Texan Hodge Podge

•March 2, 2012 • Leave a Comment

And you thought "Don't mess with Texas" was our state slogan...

TEXAS. The name alone is powerful enough to conjure up a whole set of ideas and impressions, not only in our own native land but around the globe. Granted, not all of these associations are positive or accurate but they sure are big. And big is something that we Texans are all about. Big hats, big belt buckles, big hair, big trucks, big steaks, big sky, and big pride.

In honor of today being Texas Independence Day, I would like to share with y’all a hodge podge of all things Texan. Let us start with a little sing-along of our state anthem… I hope you really sing it!

Next is a one of my favorite poems I have ever written (from 2004):

TEJAS, OH TEJAS

that guy,

el es hombre.

browner than rawhide

with a hat as sun-stained

as sweat-stained.

he spits anywhere

he pleases

discharge from his swollen lip pouch.

he wears boots,

rattlesnake skull crushers,

hardworking foot mules.

handlebar moustache

is seventies sophisticat

and those though denim tights

are dulled with Texan dust.

heavy and hairy brow firmly frame

wild mustang eyes

y los ojos son grises como el cielo.

coyote killer,

he thinks he’s big stuff.

he remembers the Alamo,

he eats his chili with pee-cans in it,

gave his yellow rose a topaz ring

and never, EVER picks a bluebonnet.

cigarette dangling,

he won’t touch a marlboro, though,

but sticks to skydancers

because he feels bad

about the indians

and all that lame-ass shit that went down before.

you know, i like the way

his belt buckle blings

and his name is spelled out in embossed leather:

L-O-N-E-S-T-A-R

Clarence Hailey Long, a real Texas cowboy.

Now, let’s take a short tour of some of our state’s beautiful landscapes…

East Texas forest creek.

Our gorgeous hill country.

West Texas desert.

Chisos Mountains and Rio Grande River in South Texas.

Wildflowers in the heart of Texas.

I’m going to wrap up this patriotic post with another one of my teenage tributes to Texas. This is old school as hell; I believe I wrote it when I was fifteen!

I REMEMBER Y’ALL

On February twenty-third, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-six, the arrival of General Antonio López de Santa Anna’s army outside San Antonio nearly caught the Alamo by surprise. Undaunted, the Texans and Tejanos prepared to defend the Alamo together. The defenders held out for thirteen days against Santa Anna’s army. William B. Travis, the commander of the Alamo sent forth couriers carrying pleas for help to communities in Texas. On the eighth day of the siege, a band of thirty-two volunteers from Gonzales arrived, bringing the number of defenders to nearly two hundred.

Legend holds that with the possibility of additional help fading, Colonel Travis drew a line on the ground and asked any man willing to stay and fight to step over — all except one did. As the defenders saw it, the Alamo was the key to the defense of Texas, and they were ready to give their lives rather than surrender their position to General Santa Anna. Among the Alamo’s garrison were Jim Bowie, renowned knife fighter, and Saint David Crockett, famed frontiersman and my great great great uncle.

The final assault came before daybreak on the morning of March sixth, as columns of Mexican soldiers emerged from the predawn darkness and headed for the Alamo’s walls. Cannon and small arms fire from inside the Alamo beat back several attacks. Regrouping, the Mexicans scaled the walls and rushed into the compound. Once inside, they turned captured cannon on the long barrack and church, blasting open the barricaded doors. The desperate struggle continued until the defenders were overwhelmed. By sunrise, the battle had ended and Santa Anna entered the Alamo compound to survey the scene of his victory.

On April twenty-first at three thirty in the afternoon, Sam Houston and the Texian army caught up with the Mexicans. They rode into battle with the cry “REMEMBER THE ALAMO!” the angry Texians defeated the Mexicans in under twenty minutes. Texas soon after gained its independence.

Twenty-five years later, during the Civil War, the Texan soldiers were the most feared of any in the war, known as the Texas Screaming Boys for their blood-chilling battle cries.

There has never been a prouder Texan than I.

