Less is More But Not Really

Weeks 4 and 5: The struggle with reality

Forgive me for I have sinned. I have not changed the bed sheets for at least 11 days. I have neglected to scrub the kitchen floor in 6 weeks and I have accummulated an obscene amount of garbage, a sin so vile which, before the end of September, I would have scorned and poured damnation over anyone who would so carelessly pollute the planet. In other words, my standards have slipped. As I flip through my Old People calendar (don’t ask), I see that I have been suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for five weeks now. The water situation has changed how I do just about everything that has to do with sustaining life via portable water containers.

Before we left Atlanta, we sat down to strategize ways to keep me from exploding because I couldn’t wash my hands properly–the reason we left home in the first place. There was, at that time, no running water at all in the city of Asheville. The water we had put up pre-hurricane ran out pretty quickly, so there had been a scramble to find usable, potable water for cleaning and consumption and even dirty water with which to flush our toilets. The big switch in my head went from condemning the people who invented selling water in plastic bottles to seeking out just the right containers for my personal water supply. Coming home meant embracing the practical requirements and letting go of my ideals because, let’s face it, the situation was so far from ideal I might have been willing to wear a suit that recycled my own bodily liquid waste (like in Dune) or moved to another city. Though, I was hoping it wouldn’t come to either scenario.

The Kroger store in Atlanta provided me with a workable idea. The 2.5 gallon jug with a spigot. They had some in Atlanta, but finding anything like it in Asheville proved impossible. Too many people latched on to the notion while I was piddling away my days in Georgia. We managed to squeeze 4 of those suckers into our car and drove home believing we were geniuses. Each container, it turned out, lasts about two days–I tend to wash my hands frequently. After the first four days back, I realized my handwashing might just have to be streamlined to three times per day, using hand santizer in between. I’ll leave it to your imagination as to what those three times per day are. This practice has put such a strain on my fastidiousness that I can barely function–especially in the kitchen.

On the day we arrived back at the Hobbit House, the aquatic powers that be hooked up the water pipes from the reservoir and started sending untreated water into our homes. They might as well have said “See that mud puddle over there? You can use that water as long as you boil it before drinking or washing your hands for meal preparation.” We ran the water to flush out the homestead pipes and to inspect the newly incoming stuff. The brown-ness of it was the reason they could not run it through the treatment plant. The catch word of the moment is TURBIDITY (aka murkiness). It has dirt (and other gross stuff) in it. We use it to flush the toilet, which is one burden of which we have been relieved.

So, on day one of our return, we began the process of finding clean water and setting up our system for appropriate water usage. Emergency potable water comes in two forms: small containers, ie bottles and cartons, or bulk–bring your own large container. Truist Bank, down the street from our neighborhood set up a clean water station with bulk water, showers, bathrooms and laundry facilities in their parking lot. They had everything we wanted. We put in a good supply of water in 5 gallon containers scavenged from the brewing operations in our basement and we received bottles and cartons from an emergency water set-up at the bowling alley. We were in business!

Some people around town were bathing, washing clothes, drinking and cooking with the available tap water. I could not bring myself to do anything but flush the toilet and water the plants with the stuff. That leaves me with having to do laundry and showering elsewhere, meaning two showers per week and two medium loads of laundry. It seemed doable. Or at least it was until Truist Bank withdrew their admirable facility from our neighborhood. There’s a county facility further away at which we have had to wait in line to do laundry. Showers were more plentiful.

Puplic shower 101: Lock the door. The showers at Truist Bank had no locks, merely a shower curtain between you and whoever was in the portable locker room that wished to have a peek or reach in and steal your stuff. It’s main superior asset was the fold-down seat. Let’s face it, when you’re my age, that seat means the difference between safely getting your underwear on versus doing a balancing act during which you drop your pants into the puddle on the floor. The county facility had locking doors. But no seat. On my first attempt at the county showers, I reveled in the concept of true privacy. There were hooks to hang my towel and clothing bag, a shelf to set my shampoo and shower gel and enough hot water to stay a bit longer than is probably encouraged.

There was also a sink with a mirror above it–so you could shave or put on your makeup or brush your teeth. On the occasion of my first county shower, I scoffed at the sink, it was just in the way. After taking my good ol’ time getting a thorough scrub, I stepped out of the stall still sporting my crappy old Tevas (no athletes foot for this gal!) and immediately understood my dilemma. Toweling off, I had to contort myself a bit in order to reach those sandal-clad feet without banging my head on that stupid little sink. I backed up a bit to give myself room, causing my arm to come in contact with a very wet wall. My towel was then in danger of becoming soaked by the water gathering on the floor because contact with the wet wall caused me to slide in that very direction. Then I decided hanging onto the sink was the way to keep mostly upright and away from the wall while donning various bits of clothing–ending with shoving my feet, clad in slightly squelshy socks, into my shoes. Deed done!. On to gathering the laundry and heading home to my kitchen.

Those who know my cooking style might say it’s elaborate or complicated. For sure it requires the dirtying of lots of pots, pans, knives, cutting boards and all the bits and bobs of culinary perfection. I confess to enjoying it. My husband does the dishes! Upon our return to Asheville, I had to rethink my methods of cooking. I must confess it was not easy, so I began by attempting to cook everything in one pot in order to cut down on the number of dishes I would have to wash without the assistance of running water. Our dishwasher is antiquated (that’s the machine not the husband) and has no sanitizing function, so all the dishes must be washed by hand in a manner that satisfies my germophobic sensibilities.

I started with soup, that one pot wonder of the dining realm. One drawback was the amount of water necessary in order to make it, well…soupy. Here’s where cartons of veg stock came in handy. The other problem was that it needed to be chock-full of goodies in order to make it filling enough to satisfy. I took my jars of dried beans and retired them to an upper shelf in our newly renovated pantry. Water crisis soup called for a mix of canned beans, frozen veg and simple fresh veg like carrots or potatoes. Did this fit my criteria for minimal dish washing? One pot, one cutting board, one knife, one ladle. We put in a supply of paper bowls, but they really do get disgusting after holding a hot liquidy mess. Clean up was not too bad.

From there I moved on to casseroles, which presented their own set of difficulties. Washing vegetables, chopping, pre-sautéing, making the sauce and grinding bread into bread crumbs take up a lot of cooking implements and make for a lot of dirty dishes. I took a pledge to forgo my food processor, blender (traditional and stick) and grinder. Also spatulas, potato masher and other specialty instruments of kitchen magic. I kept the avocado scooper because it works way better than a spoon. I scouted the grocery aisles for quick fixes that came in cans, bottles, boxed mixes or poppin’ fresh rolls. I resorted as much as I could to the convenience foods of my mother’s cooking days. The cashier at the food co-op has been sworn to secrecy about the changes in my eating habits. It doesn’t make me happy, but we’ll live to tell the tale.

Having streamlined meal prep, I developed a smooth transition into water crisis dishwashing. Big pot of hot water ladled over sudsy, recently scrubbed dishes, the fewer the better. I’ve got it down to a well-thought-out system. I now cook and clean up every afternoon to avoid being so cranky in the evening that there’s a risk of tossing all the dishes into the garbage and buying new pots and pans the next morning. Paper plates are my best friends. It’s working. Sort of. Now if I could only come up with a better system for getting the laundry done.

Hanging in there,

Cheryl

Chief Cook AND Bottle Washer (though no bottles have been washed–merely tossed into the recycling bin!)