My brother, John, has turned out to be one of the most intelligent, likable, complicated people I have ever met. He says I am the only one who will laugh at all his crazy jokes. I find that very hard to believe. He has the most natural, sarcastic - verging on the sardonic - sense of humor I have ever run across, and with just his incredible mind, he could have been a comical contender, the real "Marlon Brando On the Waterfront" kind of contender. His timing is perfect, sweet and flawless, with little glints of double entendre salted in to make you think, "Does he really know what he just said?" Heck yeah, he knows what he just said, but he leaves it where it falls.
John, with all his talents and strengths is a prism hider. You can only see what he allows to be reflected in the bright white of the glass. That's okay. I love prisms. I think they're beautiful.
I, on the other hand, am an old fashioned Black '62 Chevy Impala with button controls for the local AM radio stations. If I think of a memory or a moment that I just can't bear to focus on, I pretend I am in that Chevy and I imagine pressing a radio button, any radio button to make what is on my mind forget and quickly switch to a new "station." It works for me.
My little brother and I have learned to function in dysfunctional ways. One day when John's prism chandelier breaks and my car radio won't run anymore, we'll have to come to grips with what's left. And we will too. I'll bet I can find all kinds of ways to slip in and out of a memory, and John is smart enough to grind up glass and make a new prism.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Horizontal Hostess
I realized, as I typed this title, that it sounds way more provocative than it was originally intended to be. My girl friend was trying to encourage me to continue inviting people over to my home, even if I wasn't able to get up and be the hostess I would prefer to be. I could be the "Horizontal Hostess." I like it! Heck, Franklin Roosevelt didn't get up much for folks at his gatherings, and I'm not better than FDR. You work with what you've got.
My gorgeous niece, Jill, (I always think of her as my gorgeous niece) said one day they would all get down here, and I could cook my heart out for them. Oh, what bliss! By then, though, I may be buying all the goodies from Salem Kitchen, and lying that I cooked it myself, but who would care. I could direct the buffet from my couch like the Grand Dame that I am.
I am not good with change, and there are so many changes in my life right now that I can't imagine what is in the future. I am the girl who hasn't moved her furniture in five years, and that was only because we bought a new home. If I liked something in the first place, why would I move it? Some changes will happen to me and some changes I will effect for myself. For instance, I needed a new picture of me in my head, so I recently colored my mousy gray hair to "happy strawberry blond." Still wondering about this change. I can't decide if it's warm and welcoming, or if it reminds people of an "I LOVE LUCY" spin off. (A warning to all previous red-heads that are now gray, I have personally learned that if you mix red with white, you often get pink.) I am the cool GDAWG, but pink hair is still in a galaxy far, far away for me.
Today was a very rough day for me, but I learned, as it went on, that I have family and friends who really love me, encourage me and stand up for me. No changes there! I am blessed beyond all measure. Tonight I hear the song, "Joy Unspeakable and Full of Glory" racing through my music hall of a brain. Horizontal or semi-vertical, I have a life ahead and many doors to go through. The best part of this journey is that I won't go through it alone.
My gorgeous niece, Jill, (I always think of her as my gorgeous niece) said one day they would all get down here, and I could cook my heart out for them. Oh, what bliss! By then, though, I may be buying all the goodies from Salem Kitchen, and lying that I cooked it myself, but who would care. I could direct the buffet from my couch like the Grand Dame that I am.
I am not good with change, and there are so many changes in my life right now that I can't imagine what is in the future. I am the girl who hasn't moved her furniture in five years, and that was only because we bought a new home. If I liked something in the first place, why would I move it? Some changes will happen to me and some changes I will effect for myself. For instance, I needed a new picture of me in my head, so I recently colored my mousy gray hair to "happy strawberry blond." Still wondering about this change. I can't decide if it's warm and welcoming, or if it reminds people of an "I LOVE LUCY" spin off. (A warning to all previous red-heads that are now gray, I have personally learned that if you mix red with white, you often get pink.) I am the cool GDAWG, but pink hair is still in a galaxy far, far away for me.
Today was a very rough day for me, but I learned, as it went on, that I have family and friends who really love me, encourage me and stand up for me. No changes there! I am blessed beyond all measure. Tonight I hear the song, "Joy Unspeakable and Full of Glory" racing through my music hall of a brain. Horizontal or semi-vertical, I have a life ahead and many doors to go through. The best part of this journey is that I won't go through it alone.