REMEMBER THE MOTHERFUCKIN' ALAMO!!!

Buzzard Billy’s Blessing

•February 13, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Magick happens in my life on a daily basis. I wake up to the warmth of the ones I love; I savor the abundant nourishment Mother Earth provides; I breathe in the life I chose for myself, the life that I create using my imagination. But, let’s be real. Most days are pretty damn mundane and nothing overtly awesome happens to bring all this subtle, everyday magick to my attention. But then again… Some days, synchronicity does its crazy thang and I am left marveling at the weirdness and greatness of it all.

Some days shit lines up just right for something totally badass to happen.

Take, for instance, Wolfgang’s first family outing. We were having some technical issues with our computer setup that day and so my husband, the IT guy, concluded that we were in need of some little cable thingy-ma-jig which was not available at any of the retailers in our small town. The nearest city with a good electronics store was Waco, about an hour’s drive from our neck of the woods. We don’t have such a great diversity of restaurants in our town, either, and I was craving Cajun food. I decided that Wolf and I would come along for the ride so that I could get some crawfish etouffee at Buzzard Billy’s, this Creole joint on the Brazos.

Fresh Wolfgang locked and loaded for our Waco adventure.

So, we buckled our eight-day-old baby into his new carseat and went on our errand. I was starving and, like I said, the drive was not a short one. The plan was to go to Best Buy first, since it was several exits further down the highway than the restaurant, and then stop to eat etouffee on our way home. My empty stomach had me cranky as we entered Waco and I was staring out the backseat window, watching clouds race across the grey sky, as my newborn son slept beside me. I kept poking him to make sure he was really alive; newborns can be so still and silent at times that not even their breathing can be detected. It sure looked like a storm might be rolling in. I whined at Kelley that we should go eat first and we bickered a bit about the most efficient plan of action. And then, I saw something unusual which shook me from my grumpy state of mind like an earthquake.

A tall, stately African man stood in the center of a highway overpass sidewalk; plain, sunshine yellow robes billowing in the wind, a staff in his hand, with arms extended heavenwards in a stunningly powerful gesture. I was immediately reminded of Moses holding up his staff, the one that Aaron had turned into a cannibalistic snake in Pharaoh’s court, in order to keep the Red Sea open for his people to cross out of Egypt.

The parting of the Red Sea can be found in Exodus, chapter 14.

“Kelley!” I startled my husband. “Look up there on that bridge! See the guy?! What the hell is he doing?” By the time Kelley looked up from the road, we had already passed under the bridge and all he could see was the mysterious yellow figure growing small in the rearview mirror. I described the man in detail to my husband. “Crazy!” he replied, “I wonder what he was doing up there. Obviously something spiritual!” We both shook our heads, bemused.

“It seemed like he was praying over the people in the cars passing under the bridge, that’s all I can think of; some sort of blessing or curse or something…” I guessed.

“Yeah. I don’t think he was cursing, though,” Kelley said. “I didn’t feel any bad vibes or anything. He seemed benevolent to me.”

“Yeah. Weeeeird, man! What an out-of-place thing to see in Waco, Texas.” I sank deep into thought as we made our way to the computer store. As Kelley went to purchase the item we’d set out to buy, I remained in the car and nursed my sweet little Wolf. Strongly impacted by the image of the tall man in his yellow robes, I felt a burning curiosity about him. Who was he? A priest? A sorcerer? A shaman? I realized all of these possibilities were basically the same thing. Clearly, he had been a holy man of some kind, projecting potent energies at the unsuspecting people driving on the highway below him.

Like it or not, you people are being blessed.

After quite a while, Kelley returned to the car as the clouds began to drop their rain. At that point in time, Texas was just pulling out of a horrible drought and the precipitation was a welcome blessing. We returned to the highway, heading back in the direction from whence we’d come. My stomach grumbled. Damn, I had almost forgotten about how hungry I was! I was sure looking forward to that etouffee.

