Processing Beeswax – A Pictorial Guide

Wax cappings are saved into a plastic pail. If you are not going to process wax right away, freeze it to prevent wax moths. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

Step 1: In a dishpan of cold tap water, I rinse off the capping wax. This washes off honey residue, and makes it easier to separate out the unwanted bits. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

Step 2: I strain out the bits of wax with a sieve. This then goes into the crock pot. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

Step 3: Crock pot with 2″ of water, set to LOW. I tie a couple layers of cheesecloth around the mouth of the stoneware crock, using sturdy twine. (Do not use elastic bands. While easier, they will melt.) Atop the cheesecloth I place a sheet of paper towel. The capping wax is piled up onto the paper towel, and I put the lid on the pot. The rising steam from the pot will gently melt the wax, which will strain through both the paper towel and cheesecloth, into the water. The goo and junk stays behind atop the paper towel. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

This is the water after washing the wax – you can see what gets cleaned off. I dump this out onto the lawn, and never down the drain. Beeswax is not a friend of plumbing. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

Step 4: After I’ve melted down all the beeswax, I turn off the crock pot, discarding the cheesecloth and paper toweling. When the water in the pot is cold, I simply reach in, and pull out the cake of processed wax! Then I break it up and store it in a ziplock bag. (c) 2018 Silver Spring Farm, LLC. All rights reserved.

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(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: New Soap Packaging


Just “getting on my soap box.” New spiffy boutique packaging for the Lee’s Bees honey soap.

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Requiem For An Ice Cream Parlor.

I learned today that the Friendly’s ice cream shop, in the town where I grew up, has closed for ever. I know it sounds insignificant — just another business falling to tough times etc., but Friendly’s was the bookmark in the volume of my life, and in the lives of almost everyone in our small-town slice of the American pie.

When we were silly girls in junior high we would ride our bicycles to Friendly’s, and sit on the grass by the front of the parking lot, licking dripping ice cream cones, or getting brain freeze from Fribbles, and giggling. The boys would sit on the split rail fence and watch the girls.

Friendly’s was where my mom would take me for regular Wednesday summer and school vacation lunches, and often my Aunt Barbara or Mrs. C would join us. I felt so grown-up and special to be included in their chit chat. We still periodically went there for lunch when I was a grown, married lady — right up until my parents moved down to Florida. I miss those days just like I miss those great women.

I remember going to Friendly’s with my dad after my sister got married and moved a thousand miles away. I was twelve. He thought ice cream would help. It didn’t, but I still remember that special visit and the mammoth Jim Dandy sundae he bought me, and then helped me finish. I miss him, too.

Once when my parents and I went to Friendly’s the light was out behind the Y in the sign. From that point on my dad always called it Friendls.

For many of us Friendly’s was the site of our first date, of our first kiss… Our first whispered words of love… Our first break up.

Sports victories, birthdays, honor rolls, and other small events of life were celebrated there.

I raised my kids two towns away from Pompton Plains. Conveniently nearby, we spent many a Thursday night having dinner at Friendly’s. It was a break for me, a tradition carried forward, and an opportunity to teach good restaurant behavior. We would play a coloring game on the backs of the paper placemats while we waited for food. “Who can draw a shark… A squirrel… A giraffe.” Often times my sweet boys would give their drawings to the waitress. I would echo those words spoken by my parents: “You won’t have ice cream unless you finish your dinner.” And then they (as did we) would get ice cream anyway.

So yes, I will miss the Friendly’s in Pompton Plains. It will be difficult driving past and seeing the it gone. What would ever fill our lives’ pages quite the same?


Image courtesy of Friendly’s, c. 2015.

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Quotable Sunday.

The river with its mask of trees cut a twisting path down through the valley. Two miles away he could see, beside a gigantic lonely oak, the white speck of his tent pitched and left while he went to record his homestead. A long time he sat there. As he looked into the valley, Joseph felt his body flushing with a hot fluid of love. “This is mine,” he said simply, and his eyes sparkled with tears and his brain was filled with wonder that this should be his. There was pity in him for the grass and the flowers; he felt that the trees were his children and the land his child. For a moment he seemed to float high in the air and to look down upon it. “It’s mine,” he said again, “and I must take care of it.”

– John Steinbeck from “To a God Unknown”

Fog rolls in as the sun sets over Silver Spring Farm.

Fog rolls in as the sun sets over Silver Spring Farm.

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Chicks Three. Chicks No More.