"I Hear Music and There's No One There"
If it isn't Bach's "Brandenburg Concerto #4," it's "Blame It On the BosaNova," or it's "Down At The Boardwalk," or it's "How Great Thou Art". There is never a time in my head that I don't hear a tune or a beat. I just assumed everyone was like this until I mentioned it to a girlfriend and then my daughter. Shannan asked, "You mean you never a time of just quiet?" No, I never do, unless I'm asleep or listening to the radio or a CD of music. I think that's why I want to dance a lot.
One of the most annoying parts of this audio phenomenon is when I am trying to think through a problem or concentrate on a project. Out of nowhere, comes the theme to "Driving Miss Daisy," - doodee, doodee doo doo! Hindrance, to say the least. The worst of it is when I really want to pray about something silently. My heart is deep with praise and interest, and then my foot starts tapping. I hate this! It's not always convenient or appropriate to pray out loud.
There are upsides to this quirk. I memorize a lot of tunes, and I know most of the words to songs older than my parents could remember and they were born 100 years ago. It's hard not to when you hear songs all day long. I'll bet there's a psychological diagnosis to this peculiarity, but having a label for this problem wouldn't change it, and it wouldn't be the worst thing that could be said about me. I always mean to ask my brother, John, if he has the same eccentricity, but every time we talk on the phone, he makes me laugh so much I never remember what I was thinking about.
I only hope, as I get older and closer to my second childhood, I don't become one of those crazy old ladies who forgets everyone and every thing but they sing old hymns at the top of their lungs. I could see this happening. No fun for my kids. Maybe I'll learn some contemporary songs by then and it won't be so bad.
One of the most annoying parts of this audio phenomenon is when I am trying to think through a problem or concentrate on a project. Out of nowhere, comes the theme to "Driving Miss Daisy," - doodee, doodee doo doo! Hindrance, to say the least. The worst of it is when I really want to pray about something silently. My heart is deep with praise and interest, and then my foot starts tapping. I hate this! It's not always convenient or appropriate to pray out loud.
There are upsides to this quirk. I memorize a lot of tunes, and I know most of the words to songs older than my parents could remember and they were born 100 years ago. It's hard not to when you hear songs all day long. I'll bet there's a psychological diagnosis to this peculiarity, but having a label for this problem wouldn't change it, and it wouldn't be the worst thing that could be said about me. I always mean to ask my brother, John, if he has the same eccentricity, but every time we talk on the phone, he makes me laugh so much I never remember what I was thinking about.
I only hope, as I get older and closer to my second childhood, I don't become one of those crazy old ladies who forgets everyone and every thing but they sing old hymns at the top of their lungs. I could see this happening. No fun for my kids. Maybe I'll learn some contemporary songs by then and it won't be so bad.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Weight, Weight! Don't tell me.
I have constantly been a little on the plump side of a size 10, but I could always carry it off. A woman just knows when she's cute, even at an older stage of life, but the past three years have been a little rough on my ego as well as my body. The only thing that keeps my lungs a-pumping is a heavy and constant dose of prednisone. Life saver it may be, but it has caused me to have cataracts in both my eyes, erosion of my teeth, skin that bleeds if I just touch it and sleep deprivation. The all time worst of these side effects, as far as I am concerned, is a thirty pound weight gain and a face that always reminds me of a big moon pie.
I just received news from my doctor that the diagnosis I thought would be the end of my lung problems and, ultimately, my weight problems was not to be. I have a condition that can only be helped by heavy and constant doses of prednisone. Okay, I won't look like Susan Sarandon when I'm 65, but do I have to look like Orson Wells? I still feel like Susan Sarandon.
I know people will believe that because I love to cook, I eat everything I make. I certainly look like a two fisted eater. I am not. My joy in cooking is to make food other people love to eat, and then keep asking them if they would like a second helping. The more they want - the happier I am. My wonderful son-in-law never says much about my cooking. He doesn't have to. He takes serving after serving. No wonder I love this boy so much.
As I've searched my soul recently, I think what I really love is people. Cooking is the excuse to have them near. When we lived in Maine, we set aside one Sunday a month not to have people over in our home for lunch or dinner. We needed some time to our selves. But, since we have moved to the south, it is harder to get together with folks than you would ever believe. Most everyone down here has family or life-long buddies, and, if they do eat with outsiders, it's usually at an Appleby's or someplace like that. Apparently, a man's home really is his castle here, and he surrounds it with a mote and hungry alligators. I am sure it's just because everyone is so busy today, but I am a pretty good cook.