“Shit, babe!” I screeched “You just passed Buzzard Billy’s!” I watched the restaurant fly by and my mouth watered. Rain was coming down now. Oh, well, we were about to come to the bridge where I had seen the mysterious man of God. And, holy shit, there he was again!

“Wow!” Kelley exclaimed. “That guy is still at it!”

The man’s bright yellow robes blew wildly in the strong wind, contrasting with the backdrop of stormy dark sky. His arms were still extended in blessing as we passed under him for the second time. We exited the highway and u-turned to head back towards the Cajun food. I gazed at the priestly figure from the service road as we passed him a third time. I wonder what it means?

Mmmm... crawfish etouffee!

We tripped out over what we had seen as we stuffed our faces with delicious Creole cuisine. It was a very good meal and felt wonderful in my previously aching belly. My lover and I stared out the window over the Brazos river as the lovely, much needed raindrops fell on the surface of the water and our baby slept in his carrier. We both realized that we would never forget that day. Although nothing really special had happened to us, it sure felt special. Even though there was no obvious meaning or message to be found, we were left with a sense of wonder, reminded again of just how magickal our life was.

…and is. As the Wiccans say, blessed be!

As it turns out, the man was an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian priest. I only figured it out when I was searching the internet for a picture of a man in a yellow robe with which to illustrate this here blog post.

Smoke the Seer’s Sage

•February 11, 2012 • 2 Comments

Every plant has a unique spirit, an entity behind it. With ethnobotanicals, the presence and personality of this spirit can be quite vivid for those experiencing the effects of the sacred plant. The spirit of Ganja, for instance, seems maternal to me: distinctly feminine, steadfast, gentle, patient, comfortable. She is like the type of mom who wipes her crying kid’s snotty nose with an expensive angora sweater sleeve. But there are different mothering styles in the plant realm just as there are in the human realm, and the plant spirit I am about to discuss is a different type of mother: perfectly poised, beautiful, wise and stern.

It is my pleasure to introduce to you to Salvia divinorum, the diviner’s sage; also known as Mexican mint or Sally D. Perhaps you have already met her. If so, then the long winded, crazy sounding story I am about to ramble will most likely make sense to you. If you are not familiar, let me tell you a little bit about her. The Mazatec people, who ingest the plant ceremonially, call her the Shepherdess and believe her to be an incarnation of the Virgin Mary. I call her the seer’s sage because of the amazing things she allowed me to see…

Shepherdess

I was eighteen years old and had just moved out of my parents’ home and into my boyfriend’s mom’s house. Having been interested in the hippie subculture for a couple of years, I read about psychedelics and how they could open one’s consciousness to the incomprehensible. Of course, I had a mind to experiment with such substances, just no idea where to acquire them. My boyfriend was out of town and so my best friend, Sunrise, came to visit me at my new dwelling place. As we joked and toked together, he pulled a small plastic bag of brown dust from his leather stash pouch and told me “Check this out, man! It’s Salvia, a smokable hallucinogenic herb.”

“Whoa, where’d you get that?!” I asked, impressed.

“At the headshop for like 10 bucks, dude. It’s totally legal and everything,” he shrugged.

Pleased at my good fortune, I immediately agreed to smoke the shit with him. We prepared everything for our trip, not really knowing what to expect. We guessed that the experience would be best in the open air, and so went and sat on the cool grass of the sideyard, outer suburbia breezily silent around us as the light of evening grew dim. I took my beautiful, iridescent glass bong into my lap and incinerated the contents of the bowl with a butane torch lighter. The cherry glowed as I sucked the smoke; I passed the piece to Sunrise who proceeded to do the same. He laid back, hands behind his head. “Oh, man… oh, man… ohhhhh, MAN!!!” His face was shining hot pink in the sunset light and his lips stretched taut to reveal large teeth like peppermint Chiclets. Feeling disappointingly unaffected by the herb, I watched my friend, fascinated by the obvious intensity of what he was experiencing. After a brief time. he came back to his body and spoke. “I was standing in middle of a huge, round courtyard, surrounded on all sides by doors which I knew led to everywhere… other universes even! I could feel my body extending backwards and forwards infinitely…” he struggled to tell me, dumbstruck, “You have got to see it for yourself, Jessi.

