My Million-Dollar Idea of the Day

 

My Million-Dollar Idea of the Day

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Years ago, a friend, I don’t remember who, told me that every day we have a million-dollar idea but that they skim by so quickly that we seldom catch one.

I don’t remember which long-ago friend posited this preposterous notion. I do remember that I said, “Hmmm. Um hmmm,” while nodding my head, wide-eyed.

I never forgot the notion. Now and then I catch a nodding acquaintance with one of my million-dollar ideas. Hence, the following.

Nostalgia is big these days. Grossly misplaced nostalgia, if you ask me, since I lived some of it and know the reality. However, nostalgia sells.

Conveniently, medical oversight seems to suddenly have fallen by the wayside.

At the same time, people, that’s you and me, gang, are bombarded with miracle cures, ancient, modern, invented, and imagined.

Bring these three threads together and you have it. Or, rather, I have it. I propose to revive the old-time medicine wagon and drift from village to village hawking my own brand of snake oil. Brilliant, eh?

What’s in the bottle of Cures-What-Ails-You? It doesn’t really matter, does it? I figure the base of most snake oil is alcohol. Here where I live the cheapest, most easily acquired alcohol is from the cane plant. Grind up some red chilies and one or two secret ingredients, and, no, I ain’t telling, because then they wouldn’t be secret ingredients, would they? Decant the liquid into old-timey blue bottles with a cork, and hit the road.

My friend Kathy’s husband Richard is a renowned retired doctor and he is willing to come up with the appropriate language for my spiel. Okay, he may not be renowned yet but by the time I finish my tour, he will be, yes, he will be renowned.

One product cures all, I figure. Richard can come up with the appropriate prescription, loosely called prescription, perhaps taking a page from homeopathy. Say, a drop for this ailment, two drops for that, and a slug for the really hard cases.

Brilliant, right? Do I figure to get rich? Well, no, not exactly. I’ve never been enamored of wealth, more’s the pity. Real wealth takes money to begin the process to generate more money. I have none. Wealth requires wealthy friends. Ditto. In today’s world, wealth takes devious manipulation through the internet. Ditto, again.

However, would I ever have a good time. I can easily imagine clip-clopping over the backroads with my mule and colorful-as-a-field-of-wildflowers medicine wagon, stopping by both isolated homes where I might trade a bottle of Cure for a meal or a clutch of eggs and in main-street squares, opening the back of my wagon, setting up a box on which to stand so I can see over the heads of the crowds and hawking my wares.

At best, I might make expenses.

As with all my other million-dollar ideas, you may have this one for free. You may get rich. I am sure to have fun.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

September 4, 2025

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When A Weed is More Than a Weed

 

               When A Weed is More Than a Weed

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My friend Vala from Harlem told me about her pitiful yield from her garden, hardly enough for a salad, in this summer of hail, flooding rains and stultifying heat. She said she mostly grew purslane and bindweed.

“Purslane,” I got excited. “Purslane is a wonder vegetable. You can eat it. It’s much like spinach only tastier and full of good nutrition. Here’s how I fix it. I steam it, add butter, salt and pepper and drizzle on a little vinegar. It’s delicious.”

Vala asked Larry to go out amongst the bindweed and gather her a mess of purslane. She followed my directions. “I love it,” she reported. “Larry said it was better than he thought it would be but he wouldn’t want it every meal.”

Nor would I, Larry, nor would I. I get hungry for it now and then but only eat it every couple months, or when I can find it. I don’t happen to have any in my yard.

When I was growing up on the farm, we called it pigweed. It grows prolifically. Here, there and everywhere.

A hundred years ago when I lived in Great Falls, a woman named Mary Missy taught me how to cook pigweed. I mean purslane. She also taught me how to use comfrey, another weed, as tea and as a compress for wounds. I wish I could have known Mary longer. I’ve never lost her memory.

This morning at the market in town I bought a bundle of purslane. It’s not on the shelf every day but I can find it often enough to keep me satisfied. I steamed the whole bunch and ate a large bowl of the greens. Tomorrow I’ll scramble purslane with eggs.

