Relocating Small Kitchen Appliances

Let me begin by saying that our house was built in the mid 1930's. It's a small 2 story farm house that's been added on to over the years. In it's 75 years of existence, we are only the third owners. My husband's folks bought this ranch in the 1940's right after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

My mother-in-law was a saint. How she managed to raise 4 children, work a ranch and entertain copious amounts of over-night guests in this house I'll never know. The kitchen is the size of a postage stamp..maybe a tad smaller. There is no counter space and very few cupboards.

The house has gone trough some minor remodeling over the years, most of it since we took over the ranch 15 years ago. Even so, the kitchen has always been a source of frustration for me.

When the house was designed, its purpose was to be a place for the folks to come in from after a hard day of ranch work, slurp down a bowl of stew and plop into bed. Comfort was not a big issue. Smaller kitchens were acceptable back then because folks didn't have all the modern appliances that we use today. There were no electric coffee makers, no electric toasters, no electric blenders, and no microwaves.

Every time I prepare a meal I have to move things around on the counter in order to eek out a foot or two of working space. It makes me crazy! and as the result, last Thursday I went a little off the deep end .

Here's what happened:

I decided to bake some cookies, but when I tried to put the electric mixer on the counter the toaster was in the way so I set it on top of the stove and tried to wedge the mixer in the corner. I grabbed a bag of flour and having no place to set it while I measured out the right amount, I had to set it on the stove as well. Suddenly I decided I'd lived with the inconvenience long enough.

I stood there looking around and decided something had to be done. The logical thing was find another spot for the toaster, microwave and coffee maker. Unfortunately there was no other place I could put them, after struggling for space for 15 years, I already knew that. Then in a totally "Lucille Ball" moment I knew what I had to do. The solution was simple. All I had to do was remove the corner floor to ceiling cabinet, and I'd have at least 2 more feet of counter space.
Simply genius if I do say so myself!

My husband, Bruce, was at work, which I decided was a good thing because if he had been home he would have come up with at least 20 reasons why taking out that one little ol' cupboard was a bad idea. I figured what he didn't know while he was as work couldn't stress him...much. With a joyous heart I removed all the items from the cupboard. Next I triumphantly marched out to his work shop, retrieved his sledge hammer and crowbar and set to work. Although I'd never demolished anything it was remarkably easy. I was a one-woman explosion of mass destruction!

The more I worked the more I liked the idea, and the next thing I knew I had removed not one but two cupboards. Then it was three. Next I went to work on the base cabinets. AhHah! Now I had a whole vacant wall to work with... a blank canvas with which to create a whole new kitchen!

About that time Bruce came home and stood in stunned silence . I was covered in debris and grinning wildly. I held a sledge hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. His head swiveled back and forth between me, the blank wall and the pile of demolished cupboards. When he was finally able to speak all he could say was " What the ... What the...?"

By way of explanation I said "I needed to move the toaster, microwave and coffee maker." By then he must have drifted into deep shock because his only response was a barely audible "ok" as he turned and walked into the living room and plunked down in a chair.

I followed him and told him that I had it all under control and that I planned on going to the Habit For Humanity second hand building materials store the next day to find cupboards that "would suit my needs."

We spent a very quiet evening.

The next morning after Bruce left for work, I measured the wall and headed out to find new cabinets. Surprise! None of them would fit into the space I had opened up. Apparently older houses have a problem with room sizes and wall dimensions being much different than those in standard modern homes.

Seriously...Who knew?

From the Habitat for Humanity second hand store, I went to two local stores that carry new cabinets. They both gave me the same bad news. Either I would have to leave a lot of unused space or tear out a wall to make new cabinets work. One store did say that there were older style cabinets available, but they were only sold on the east coast, and I would have to pay an exorbitant shipping cost and in addition there would be no way to return them if they didn't work out.

When home I got on the phone and called every store on the west coast that sold cabinets. Every one of them told me the same story. They all suggested I call a cabinet maker. By day's end, I wasn't feeling too good about my remodeling job.

Bruce came home that evening expecting to see a truck load of second hand cabinets, instead he found me trying to figure out how to fit the pieces of the cabinets I tore apart back together. He laughed. I cried. Then he assured me we'd figure something out.

The next day I was busy on the computer trying to figure out what to do with the blank wall, and low and behold I discovered Home Depot carries a line of inexpensive small unfinished cupboards in various sizes that seemed like they would work. I measured the wall, and phoned the 3 closest Home Depot stores. Amazingly between the 3 stores, they had all the cabinets in stock that I needed. I breathed easier.

Early the next morning I hit the road and collected all the cabinets . When Bruce got home I beamed with pride. I told him I'd pulled together a brand new functional kitchen for under $500.00. He was impressed....that is until he checked my measurements and told me I was 3/16ths of an inch off or some other silly little measurement. He said he was sure the main cabinet, the one I wanted the most, would not fit.