After his experience, Sunrise decided that it would be better for me to try again somewhere more comfortable. So, we went into my boyfriend’s bedroom, climbed onto the king-sized bed and my buddy reloaded the bong. I took it and torched the bowl, this time making sure to get the most out of it as I gulped the interestingly flavored smoke. I took two massive rips and then, as I handed the waterpipe to my companion, I heard myself say in a voice not my own “It is definitely working this time…” And then I was gone.

Completely disoriented, no longer human or able to conceive of the idea of being human, I found myself in a flat, membranous landscape of yellow vinyl. The only distinguishable features were these weird little waves in the yellow stuff which rushed around me, clearly conscious, sporting cartoon faces and shouting with a chorus of tiny voices “Come on! Come on! We’ve got to make this moment!” And so, I followed them. I had no choice; I was a wave, too. We were waves in the material of the universe, and I understood that we were rushing to make up the most microscopic little portion of matter for the smallest fraction of a nanosecond. Although unimaginably small, I felt the role we were playing was not only significant but vital to the existence of the multiverse. And even though we hurried to get to our destination on time, to create that tiny piece of that tiny moment when it was required, I had a sense of knowing that we could not be late. Whenever we arrived is when it would happen. As we fell into our places, I perceived myself begin to peel back layer after layer of the rubbery, lemon yellow stuff from which my world was comprised, revealing a bigger picture as each layer was removed. It was as if I was zooming out, now able to see the context of the tiny moment which we, the waves, had intentionally and consciously created. I was pulling on my best friend’s yellow, thriftstore t-shirt. Less than five minutes had passed since I had smoked the sage.

I shook myself, frightened and boggled! I leaped off the bed and bolted from the house, screaming “I need to get the hell out of here and never come back!!” Sunrise followed me out, bong in hand. We got into his old red truck and drove to a nearby pond so I could gather my thoughts. I decided then and there that I would never dabble in psychedelics again.

The next day, I called Sunrise from my job at a country club golf course. “I get it!” I told him excitedly, “I understand the nature of the universe!”

“I thought you’d come around,” I could hear him grinning through the phone. We smoked Sally D again that very night on the golf course after it closed. It was an interesting experience, but lacking the intensity of the first trip. I felt the lesson the Shepherdess had taught me cement further into my understanding.

I did not smoke the seer’s sage again for quite some time and when I did, that next trip was at a small party. It was just kind of like static on an empty screen, not a profound or visionary experience at all, and left me feeling a little dirty. It was as if the spirit of the plant had nothing to say to me at all, since I had already learned all she had to offer me. I agreed reluctantly when she told me not to come back anymore.

But I did not keep that agreement. Several months later, when I was living in a small town, some friends invited my fiance and me to their trailer to smoke Salvia divinorum with them. The lady of the house smoked first and then proceeded to laugh hysterically until she turned florescent purple. After she came down, she reported that she had visited a flower garden where she had danced with faery-like beings! I smoked next, and my trip was significantly less fun than hers.

I set the bong down and looked over at my companions, who were sitting on an adjacent couch. They had huge cartoon faces on tiny cartoon bodies, waving at me. Then, they fell away and I was left in oblivion. An overwhelming feeling of parental disapproval swept over me. “You are a very, very bad little girl!” a strong, feminine voice scolded. “Look at you, doing drugs and naughty things. The Bible says not to do illegal things! You are in big trouble, missy!” Vague images of berries and cherries (police lights), the Bible club I attended as a child, my mother spanking me and other symbols of authoritarianism/discipline passed through my awareness. I cried. My parents were disappointed in me. Why was I being such a bad girl? BOOM! I was back in my friend’s trailer and my forehead was burning with pain. I was no longer sitting on the couch, but awkwardly sprawled on the floor. Apparently, I had stood up from my seat and then collapsed, knocking my head on the coffee table on the way down.

Obviously, Mama Sally was not pleased with me coming back to sneak another cookie from her jar!