A few days ago a girl friend of mine offered to come to my house. I was so surprised I said, "What? Do you mean it? She did. We shared nothing to eat or drink. She didn't want it. She wanted to spend time with me. We laughed and talked and acted silly - just the way I like it. If I could have, I would have offered her my larder, my purse, my home to show her how much I appreciated her time. I hated to let her leave without at least a cup of tea, but she said no.
I may grow bigger and bigger no matter how little I eat or how much I walk. There may be no list or line of folks waiting to taste my cooking, but it seems strange to me that God would give us gifts that no one wants. Maybe there's more to me than my Dutch oven. Maybe I have gifts that people do want and I just need to stop looking at the scale long enough to find them.
I just received news from my doctor that the diagnosis I thought would be the end of my lung problems and, ultimately, my weight problems was not to be. I have a condition that can only be helped by heavy and constant doses of prednisone. Okay, I won't look like Susan Sarandon when I'm 65, but do I have to look like Orson Wells? I still feel like Susan Sarandon.
I know people will believe that because I love to cook, I eat everything I make. I certainly look like a two fisted eater. I am not. My joy in cooking is to make food other people love to eat, and then keep asking them if they would like a second helping. The more they want - the happier I am. My wonderful son-in-law never says much about my cooking. He doesn't have to. He takes serving after serving. No wonder I love this boy so much.
As I've searched my soul recently, I think what I really love is people. Cooking is the excuse to have them near. When we lived in Maine, we set aside one Sunday a month not to have people over in our home for lunch or dinner. We needed some time to our selves. But, since we have moved to the south, it is harder to get together with folks than you would ever believe. Most everyone down here has family or life-long buddies, and, if they do eat with outsiders, it's usually at an Appleby's or someplace like that. Apparently, a man's home really is his castle here, and he surrounds it with a mote and hungry alligators. I am sure it's just because everyone is so busy today, but I am a pretty good cook.
A few days ago a girl friend of mine offered to come to my house. I was so surprised I said, "What? Do you mean it? She did. We shared nothing to eat or drink. She didn't want it. She wanted to spend time with me. We laughed and talked and acted silly - just the way I like it. If I could have, I would have offered her my larder, my purse, my home to show her how much I appreciated her time. I hated to let her leave without at least a cup of tea, but she said no.
I may grow bigger and bigger no matter how little I eat or how much I walk. There may be no list or line of folks waiting to taste my cooking, but it seems strange to me that God would give us gifts that no one wants. Maybe there's more to me than my Dutch oven. Maybe I have gifts that people do want and I just need to stop looking at the scale long enough to find them.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Driving Miss Crazy
My New England parents never owned a car until I was nineteen-years old. We walked or rode a city bus anywhere we had to go, and my dream, from the time I was a preteen until I passed my third attempt at a driving test, was to drive. From that day on, I learned to be an assertive (okay, aggressive) driver, and I learned from the best. Boston drivers (all time worst), Washington D.C drivers (contenders but chumps compared to Bostonians,) New England Turnpike drivers (ah! Route 95 - the dead zone) and New York City drivers (not much to add there) all did their worst to train rookies like me to "straighten up and fly right."
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Trust His Heart
"God is too wise to be mistaken; God is too good to be unkind.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Purposful Life
History, the study and drama of it, has always been my love. American history is my passion. I always picture my heroes standing on a cliff hearing from on high what they would do with their lives. I can see the Father of our Country hearing, "George Washington, your purpose in life is to be a living example for a country yet to be born." The Great Emancipator" would hear, "Abraham Lincoln, your purpose in life is to set free those held by tyranny and bondage." I have always wanted my life to be great - not important or famous, but purposeful. I am still waiting for that voice of destiny to say, "Noreen Birney, your purpose in live is..."
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Jake the Snake
Jacob Daniel, my youngest grandson has been called "Jake the Snake" since the day he was born mainly because I've always liked the name. The Snake, and I are buds. He, at age 11, is the last of my daughter's progeny, and I take every advantage I can to spend time with this boy, until he too, goes the way of the other two grandchildren - young adulthood. Jake is a tall, lean, athletic machine who can also sing, act and schmooze his way into anyone's heart with his quirky grin and purposely messed up hair. He loves his extended family as much as his Papa and I do. He would travel with us anywhere to visit relatives he has never met before, and add them to his list of loved ones. He is sensitive and comical and typically preteen. In other words - perfect.
