head. "Just don’t be doin’ it again. What’d ye find?"

"A couple of Yankees swindling away their paycheck," Saint growled. "Last I saw they were divvying up the liquor. Two of ‘em were arguing about coming back and erasing the evidence- probably burning the stagecoach and finishing us off. They got the military documents though- what the hell are we gonna do about that?"

"They are the military," Wash grimaced. "Let ‘em keep ‘em. Were they deserters?" Saint shook his head. "How many?"

"Ten, maybe more. I wasn’t looking too closely." Wash swore. "Should we wait them out?"

"We can’t do that anymore lad, not if they’re intent on leaving no trace."

"We can’t fight either! We’re outnumbered five to one!" Saint argued, disbelieving.

"Got any better ideas?" Wash asked grimly, raising one sand-colored thick eyebrow.

"Besides running?"

"I ain’t runnin’."

"Of course you’re not," Saint groaned, massaging his temples as he leaned back against the wooden boards. Wash frowned as he stared out onto the lightening canyon. The sun was the barest slit over the edge of the world, letting long rays spill across the land. The rocky walls around them were already dropping deep shadows onto the reddish-brown ground.

"..Why are we still doing this Wash?" Saint broke the silence, his brow furrowed. "There’s a war out there. We won’t have a job much longer."

"I don’t know about ye, but I’m having enough time trying to stay alive here, let alone in a war. We’ll just have to wait this one out."

"The war? You want to wait the war out?" Saint asked, startled enough to move his back from the wooden paneling of the stagecoach.

"Why sure," Wash shrugged, pulling a smoke out of his jacket pocket. "It should burn itself out quick enough, shouldn’t it? Six months, I betcha," He said wisely. "It’ll glow a little, shoot off sparks, and the whole thing’ll be done and over with. Sooner or later people will realize it’s pointless to fight among ourselves and we’ll live like we always have. The south’ll have their farms ‘n the north’ll get their factories. For now, our job is to wait."

"For our enemies or the war?" Saint asked, grimacing.

"Both," Wash sighed, laying his gun down on the ground beside him.

"So we’re supposed to wait for them to come to us?" Saint frowned again, his jaw pulled tight. The Italian didn’t like the idea of waiting for the enemy to come to them any more than his trail mate did. It was like painstakingly waiting for a judge to announce the verdict.

"Did ye’ wanna go meet ‘em?" Came the sarcastic reply.

"Merda Wash, I don’t want to just wait around here until they decide to come back and-" Click.

The two men froze as a cold barrel kissed the back of Saint’s tanned neck.

"Turn around." Saint didn’t hesitate in obeying. Holding his empty hands level with his head, he turned slowly, consciously aware of the sweat beading on his forehead. Three men stood behind them, the tallest being the one with the gun on Saint. Steel gray eyes narrowed behind a pair of glasses, and tight lips folded into a disgusted grimace. Dusty blond hair lay like a mop upon his head, framing a young- far too young- face that couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

"What’s a lad like yourself doin’ with that thing?" Wash croaked before he could hold his tongue. He recoiled as a leather boot collided with his chin, knocking the older man to the dirty ground. Blood welled up from the exposed skin.

"Shuttup!" The boy snarled, spitting on the Irishman. "Goddamn cat-licks and Dagos overrunning this place. America used to be American, immigrants," The youth sneered, prodding Wash with the toe of his boot. Saint hissed, rage coloring his olive-toned features.

"Bastardo, come hai alcun diritto di-"

"Saint!" Wash barked, wincing as one of the boy’s followers delivered a powerful backhand to Saint’s cheekbone. Saint shook his head, struggling to control his hands as not to return the favor. He was vaguely aware of the three men dressed in union blue conversing, arguing over their fate. Wash sat silently, his blue eyes worried under his brow.

"Do we take ‘em back or do we just kill ‘em here?"

"Daniel just said we needed to eliminate anything left over."

"So we kill ‘em right here?"

"What’s the matter- no stomach for blood? We’re in goddamn war, boy."

"They weren’t doin’ anything. They’re just doing their job," The smallest of the boys argued, biting his lip.