"Mama Sally is gonna bust yer butt!"

Fat Stack o’ Flapjacks

•February 1, 2012 • 1 Comment

It’s kind of weird that my first two blogged recipes are both for breakfasts featuring foraged goods, but I guess it’s just the way the muffin crumbles. Despite my pretty adventurous culinary background, I just cooked up my very first batch of pancakes a few days ago! For those, I mixed in chia seeds and farkleberries (a kind of tiny, wild blueberry growing on our land). Mmm… SO good! I had never even been much of a pancake fan, but one of my friends had a pancake breakfast for her birthday a few months back and the varied pancake flavors they had on offer at that restaurant got my wheels turning. I felt inspired to come up with some truly unique pancake recipes. So, today, I gathered some juniper berries and created this:

Henbit blossoms, orange zest and juniper berries.

Not your average joe pancake batter.

Cake on the griddle.

Orange Juniper Griddlecakes

All amounts are approximate, do what makes sense to you.

  • A small handful fresh, juicy juniper berries
  • All the zest from one orange, or two oranges would be even better
  • Handful of maca powder (for those who keep weird shit like that around)
  • 2 cups Bisquick or the like
  • 1 1/2 cups whole milk
  • 2 eggs
  • Flesh of one orange, diced
  • Stick of butter, for grilling and topping
  • Molasses, for topping
  • Henbit flowers, for garnish
  1. Heat griddle or skillet on medium high.
  2. Mix Bisquick and maca powder in a round bottom mixing bowl.
  3. Add the milk and eggs into the bowl and whisk everything together until smooth.
  4. Stir in juniper berries (but keep a few for garnish) and orange zest.
  5. Grease skillet with butter.
  6. Ladle small portions of batter onto hot griddle and cook briefly.
  7. Flip over, cook briefly. That flapjack’s finished.
  8. Repeat 5-7 with the rest of the batter. Keep done ones warm in the oven if you like your hotcakes hot.
  9. Melt remaining butter and stir together with some molasses.
  10. Stack ’em up and top with diced orange. Generously pour warm molasses/butter mix over your stack.  Sprinkle a couple juniper berries and henbit flowers on top to make it all pretty.
  11. Devour!

Now, that's what I call a fucking fat stack of flapjacks!

This recipe makes about a dozen griddlecakes, depending on size. Oh, and I nearly forgot my secret ingredient… one sweet, juicy baby!

My delectable secret ingredient.

Growing my Roots

•January 27, 2012 • 3 Comments

As a little girl, I had very long, beautiful curls. My parents were proud of how lovely my hair was; but as a tree-climbing tomboy, I found it frivolous and inconvenient. They let me get it cut, a little at a time, and eventually it was all gone. The day I got my pixie haircut, I walked out of the salon smiling. When I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom and wept inconsolably. My little brother, Josh, sweetly tried to comfort me by telling me I looked like Elizabeth Taylor. I screamed at him “No, I don’t! I look TERRIBLE! HORRIBLE!!” and wailed. Eventually, though, I got used to it and ended up keeping it short for about 5 years because I didn’t want to go through the awkward in-between stage of growing it out. I always felt weird about it, though, like my physical appearance didn’t match how I saw myself.

Image

My "mexifro" as I called it, around the time of my last haircut.

Coincidentally, when I was 15 years old, I got my last haircut a couple of days before I lost my virginity. I have never cut it since that rite of passage. It grew quickly over the following two years and soon was a luxurious waist-length mass of mermaid curls. They were constantly tangling themselves into baby dreadlocks and I found myself spending upwards of 2 hours a day caring for my medieval princess-style tresses. And so, at age 17, I decided to just go with the flow and allow Mother Nature to be my hairstylist. In a matter of days and weeks, my curls began twisting themselves into knots and, although the effect was subtle at first, combined into rope-like clumps of matted hair. It looked pretty damn dreadful (*chortle*) at first, but over one year’s time developed into something recognizable as actual dreadlocks.