The next day was Bruce's day off work, so we started mounting the cabinets that we knew would fit. Although I'd been in denial, it soon became evident that Bruce was right, one of the cabinets wouldn't work...actually when it was all said and done, it was two. He did a great job of holding his frustration back, but I spent most of the day feeling ill. By late afternoon I was battling a migraine. I suddenly loathed all toasters, microwaves and coffee makers!

The next morning, we measured, remeasured, drew more diagrams, argued over what would and would not work. Then we measured, remeasured, drew more diagrams and...well, it went on that way for nearly 2 hours. Finally we came up with a plan that would work. We returned the two cabinets to Home Depot and picked up spacers, fillers, composite floor board, caulking, pine boards, and three different cabinets. Through it all Bruce was stoic and unwaveringly clam. On the drive home he quietly said "so what do you figure the final cost is now Lucy?"


The kitchen is pretty much back together now, and yesterday I was able to relocate the toaster, microwave, and coffee pot which left me with 3 new feet of counter space. I suppose there must be an easier way to relocate small appliances, but I'm really happy with my new kitchen. When I ask Bruce if he likes it he just quietly nods his head. I think he will like it more once the initial shock wears off.

• As an interesting side note: The sledge hammer and crowbar have gone missing along with most of the smaller power tools. Bruce thinks maybe someone stole them, but oddly he doesn't seem too upset. I'm not sure what to think...strangely enough I can't even find a hammer.

Green Eggs and Sam

Someone once asked me to name the foremost thing that I like best about living in the country. Without hesitation I said it was the ability to raise most of our own food. What a joy to fix a meal that contains almost all, if not all, of meats and produce raised right here on our ranch.

There is nothing like sitting down at breakfast and savoring the flavor of farm fresh chicken eggs. We have a variety of different breeds of chickens that free range our property by day. Among them is one specific breed I am rather fond of: Araucana. These chickens lay eggs that range in color from pale blue to a nice rich green.


I think it's great fun finding a green or blue egg mixed in with the standard brown ones that the other breeds of chickens on our ranch lay. It's even more fun to see the expression on the faces of children who, for the most part, delight in seeing naturally colored green eggs.

Because we have an abundance of eggs at the end of each day, we either give away or sell the excess to local folks who are not lucky enough to raise their own chickens. Often times we donate the overflow to the local food bank. No egg is wasted.

Which brings me to Green Eggs and Sam:

Not to long ago while I was in one of our local grocery stores I happened to pull my shopping cart along side a young mother with several children in tow. I was waiting patiently for her to make her selection of eggs so I could reach in and grab a pound of unsalted cooking butter.

Without provocation she turned to me and said "I can't believe the price of a dozen eggs can you?" Before I could answer she added "I really try to feed the kids good food, but the cost of eggs is making it difficult to give them a good nutritional breakfast."

I smiled, reached into my purse and handed her one of our business cards and said "Well, maybe we can help each other out. We live on a ranch about 4 miles from here and we always have more eggs than we know what to do with. I'd be happy to share some with you."

She hesitated and I could tell that a bit of pride was holding her back so I added "Really, you'd be doing me a favor. I hate to waste food. We get several dozen eggs every day and we simply can't use that many."

She said she would take some but only if she could pay for them. I told her that generally we just gave them away but if she felt better she could pay me $1.00 per dozen, which I added, was the standard price when we did sell them. She brightened and said she'd stop by in a day or so.

A few days later an unfamiliar vehicle slowly crept up our drive. It was pouring rain and the wipers on the car were going at full speed. Before long a young boy of about 8 climbed out of one of the rear doors and ran up to the door.

When I opened it he handed me our business card and said "Mom said you could sell us some eggs. She wants to know if you have some."

I told him I did and asked him to come in while I got them out of the refrigerator. "No ma'am" he said "I can't go into strangers houses. We don't know if you are a bad person or not." Then he turned and pointed to the car and added "And don't you worry, my mom is watching." I smiled and told him he was right and that he should remain on the porch."

Noting he had 3 one dollar bills clutched in his hand I quickly grabbed 3 cartons of eggs from the refrigerator and returned to the half drowned little boy on my porch. In his presence I carefully opened each carton to inspect for broken or cracked eggs. The nice assortment of green and brown eggs looked fine to me so I started to set them in a shopping bag.

The boy suddenly had a horrified look on his face "Stop!" he said firmly "I can't take those eggs!" When I asked why he said "Well, my mom won't like it if you sell her eggs that aint' ripe yet."

I asked him what he meant by eggs that were not ripe yet. He beamed and said "Sometimes you have to really watch what people sell you so you don't come home with stuff that isn't ripe is what I mean."

I tried to assure him the eggs were fine, but he reached down into the bag, pulled out a carton, opened it and said "Look here!" he pointed at a green Araucana egg and spouted "Do it look ripe to you? It's green as it can be lady, don't you have more ripe ones in there?"