"They’re sodbusters, kid. No one’ll give a damn anyway. They’re not even citizens. The Irish one probably just came just came to sober up, and the Italian’s just here to actually be worth something." The youth’s last words were the last words he would ever speak. Tension and rage had been building up in the Italian since he’d first laid eyes on the swarthy youths. And the odds of two and three where highly preferable than to two and thirteen.

Before Wash could warn him otherwise, Saint’s fist was swinging toward the boy’s face. The boy’s spectacles cracked from acting as a barrier, blood smearing off of Saint’s knuckles, but the damage had been done. The boy stumbled backward, crying out as another blow from Saint barreled into his diaphragm, effectively knocking him out. Wash lunged for his abandoned colt, taking advantage of the moment of shock Saint had provided to recover Saint’s revolver as well. The Irishman’s foot lashed out, tangling into the second boy’s legs until the two crashed to the ground, leaving the smallest boy to Saint.

The shortest youth swore, and cocked his own revolver on Saint’s chest. He never had the chance, having forgotten about Wash. The sound of two revolvers’ bullets tearing through the still canyon sent chills up and down Saint’s spine as he watched the form of the boy crumple to the ground in front of them.

Wash dusted himself off as he clambered to his feet stiffly, disengaging himself from his own unconscious opponent. Saint stood still, unable to tear his eyes away from the smallest boy, his boyish face shocked, a jarring contradiction to the crimson rapidly spreading across the blue cloth.

"Bari?" Wash asked gently, placing a comforting hand on his frozen friend’s shoulder.

"...They were just boys," Saint murmured, his shoulders limp. Wash wordlessly shook his head, his weary eyes saying a thousand words.

"Saint, we have te’ go. We have te’ go now." Saint obeyed numbly, recollecting his revolver from Wash and following his trail mate sluggishly, his mind still replaying the boy’s crumpling form.

They jogged in silence along the borders of the canyon shadows’, saying nothing even as cries and angry yells echoed from far behind. They traveled until they left the rocky expanses for a secluded and craggy clearing, slightly sheltered by a lone, weathered tree. Wash sighed and dropped his lanky body to the ground, looking older than Saint had ever seen him. Saint himself silently knelt down, working on building a fire out of a few dry bits of debris.

"Wash, listen..."

"It couldn’ be helped, Saint. They were gonna kill us any other way."

"I know, it’s just... they were so young. I hope you’re right and this thing does burn itself out. His face as he died..." Saint trailed off, his face abnormally pale. "I never should’ve started that fight. I should’ve just waited to see how it would play out. And he’s not the first man I’ve killed- why should I feel so bad?"

"He was justa’ lad, I... well...." Wash’s voice was strangely muffled, alarming Saint enough to cause him to glance at his collapsed trail mate. The man was almost sleeping already. He started to say something else, but trailed off, incoherent beyond an exhausted murmur.

"Wash, you’re sleeping on your guns."

"Mmm... okay..." Blue eyes fluttered shut as a yawn took over his sleazy grin.

"Christ, Wash, no, not okay," Saint snorted. There was no response from his trail mate. Bending down, he found the level headed gunman was already asleep.

With a sigh, the Italian pulled off his dusty buckskin and draped it over his sleeping companion. Standing up again, Saint couldn’t help but smile. Wash mumbled something incoherent again, and curled around until his slight body was just another lump in the night. If the fire had not been burning, Saint could have sworn his friend was just a rock. A snoring rock, but still a rock.

Saint couldn’t help but chuckle as he sat down beside his Irish friend, focusing only at the moment on the humor of the situation and the problems at hand. It felt good to laugh, like a weight had just been lifted off his broad shoulders. He chuckled again, the movement turning into a deep laugh. Whether from hysterics or from actual amusement, Saint laughed.

The war was coming, of that there wasn’t a doubt- but they were alive, unscathed and unharmed, and they would both be coming home to a warm meal and a family. He would see Lily again, and he would hold nothing back. He’d seen the dangers and he’s seen the bright side, and know there was nothing left to do but tell her just how he loved her. Life was good. He would face this war side by side of his family and friends, and they would live. Together.



© 2010 by Evelyn and the Five Dollar Mail