He and I are movie buffs. I take him to any silly, crazy movie he wants to see, waste money on over priced popcorn and Pepsi, and enjoy every minute of it. As he has matured, we choose films both of us love - still silly and crazy, but, as it turns out, we both like the same SyFi stuff, don't like really scary things and we both laugh at people running into walls and landing on their butts.
One incredible thing about Snake that stands out in my mind is his uncanny way of picking up tunes and singing melodies that he's only just heard. I have an annoying habit of making up ridiculous song for my kids. Jake can sing along to any song I create while I'm making it up. The first time I noticed this was when he was only six or seven months old. I know I sound like a typically bragging grandmother, but I heard this baby hum and repeat the tune I was singing for him. Granted it was "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round," but HE HUMMED THE TUNE!!!! All three of my g'kids are musical and sing beautifully, but Jake has this mysterious ability to read new songs in his head as they are being sung. Pretty cool, huh?
He has a hardy appetite that would make any teenage boy cry "uncle," and I love cooking for him, but his favorite food is soft Italian bread slathered with butter or toast slathered with butter. I don't usually make bread, except Irish Soda Bread, and that recipe was used for my granddaughter, Emily's memory.
My Jacob is a recipe unto himself.
He is:
one part love
one part generosity
one part humor
one part flirt
and all boy
He and I are movie buffs. I take him to any silly, crazy movie he wants to see, waste money on over priced popcorn and Pepsi, and enjoy every minute of it. As he has matured, we choose films both of us love - still silly and crazy, but, as it turns out, we both like the same SyFi stuff, don't like really scary things and we both laugh at people running into walls and landing on their butts.
One incredible thing about Snake that stands out in my mind is his uncanny way of picking up tunes and singing melodies that he's only just heard. I have an annoying habit of making up ridiculous song for my kids. Jake can sing along to any song I create while I'm making it up. The first time I noticed this was when he was only six or seven months old. I know I sound like a typically bragging grandmother, but I heard this baby hum and repeat the tune I was singing for him. Granted it was "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round," but HE HUMMED THE TUNE!!!! All three of my g'kids are musical and sing beautifully, but Jake has this mysterious ability to read new songs in his head as they are being sung. Pretty cool, huh?
He has a hardy appetite that would make any teenage boy cry "uncle," and I love cooking for him, but his favorite food is soft Italian bread slathered with butter or toast slathered with butter. I don't usually make bread, except Irish Soda Bread, and that recipe was used for my granddaughter, Emily's memory.
My Jacob is a recipe unto himself.
He is:
one part love
one part generosity
one part humor
one part flirt
and all boy
Sir Royal Phantom Menace
My real husband, Michael, is one of nine children. He is the quintessential middle child; four before and four after. His mom had no time or interest in having an animal to care for on top of the brood she already was overwhelmed by, so none of the Birney Bunch ever became pet lovers - pet likers, yes, but not lovers. When Michael married into my tiny family, he was confronted with a fanatical clan of animal "worshipers." He tried to adapt, but hating dirt or fur as he did, it was an ordeal for him and for us too. He put up with our "animal shelter" of a home for years and didn't exactly suffer in silence. Our dogs had to be outdoor dogs or nothing. By the new millennium, I began to wonder why we had dogs at all, if we could never pet them or see them without making a pilgrimage to the garage or dog lot. I started to pray for an in-door dog that Michael would love too.
On Christmas Day 2001, Michael and I were invited to a holiday dinner with our daughter's family at a family friends' home. The family were poodle people. There were three of the toy yappers. One in particular was particularly yappy and feisty. He was a pedigree Phantom Toy Poodle, with markings that made him look like he had just been to a stylist to have his fur highlighted. His AKC name was Sir Royal Phantom Menace, but they called him Phantom. I could tell they didn't appreciate his high spirits and brain piercing barks, and I knew this was God at work right in front of my eyes. I mentioned to the wife how much I had been praying for an inside dog that wouldn't shed and how much I would love to have one just like her little puppy. Her eyes lit up like I had just answered the "24 Million Dollar Question." "Would you like to have him," she asked. She was offering me a $400 neutered dog with his papers, crate, leash and even his chewy. I said yes, wondering what the heck could be the matter with this dog. Was he the incarnation of Kudjo? "Oh no," she said. They just had too many male dogs in the house.