My dreads at a little over a year, age eighteen in 2006.

For me, the transformation was both physical and spiritual. I began to get more in touch with the Earth. It was during this year of growing my dreadlocks that I first ate magic mushrooms and smoked seer’s sage. I moved out of my parent’s home for the first time. I began to experience a new realm of existence beyond the scope of my sheltered upbringing. The years passed and I made mistakes, learned about life, and grew into a young adult. All the while, my hair grew and evolved with me.

2008, three years in. Dreadlock pigtails gonna kick yo ass.

Rocky Mountain National Park, 2010. My dreads are five years old here.

Just after Thanksgiving 2011. Dreaded for almost 7 years.

At this point in time, I have not cut my hair in nine years and I have not brushed my hair in seven years. It is almost 3 1/2 feet long, which is far more than half my full height. I am quite curious as to how much it might weigh, but I will not know until I cut it off. I will tell you one thing, though: it is becoming a bit of a burden to carry around all the time. I find myself shutting it in the car door, collecting sticker burrs in it as i kneel to forage wild greens, and coming worryingly close to pissing on it if I’m not mindful in the ladies’ room. My cats play with it, my rats nest in it, and my baby son pulls on it. When I bathe, it soaks up like a gallon of water (no joke) and then takes 2 full days to dry out.

…But I love my dreadlocks. They look beautiful to me. And they hold a lot of meaning for me, having been attached to them for so long now. They are a part of my body, both physical and astral, and an external representation of my connection to the Earth Mother. They are like roots, extending out and grounding me. They are like wires, conducting kundalini electricity. They are like snakes, writhing with cosmic wisdom. They are like tentacles, groping and grasping desperately for meaning, for purpose where there is none. They are like strands of protein, mostly just keratin… dead and limp and oh, so heavy.

Plesiosaur is Hardcore

•January 23, 2012 • Leave a Comment

In honor of today being the Chinese Lunar New Year, I thought it would be fun to do a post about my favorite dinosaurs. I know, I know; my logic is weird. But I believe it will make sense once I explain the connection. This year is the year of the Water Dragon! The last Water Dragon year was 1952 and the next one will be 2072. And so, for most of us, this is the one and only Water Dragon year of our lifetime. Why is this a big deal to me? Well, because I have a thing for aquatic reptiles… especially the BIG ones! My childhood dream was to be a marine biologist and prove the existence of the Loch Ness Monster.

My childhood dream come true.

This aspiration of mine came to a sad end when I grew wise enough to understand that, if I ever did find Nessie, she would just be locked up in a shitty little tank at Sea World so that people could gawk at her. If there really are any undiscovered giant aquatic predators out there… which, in my opinion, is pretty likely since most of our vast oceans are yet unexplored… I hope that they remain undiscovered and thereby unexploited. Anyway, my belief in the Loch Ness Monster was validated when I began studying dinosaurs around age eight and noticed that Nessie perfectly fit the description of a plesiosaur, specifically one belonging to the long-necked suborder Plesiosauroidea. Score! Brontosaurus was promptly replaced as my favorite dinosaur, which is probably a good thing since he never actually existed. Little did I know, though, that the Plesiosaurus that impressed me so much was actually one of the least impressive of its kind. Although cool looking and stealthy, the lengthy neck of this animal was a major liability when it came to defending itself against its super mean short-necked cousins.

Liopleurodon snacks on one of his little cousins.

Liopleurodon was a real life water dragon as epic as the biblical Leviathan. Some paleontologists think that these freaks reached over 80 feet in length and weighed 150 tons! If this is true, it would make Liopluerodon ferox the largest flesh-eating vertebrae known to have ever lived on planet Earth. However, I have to admit that there is much controversy surrounding such massive size approximations and it is generally believed that they did not get longer than 50 feet. Boo.

The Mosasaur family of oceanic beasts is also extremely badass! It includes the righteously ginormous Tylosaurus which has been proven to have reached a maximum length of at least 57 feet, as well as the iguana-sized Dallasaurus (discovered in my hometown of Dallas, Texas) who clearly demonstrates an evolutionary link from these monstrous sea-dwelling reptiles to the modern day monitor lizard family.