Since purslane is a common market vegetable in this area, called verdolagas, I asked Leo how his family cooks verdolagas and discovered that my way is boring.

First they fry costillas, which are bite-sized bits of pork rib (or one can use any meat), and set the costillas aside. Next chop tomatoes, onion, garlic and chilis of your choice in the blender with water.  Pour that into the skillet which fried the costillas. Reduce the broth, stirring frequently. Add the costillas and verdolagas to the broth (salsa roja) until the meat is heated and the vegetable is tender. Doesn’t that sound yummy?

My next thought, now that I’m jumped out of my boring (but still delicious) purslane rut is to try the costillas and verdolagas with salsa verde, made with tomatillos. Mushrooms? A bit of chopped carrot? Potato? In tacos. Oh, I can almost taste them just talking about them. Enchiladas with cheese and beans. Raw in salad. Hmmm, tomato sandwich with purslane?

My purslane-pigweed-verdolagas cup runneth over.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 28, 2025

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Why My Bread Didn’t Rise

 

Why My Bread Didn’t Rise

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I have amazing mechanical skills. If I contemplate a problem long enough, generally I can figure out how to fix it. When I was a very young mother and my daughter was in diapers, back when diapers were squares of cotton cloth, my washing machine broke down.

If you’ve ever washed 80 diapers by hand, you will understand why I lay on the floor beneath my wringer washer, the kind with the tub up on legs with a wringer attached to the rim of the tub, and looked and thought and looked and thought.

With only the most rudimentary tools, pliers and two screwdrivers and a couple wrenches, I took something apart down there that looked broken, fixed it, put it back together with only two small extra parts, filled the tub with water heated on the wood stove and washed a huge load of baby clothes.

Christmas Eve, year after year, I’ve spent hours on the floor putting together children’s toys made in China, directions written in Chinese.

For years my ability to take things apart and put them back together more beautifully made my house payments.

Mechanically, I’m good. Electronically, not so hot. At electronics, I’m rubbish. Electronics turn my brain into 3-days-in-the-pan, overcooked, congealed oatmeal.

The other day I finally got my new internet service installed. I was excited. I’d been piggy-backing off a generous neighbor’s services, gratefully. I got my computer, my kindle, my tablet all online. No problem. I know how to do that.

However, my printer refused to spit out a page of print. My computer refused to even recognize my printer. What is this, a grade school snit amongst electronic equipment?

I’ve a fairly new printer which I had managed to install with no problems and only minor irritation and sweat. I followed the directions. I should be able to find this problem and fix it. Right?

After a couple hours, I quit. Had a sleepless night, trying to figure it out while lying awake in bed. That never works but I keep trying, which I think is the definition of insanity.

The following day, with my daughter on the phone 2500 miles away, we worked another couple hours. No go.

Interspersed with my futile attempts to make my printer work, I mixed a batch of dough for bread. Baking bread is a mechanical process. I’m an excellent baker.

The dough didn’t feel right. Bread dough is sensitive. It responds to emotional atmosphere. I know that dough felt my frustrations and acted accordingly. Finally, it had risen enough that I could form loaves, which I almost threw away but, reluctantly, just in case, put in the oven.

One last attempt trying to hook up my printer. Remember the definition of insanity? When I quit, I was screaming. I was screaming for ice cream. I grabbed my neighbor, Crin, and talked her into sharing ice cream with guava sauce I’d made that morning. (Guava is not so sensitive.)

Not being totally devoid of brains, in defeat, I asked for help. My neighbor Josue is trained in electronics and robotics. Go figure. You are right. I should have started with “HELP”.

I picked up a book and sat in a chair with my back to Josue. I hate someone looking over my shoulder when I am working. Ten minutes later, Josue asked me to come test the printer. Ten minutes! I was immensely grateful, but, a tiny contrary part of me wanted to brain him. Ten minutes!

My bread was not light and fluffy and full-sized, but Crin convinced me to keep it for toast. I gave her one loaf and kept the other.

This morning I made a batch of Grateful Bread for Josue.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

August 21, 2025

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