I began my plan to convince Michael that it was his idea to bring this bundle of fluff home. God is great! Somehow I did it, and Phantom (oh, how I hated that name) came home with us that day. He was one year old and full of fire. Michael maneuvered around him, but it was my job to walk him, feed him, manage his hyper activities and control his mind numbing barking, while still soothing the savage beast in my husband, who kept telling me he now knew why the family was so eager to be generous.
Finally, as months went by, Michael grew to adore this dog, now called Phannie. Phannie had turned out to be a heart-taker and a man-maker. I have never seen a person's attitude transition from hostile to apathetic to pure abject love in my life. Our poodle became our constant companion. If Phannie couldn't go somewhere; we couldn't go there. There was no distance he did not accompany us: Maine, New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina, the North Carolina coast and beyond.
As Michael's love for Phannie increased, so did his love for every animal. We became genuine dog rescuers, and over the past nine years have rescued, found homes for or kept twenty dogs. Some of our furry family have passed on until today we have five dogs that are our forever friends: Phannie, now ten-years old; Remington Steel aka Remi, a silver toy poodle, six or seven-years old; McSweeney aka Mickie, a black lab, four-years old; Brody, a basset hound mix, seven or eight-years old; and the most recent addition to the pack, Rex,a ten-year old or older pedigree German Shepherd we found dieing on the side of our road from heart worms, invertebra hip disease, heat exhaustion and abuse. Rex has been with us over a year now. He doesn't hear very well, as ear mite ate threw his ear drums and his walking is minimal, but for as long as he lives, he will be loved and well treated. Only Phannie and Remi are actually allowed in our living area, and both are traveling dogs. The other three have our basement garage with a doggy door that allows them access to a fenced in yard and our deck. There are beds and dog houses every where in case one of them would prefer an evening al fresco. I love them all, but since I developed asthma thirteen years ago, I don't get to be around the three very often. Michael is their main man. He spends time with them brushing them, playing fetch with them and feeding them only the best food money can buy.
I love this new man, but sometimes I wonder if I should have prayed quite so hard. We have had opportunities to go places and do things that he will not consider, because he will not leave the other three with people who would not understand their needs or be comfortable around them. That includes everyone but him. Oh well, he's my dog-whisperer, but this has really taught me to "be careful what you pray for."
Recipe:
Fresh Strawberry Bellini
Ingredients
1 bottle sparkling cider
2 cups pureed and strained fresh strawberries
Special equipment: Blender, strainer, iced glasses, pitcher
Directions
Place glasses in the freezer for 20 minutes. Open the prosecco and let it stand in an ice bucket for 5 minutes.
Into a pitcher, pour the 2 cups pureed strawberries, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 Tbs orange rind. Gently pour in the bottle of prosecco, and stir gently to combine.
Thought:
Living with a a man like Michael and a dog like Phannie will encourage one to make this recipe.
On Christmas Day 2001, Michael and I were invited to a holiday dinner with our daughter's family at a family friends' home. The family were poodle people. There were three of the toy yappers. One in particular was particularly yappy and feisty. He was a pedigree Phantom Toy Poodle, with markings that made him look like he had just been to a stylist to have his fur highlighted. His AKC name was Sir Royal Phantom Menace, but they called him Phantom. I could tell they didn't appreciate his high spirits and brain piercing barks, and I knew this was God at work right in front of my eyes. I mentioned to the wife how much I had been praying for an inside dog that wouldn't shed and how much I would love to have one just like her little puppy. Her eyes lit up like I had just answered the "24 Million Dollar Question." "Would you like to have him," she asked. She was offering me a $400 neutered dog with his papers, crate, leash and even his chewy. I said yes, wondering what the heck could be the matter with this dog. Was he the incarnation of Kudjo? "Oh no," she said. They just had too many male dogs in the house.
I began my plan to convince Michael that it was his idea to bring this bundle of fluff home. God is great! Somehow I did it, and Phantom (oh, how I hated that name) came home with us that day. He was one year old and full of fire. Michael maneuvered around him, but it was my job to walk him, feed him, manage his hyper activities and control his mind numbing barking, while still soothing the savage beast in my husband, who kept telling me he now knew why the family was so eager to be generous.