Dallasaurus, a fellow Dallas native and major evolutionary breakthrough.

Here’s an MSNBC news story about how this very important little dude was discovered: ‘Dallasaurs’ confirmed as key evolutionary link: Prehistoric lizard was found by amateur fossil hunter. You really should read it.

Hmmm… if that guy’s dino dream came true just by him deciding to go dig around in a construction zone, maybe my dream of finding a real, live water dragon can come true, too! Perhaps I was just looking in the wrong place. Screw Loch Ness; I should just be looking in my own backyard. Happy Chinese New Year, y’all!

P.S. What crazy childhood dream of yours could come true this year if you only gave it a shot?

P.P.S. Everything shown in a bold text is linked to more information!

Texan Weed Quiche

•January 22, 2012 • 2 Comments

Okay, y’all, before you read this blog, I need to make one thing about my little family quite clear. Although most people look at us and immediately label us as tree-hugging hippies (true in some ways), we are about as crunchy as stale potato chips. Which are still kinda crunchy… yes? In our social circles, strict/specific diets of all kinds are the norm.  But we are not gluten free, paleolithic, all organic, superfoodist, raw, vegan, vegetarian, or even pescatarian. We are flexitarian. We eat… well, we just eat.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dissing on any of the above listed religions…*cough* I mean, diets. Haha! In fact, I much admire my friends for their conviction, discipline, and devotion to optimum health. As far as nutrient-dense, organic, non-GMO food goes, it is definitely our strong preference. We buy whatever we can that matches those criteria. However, low funds and lack of decent grocers currently leave us with few choices in the matter. We are working toward self-sustainability: growing our own organic produce, raising and hunting our own meat, and digging wells for our drinking water. Until these intentions reach fruition, though, we are doing the best we can with what we’ve got.

Wild foods are some of our favorite things to incorporate into our diet. I enjoy the hell out of foraging for edible plants and am steadily growing more proficient at identifying what’s safe and yummy for our tummies. A lot of peeps would be surprised to learn that many of the herbaceous plants growing on their lawn which are commonly known as “weeds” are actually edible, tasty, and extremely nutritious. I will return to the subject of wild foods in many future posts, but now I would like to share a lovely breakfast recipe I whipped up this morning for Kelley and myself.

Some weeds ready for chopping.

Sauteing some shit.

Adding the mix-ins.

Into the oven it goes.

Texan Weed Quiche

All amounts are approximate, do what makes sense to you.

  • 2 cups scrambled eggs
  • 1 /2 cup whole milk
  • 1 cup shredded cheese
  • 2 handfuls weeds, chopped (I used henbit, chickweed, wild violet leaves, and wood sorrel)
  • 1 red onion, finely diced
  • 1 small handful sundried tomatoes, chopped
  • 6 grape tomatoes, quartered
  • 1 jalapeno, finely sliced (didn’t actually think of this until it was too late, but I will add it next time)
  • 4 cloves garlic, minced
  • 2 tablespoons chia seeds
  • 1/4 stick of butter
  • Sea salt
  • Black pepper
  • 10 or 12 inch cast iron skillet
  1. Melt butter in cast iron skillet.
  2. Saute red onion, garlic, jalapeno, and sundried tomato until soft.
  3. Pour in the eggs which have been scrambled with the whole milk.
  4. Add the cheese, weeds, and chia seeds to the skillet and mix everything up.
  5. Season with sea salt and black pepper.
  6. Sprinkle the grape tomatoes over the top and kinda pat them into the goop, but don’t really mix them in. This is for a pretty color in the finished dish.
  7. Stick in oven at 325 degrees Fahrenheit for around 30 minutes or until set. Set means that it doesn’t jiggle when you shake it.
  8. Slice like a pie and serve with some yummy fruit or whatever floats your boat.
  9. Devour!

    Beautiful, tasty, and easy as pie.

    Voila! A balanced breakfast!