Hen.  Buff Orpington.  (and yours truly)

Hen. Buff Orpington. (and yours truly)

It’s been a long while since a chicken update – long enough, in fact, for my flock to grow to 35, and for one of them to be snatched up by a fox.

The quick story – I “inherited” three more hens from friends of mine who were increasing the amount of time they were away from home and didn’t want to neglect their pets (yes, the were named). The hens are also buff orpingtons, quite healthy, and are about a month older than my chickens. Two of them have recently begun laying. The third is the rebel of the group – she leads them into areas of the farm that we usually find unique and sometimes surprising: the other side of the barn, the mailbox, out into the fields, onto the front porch, etc. She may also be laying and I haven’t discovered her hiding spot yet! The two that are laying are utilizing our porch – one sets her eggs underneath the porch but conveniently within reach, and the other sets her eggs using a coil of green plastic-coated dog run wire as her “nest.” It’s the perfect size.

This weekend I will be installing some newfangled nesting boxes into the coop. None of the chickens like using the old wooden ones – I think they may be too small for the buffs.

The others should be laying soon. They all are being horribly harrassed by the current overabundance of roosters, a situation which will be resolved in the near future when the lads are dispatched to the local slaughterhouse. Yes, 9 or 10 of the fellas will be headed off to Freezer Camp. The hens will thank me!

Regarding Mr. Fox: The rifle is loaded and waiting. I will have my revenge. Meanwhile the perimeter fencing is 80% complete. That will also be finished this weekend when one of my sons comes to visit.

Rooster - Black Astralorp

Rooster – Black Astralorp

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One Year Gone.

Exactly one year ago today, in the cool stillness of a pre-dawn summer’s morning, I drove my youngest son to the US Marine Recruiting Station Bloomingdale. We parked in front of the building, illuminated only by the headlights of my car and those of the government-issued Ford idling in the driveway. My son didn’t get out of the car right away. Instead, we sat in the silence for a few minutes, enjoying each other’s company for the last time in what would be a long time.

It was 5:22 a.m. “I love you mom,” he said. I replied that I loved him too, and that I hoped he did well. With that, he picked up his bag, opened the car door, and swung his feet out onto the sidewalk and into his new life. I watched him take those last steps across the sidewalk, and disappear into the darkened building as the door swung shut behind him.

And he was gone.

He loves his life as a United States Marine, and what he’s achieved. He is good at what he does. He is happy. And I am so proud of him that it leaks out of my eyes when I think of him.

I haven’t seen him since January 4th.

When you read this, all I ask is that you think of him. No need to reply, or sing his praises. He’s a quiet man, my son. Not a fan of howdies or hoopla. Think about what he and the others with him train and fight and do to ensure your safety, and protect democracy around the world. Lift him up in your thoughts and in your prayers, if that’s how you believe. I would appreciate that.

Many of our young fighting men don’t get the opportunity to celebrate even one year in the service. Their lives, or their limbs, are blown away in an instant, or their souls are forever torn into tatters. Think about them, and their families, too. In fact, they need your thoughts and prayers more than we do.

To all of you other Marine Moms and Dads, and other military parents and siblings – we are all in this together. I appreciate every one of you who has ever taken the time to talk to me about our kids, or offer a kind word – I genuinely appreciate the fact that you have my six. Don’t worry – I’ve got yours.

Semper fidelis.


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Quotable Sunday.

“And he gave it for his opinion, that whoever could make two ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground where only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind, and do more essential service to his country, than the whole race of politicians put together.”

Jonathan Swift
Gulliver’s Travels. Part ii. Chap. vii. Voyage to Brobdingnag.

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Chicks Too.

Chicks 2 weeks 1

Chicks 2 weeks 2

Chicks 2 weeks 3

Tracking the progress of the chickies. At two weeks old the chicks already have wing feathers, and are learning to use them by fluttering up and perching on the edges of their universe – two big plastic tubs. After retrieving the ones that flew out and were huddled together in a corner of the mud room, I added a giant corrugated cardboard wall across the front of the tubs.

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20140411-164838.jpgChicks are so cool. They are eating, pooping machines. They run around chirping up a storm in their plastic tub, then fall down asleep, flopped into all kinds of ridiculous positions, as if they dropped dead.

This is how the chicken story begins, here at the farm. With adorable fluffballs.

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The Seeds of a New Generation – New York Times Article.

Here is an excellent article from the New York Times, discussing watershed changes in the farming community.

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