I nearly laughed out loud, but I could see the little guy was dead serious. When I couldn't convince him that the eggs really were ripe and that different types of chickens laid different colored eggs I gave in and got several more cartons of eggs from the refrigerator and substituted brown eggs for the green Araucana ones.

When I finished he thrust $3.00 toward me and said "Lady if you want to keep selling your eggs to people you'd best not try that one again."


When I closed the door I burst out laughing.

Much later when the weather cleared and I was able to talk to his mother I told her the story. She laughed and said that since their dad left them Sam felt he was responsible for the family's well being. Apparently right after her newest baby was born, she sent Sam into a store to buy a bunch of bananas while she stayed in the car outside. When Sam returned with green bananas she tried to explain the difference between green ones and ripe ones. Obviously, he took the lesson seriously.

No green eggs for Sam!

Oh Honey !

A worker honey bee has a very short life span. In fact the average honey bee lives an average of 28 days, which means the hive is constantly hatching new ones to replace the ones that expire.

When old worker bees die, their hive mates carry them to entrance of the hive and drop them out. I suppose it's more or less the bee's version of a "burial at sea."

The make up of a bee colony is incredibly interesting, but the couple of facts I've already mentioned here will give you some idea how my creative mind got me into the following situation.

Here's what happened:

When we went out to check our hives after a pretty severe rainstorm a few days ago, I noticed a rather large amount of bees laying on the ground. A half dozen or so is not uncommon, but on that particular day there were at least a dozen or more outside each hive.

As I bent down to examine the expired bees I noticed that quite a few of them still had pollen attached to their legs. That is not typical, but I surmised that they were caught in the heavy rain and hail and just didn't quite make it all the way into the hives before succumbing to the severe weather.

It only took me a minute to realize the potential. I wondered how many people had ever had the opportunity of seeing a honey bee laden with pollen up close and personal.

Being an educator and a wanna-be entrepreneur I immediately seized on what I perceived to be a brilliant opportunity to fill both goals. I carefully gathered all the deceased bees that were carrying pollen and took them into the house.

The bees were soaking wet from the storm, so I placed them on paper towels and laid them on the hearth in front of the wood stove to dry. Meanwhile I contemplated the best way to mount and display the bees in shadow boxes.

I imagined rocketing sales on E-bay as teachers brutally outbid each other in order to obtain my wonderful specimens.

After about half an hour I checked to see how well the bees were drying on the hearth. To my surprise one of the bees was wobbling feebly on her feet. I was elated! One was actually still alive.

I quickly rushed into the kitchen and retrieved a pint jar to put her in until she finished recovering. I wasn't able to locate a lid for the jar but I figured since the little bee was so weak I'd have plenty of time to locate some cheesecloth or similar material to stretch over the mouth of the jar after I got her into it.

When I returned from the kitchen with the jar I noticed a second one was now trying to get to it's feet. I yelled for my husband, Bruce, to come and help me get them both into the jar.

By the time Bruce came to my aid 4 of the bees had revived and were stumbling off in various directions. He held the jar while I tried to scoop each of them up with a small piece of cardboard and drop them into the jar.

The job was made more difficult because he was laughing so hysterically that he kept jiggling the jar.

Suddenly the recovery effort came to a critical point. All the bees, who had apparently been suffering from hypothermia, were snapping back to life faster than I could catch them.

Bruce was getting concerned because he was covering the mouth of the jar with his bare hand and the three or four bees already in the jar were quite apparently becoming angry. I had no choice but to stop catching the ones on the hearth and find something to cover the jar with.

I was somewhat relieved when I was finally able to secure the cheese cloth to the top of the jar. My relief was short lived however, because upon returning to the hearth there were only a couple of bees still struggling on the paper towel. The others, whose numbers were close to 20, had gone missing.

For the next two hours the house reverberated with the sound of angry bees buzzing from room to room mingled with Bruce's uproarious laughter and my frantically high-pitched calls of "Here!..Quick..Over here..I found one!"

Eventually we captured all of them but by then it was too late to put them back outside so I placed the jar in the laundry room. Bruce questioned the move and suggested that the laundry room might be too cold for them. I rebutted with "Well I don't want them to chew through the cheesecloth and get out again."

When we went to bed I wasn't able to sleep because Bruce's words haunted me. Finally about 1 AM I quietly slipped out of bed and checked on the jar of bees in the laundry room. Sure enough, they had gotten too cold. They were laying on their sides in the jar. Feeling guilty I brought the jar into the house, placed it in the bathroom and rigged a trouble light over it for warmth. Within minutes the bees had once again recovered.

It was then that I noticed I had inadvertently pulled one corner of the cheesecloth loose while moving the jar into the house. I quickly tried to tuck it back under the rubber band that had been securing it. SNAP! The rubber band broke and the cheesecloth went sailing into the air. It took me over an hour to recapture them again.

The moral of this story? Oh honey...never trust a dead bee!