Finally, as months went by, Michael grew to adore this dog, now called Phannie. Phannie had turned out to be a heart-taker and a man-maker. I have never seen a person's attitude transition from hostile to apathetic to pure abject love in my life. Our poodle became our constant companion. If Phannie couldn't go somewhere; we couldn't go there. There was no distance he did not accompany us: Maine, New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina, the North Carolina coast and beyond.
As Michael's love for Phannie increased, so did his love for every animal. We became genuine dog rescuers, and over the past nine years have rescued, found homes for or kept twenty dogs. Some of our furry family have passed on until today we have five dogs that are our forever friends: Phannie, now ten-years old; Remington Steel aka Remi, a silver toy poodle, six or seven-years old; McSweeney aka Mickie, a black lab, four-years old; Brody, a basset hound mix, seven or eight-years old; and the most recent addition to the pack, Rex,a ten-year old or older pedigree German Shepherd we found dieing on the side of our road from heart worms, invertebra hip disease, heat exhaustion and abuse. Rex has been with us over a year now. He doesn't hear very well, as ear mite ate threw his ear drums and his walking is minimal, but for as long as he lives, he will be loved and well treated. Only Phannie and Remi are actually allowed in our living area, and both are traveling dogs. The other three have our basement garage with a doggy door that allows them access to a fenced in yard and our deck. There are beds and dog houses every where in case one of them would prefer an evening al fresco. I love them all, but since I developed asthma thirteen years ago, I don't get to be around the three very often. Michael is their main man. He spends time with them brushing them, playing fetch with them and feeding them only the best food money can buy.
I love this new man, but sometimes I wonder if I should have prayed quite so hard. We have had opportunities to go places and do things that he will not consider, because he will not leave the other three with people who would not understand their needs or be comfortable around them. That includes everyone but him. Oh well, he's my dog-whisperer, but this has really taught me to "be careful what you pray for."
Recipe:
Fresh Strawberry Bellini
Ingredients
1 bottle sparkling cider
2 cups pureed and strained fresh strawberries
Special equipment: Blender, strainer, iced glasses, pitcher
Directions
Place glasses in the freezer for 20 minutes. Open the prosecco and let it stand in an ice bucket for 5 minutes.
Into a pitcher, pour the 2 cups pureed strawberries, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 Tbs orange rind. Gently pour in the bottle of prosecco, and stir gently to combine.
Thought:
Living with a a man like Michael and a dog like Phannie will encourage one to make this recipe.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
High Heels on Old Ladies
I have been out of it for a couple of years due to COPD and a few other annoying life beaters, but today, as I was ambling down my walk-way dragging my oxygen tank behind me, I remembered that I was wearing my favorite high heeled shoes. It may seem a little incongruous to try and picture a sixty-three year old woman, rather on her last legs, finishing off those legs with a pair of Jessica Simpson three inch heels, but I am that happy paradox. I only have one pair of flat shoes. Why would I need more? I have one pair of walking shoes that I quickly remove as soon as my husband and I complete our nightly exercise routine. But I have twenty-two three-inch high heel shoes. How bad can anything get or how low can I feel if I can still wear and carry off high heels?
Nothing makes me feel more like "me" than to walk tall and stride long in my heels. I don't care how much my toes hurt or how scary it is to bobble down a steep descending sidewalk in my spikes. I would rather throw myself in front of an oncoming bus before I show pain or fear or choose comfort over my long, tall shoes.
When I am in my high heel glory, I feel taller. Not just the tall that a few inches add to my 5'3" frame, but really tall and alive and going somewhere, even if it's just to bop into A.C. Moore's to buy yarn for my granddaughter's afghan. I am a woman with purpose and a plan, when I wear my heels. Do I wear them in my house? No, I go barefoot as much as possible, but would I wear them to the grocery store? Every time.
One day I won't be able to wear these wonderful self-esteem builders. I mourn the coming of that time. On that day, I pray I will not have a single sweat shirt to my name, or pair of elastic-waist pants in my dresser. Let my concession to comfortable shoes be the only chink in my feminine armor. Until that "giving-up mornin'," I pray I can continue my journey in my high heel shoes, firm in the hope that my surrender to practicality will not alter the fact that, for as long as God gave strength, one woman gave her all to hold back that point in what seems to be every woman's destiny to say, "But my sneakers are so comfortable."
