Melissa K. Norris - Hand Made: The Modern Womans Guide to Made-from-Scratch Living

Melissa K. Norris shares old-fashioned wisdom and skills for a modern world with her books, podcasts, and blog. Melissa lives with her husband and two children in their own little house in the big woods in the foothills of the North Cascade Mountains. When shes not wrangling chickens and cattle, you can find her stuffing Mason jars with homegrown food and playing with flour and sugar in the kitchen.

To learn more about

Melissa K. Norris or this book, go to

www.melissaknorris.com

www.handmadethebook.com

or to read sample chapters, visit our website at

www.harvesthousepublishers.com

Do you long for simpler days? Do you wish you had the time to offer your family homegrown meals? Does your heart cry for a quiet place in this fast-paced world?

In The Made-from-Scratch Life , blogger and homesteader Melissa K. Norris inspires with more practical and easy methods to help you garden and preserve your own food, and see Gods fingerprints in your everyday busy life. Youll learn how to

plan, plant, and harvest for eating and preserving

troubleshoot common gardening problems with natural solutions

improve your familys health with natural cooking and cleaning methods

Whether you live in the middle of the asphalt jungle or on the side of a mountain, you can experience the pioneer lifestyle and start your own homesteading journey. Because when you surround yourself with things made from the hand of God, you cant help but see Him.

T he kitchen was the hub of our small home. Clad in her apron, my mother could usually be found inside the kitchen nook at the end of the trailer where I grew up. Tall evergreens stood sentinel at the end of our yard; large branches fringed the outside of the kitchen window. During windstorms, the low-hanging branches would sweep across the tin roof. The kitchen faced north into the forest, just feet beyond the thin glass windows, and not much light made its way inside.

Due to necessity and want, my mother cooked all our meals from scratch. Breakfast was oatmeal, homemade pancakes, biscuits slathered with homemade jam or gravy, or eggs with toast. The cookie jar never stood empty, and after trudging in from the hour-long bus ride home from school, some type of home-baked goodie always awaited me.

Food is my mothers love language. And she speaks it fluently.

Dinner was a family affair, often including friends or extended family members. By evening, the kitchen windows were slick with condensation, evidence of the food simmering on the stovetop and baking in the oven. And also evidence of the not-so-well-insulated glass and walls. If youve ever lived in an older trailer, you know exactly what Im talking about.

My father worked long hours as a log truck driver. He left before dawn and didnt get home until right before dinner. The evening meal was often the only time I would get to see him during the week.

Hed enter the house, the sharp scents of pine and cedar hitching a ride in with him. Hope youve got enough, hed say. I invited so-and-so for dinner.

Mom would survey the saucepan and skillet on the stove. Ill bring out an extra can of beans and the peaches from last year. Shed turn to me. Better get the extra leaf for the table.

Soon every burner on the little stovetop would have a pot simmering. Mason jars would offer up their bounty from last years harvest and then wait empty in the sink to be washed. The only dishwasher to be found was a pair of hands.

The table leaf was stored where we could grab it easily. Dad had a habit of bringing people home for dinner, especially without telling my mother in advance. She learned to cook on her toes. This always made for interesting evenings and supper conversation.

One night the guests arrived, and Dad invited them straight into the kitchen while Mom finished preparing the meal. Our living room didnt get nearly the spotlight the kitchen did when company came.

Tom invited us over for mazzards, one of the guests said.

My head whipped back and forth from Dad to Mom.

Shes the finest mazzard cook youll run across. Dads blue eyes twinkled.

Mom kept her gaze trained straight on the fry pan in front of her. Her grip tightened ever so slightly on the spatula.

I caught another look at Dad. I set the plates with precision, my focus never wavering lest I give something away.

Dad and the couple sat down, and I sat down too. The wood of the worn chair was smooth beneath my hands as I tucked them under my legs.

The gentleman glanced toward Mom as she turned the meat.

Wed never heard of mazzards before, but we figure it might be something related to a Mallard duck.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from twitching upward.

Moms shoulders stiffened.

Thats a right fine guess. Dad couldnt contain his humor any longer, and a big grin split his face. Truth be told, I was pulling your leg. Theres no such thing as mazzards, but my wife is a fine cook, and youre invited to stay for supper.

I searched the mans face. My fingers curled around the lip of my chair.

Surprise flared in his eyes for a moment. Silence spilled across the empty plates. He glanced at his wife. And then a grin emerged. You sure had me.

Moms shoulders relaxed. You shouldnt tell people that, she said. Her cheeks flushed, and I knew it wasnt from the heat of the stove.

I caught Dads gaze. He winked at me. The laughter Id been holding in burst out. Our mirth filled the cramped kitchen. The couple turned into family friends, and rarely did a supper with them go by without some mention of Dads famous mazzards.

That wasnt the last time he asked someone over for mazzards. When a line works, you roll with it. And Dad was always good with teasing.

That old singlewide 1974 Fleetwood trailer still stands. My parents purchased a house at the end of the road we all still live on, moving out of the trailer when I entered high school. It later housed my husband and me while we saved up to purchase our property and first home. Even though the tiny kitchen is still there, it no longer has the same warm glow and light I remember from my childhood. The original yellow sink is worn down to the metal in spots from the years of dishrags and water.

But Im reminded that just like the kitchen of my childhood, even when something is small and dark, Gods love fills it, stretching it to hold all who need to enter and find shelter and sustenance. No matter how little we have, when we invite Him into the situation, Jesus multiplies what we have to meet our needs. He takes a tiny kitchen and makes it a place of refreshment for those who walk through the door. He multiplies the single frying pan of meat to feed unexpected guests. He takes our exasperation at having to serve more people than we have resources for and fills us with His strength.

If you drive by the road we live on, youll dismiss that old white metal-sided trailer with barely a glance. Or maybe youll think how nice the property would look with a proper home. Were quick to overlook the things that arent polished or up to the normal standards. But Jesus doesnt look at the outside of things. He looks at the heart. Despite the bleakness on the outside, Jesus enters inside, and when His light spills out, it touches the surrounding walls and beckons others into the warmth. Just like a tiny, cramped kitchen with evergreen branches covering the windows.

Lessons in Hospitality

If I were in the middle of preparing supper and my husband waltzed through the door announcing that hed invited dinner guests who would be here any minute, I dont believe a smile and grace would be my first greeting.