Radishes (Radishi?) ... Ravishing, Anyway

I'm joking about the radishi. That would be like a socially timid but radical group of kids, right? (Homeschoolers, probably.) As in, rad-i-shy. Ba-dum-dumb.

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Our garden is going gangbusters. (Ooh--look out--another etymology and/or goofball soundalike tangent averted.)

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The sugar snap peas are HUGE, friends, just HUGE. I am still hopeful to freeze lots for winter stir fry, but we know I'm probably kidding myself. They just taste too good fresh in their sweet little pods; it completely wipes out any planning and canning instinct. If I'da been a pioneer, we'da been in big trouble.

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But thank goodness for Trader Joes, eh? They'll freeze some sugar snap peas for me. Probably.

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This brings me to a conversation I had yesterday with one of my legendary neighbors. Although I have periodically had neighbor, um, issues, while living here, I want you to know that I access some of the finest farmgirl resources in the nation (okay, at least the state) just by visiting with my neighbors.

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For instance, there's BJ, who the finest organic gardener and baby-shusher-to-sleep I have ever had the privilege of leaning upon in times of insect or napless crises.

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And then there's Alice, who can matter-of-factly sex a two-day-old chicken while describing the process to a gaggle of giggling girls. An little puff of air, the 70-year-old rancher and chicken guru will say, and if it's an "O" it's a she. If it's an "O-val" it's a he. Or is it the other way around? I'll have to ask Alice.

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For my third and ultimate example of my wealth of neighborly goodness, I bring you (oh, you farmgirls wish it were literal) Linda. I've known Linda all my life and loved her for her true and boundlessly hospitable nature. She is a rodeo queen from the '50s who could really ride as well as look fantastic. She's still a ranch-hand to outwork any man, 18 to 80. She's impeccably manicured and groomed in town -- locals running into her may not recognize Town Linda from Ranch Linda -- and windblown blond and tan, the exact colors of ripe hay, when working her ranch.

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Linda has for decades shorn my groomer-shy Golden Retriever, diagnosed my horse maladies, let my kids catch the tadpoles in her pond, sold me the best valley hay, given me invaluable advice, and in general been everything I hope to grow up to be.

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So yesterday Linda and I got talking about disaster preparedness. Do you all remember the year 1999? Prince song notwithstanding, the preparations for a massive computer and banking crash were headline news. Normal everyday people everywhere were stockpiling beans and rice and toilet paper for the day the electronic doors on the supermarket wouldn't open and the trucking industry was somehow inexplicably stalled as well.

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I'm a little unclear on my recent history here. But I do remember the survivalists came out of the woods to have a moment in the sun, giving lectures at churches and interviews to news crews.

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I think country folk were amused by the hoopla then and quietly still "disaster prepared" nine years later.

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Linda was telling me about her pantry system, how she keeps about six months of non-perishable food rotating as a matter of practicality. For a family of six, this would require a huge storage facility. We eat a lot of fresh food, a lot of local food. But what if our supplies were temporarily unavailable?

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I think I usually have on hand about three months' worth of beans, rice, pasta and canned goods. I am moving toward grinding my own flour but still buy it in 20-pound bags, one whole wheat and one white at a time. Storage is an issue.

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I'm fascinated by the idea of a root cellar and have been reading "Five Acres and Independence" and other seminal back-to-the-land books I've picked up at garage sales and others that I was lucky enough to inherit from my grape-growing, wine-making grandfather. (I wonder how much wine one would store for disaster purposes? I should ask another friend and resource.)

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I realize even our water supply in the country relies on electricity -- no pump, no water. I consider ordering a hand pump and consider that I may be crossing that invisible line between preparedness and paranoia.

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What do you do to store food? To save money? To cushion a possible job loss or power outage?