Nothing makes me feel more like "me" than to walk tall and stride long in my heels. I don't care how much my toes hurt or how scary it is to bobble down a steep descending sidewalk in my spikes. I would rather throw myself in front of an oncoming bus before I show pain or fear or choose comfort over my long, tall shoes.
When I am in my high heel glory, I feel taller. Not just the tall that a few inches add to my 5'3" frame, but really tall and alive and going somewhere, even if it's just to bop into A.C. Moore's to buy yarn for my granddaughter's afghan. I am a woman with purpose and a plan, when I wear my heels. Do I wear them in my house? No, I go barefoot as much as possible, but would I wear them to the grocery store? Every time.
One day I won't be able to wear these wonderful self-esteem builders. I mourn the coming of that time. On that day, I pray I will not have a single sweat shirt to my name, or pair of elastic-waist pants in my dresser. Let my concession to comfortable shoes be the only chink in my feminine armor. Until that "giving-up mornin'," I pray I can continue my journey in my high heel shoes, firm in the hope that my surrender to practicality will not alter the fact that, for as long as God gave strength, one woman gave her all to hold back that point in what seems to be every woman's destiny to say, "But my sneakers are so comfortable."
I offer this comfort food recipe, Cream Biscuits, in distinct contrast to my "form over function" persona.
Recipe
Dry
2 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
Wet
1 ½ cups heavy cream
Adjust the oven rack to upper-middle position and heat oven to 425 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Add cream and stir with wooden spoon until dough forms, about 30 seconds. Transfer dough from bowl to countertop, and knead by hand just until smooth, but don’t be afraid to knead this puppy. Eight or nine times should do it, but it stand up pretty well to abuse. Roll out the dough to about ½ inch thick. Cut biscuits into rounds (I use a 3” biscuit cutter) and I usually get 10 to 13 biscuits. Place biscuits on the parchment-lined baking sheet and then give each biscuit a light punch with your thumb. This helps it to rise. I don’t know why, but it does. Bake until golden brown, about 15 minutes, but time for 7 ½ minutes; turn baking sheet so that the ones in the front are now in the back. Time for another 7 ½ minutes and remove. After you put biscuits on a cooling rack, slather the tops with butter. Serve hot or put in a plastic bag in the pantry and they will stay pretty fresh for a couple of days.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
My Son-In-Law; My Son
Memory:
My real husband has a nick-name for everyone. I am "Pumpkin" (paying tribute to my round loveliness); my mom was "Smithie" (for Granny Smith Apples), and our son-in-law has been dubbed "Fast Eddie" by him and my father-in-law since Ed was 15 years old, and had dinner in our home just about every Sunday in Saco, Maine, until he went off to join the Air Force and later married our daughter when he was 21 and she was 20.
I can understand how he would be connected with quickness. Ed was the most aggressive athlete on any of the school's teams. What he lacked in height and girth, he made up for with guts and speed. He is still that person today. My son-in-law has broken many a finger and injured himself in innumerable ways playing on his church soft ball teams. You can't make him ease up.
He has a booming voice that can carry across a soccer field like an atomic bomb, but like Teddy Roosevelt, Ed " speaks softly but carries a big stick, " about what he believes. Ed never brings up his thoughts on politics to hit you over the head with them, and he respects each person's right to be wrong.
He could care less if you like him, but if he likes you, oh fortunate one, you now have the most loyal and giving friend you will ever have. He will never give up on you or say a bad word about you. He will defend your name and protect your well being with his life. He is the most honorable, decent, honest man I know, and he's a dish.
Because Ed and Shannan married so young, I was afraid for the prospects of their marriage, but the two of them are a perfect fit. Shannan can be controlling but she has a wonderful sarcastic sense of humor to deal with Ed for all of that. He enjoys her banter and knows just how far to let her go before reeling her back in. They are the best parents to their three kids. They protect them and teach them, but at the same time allow them the room to grow up to leave them one day.
A few years ago Shannan called to say that Ed was praying about going to Iraq to work for a year or more as a Contractor to instruct Iraqi police. I wasn't supposed to say anything to Ed or anyone else until he had made up his mind. I knew I didn't want him to go, but I have always supported their decisions no matter what. Once the choice was made and he was ready to leave, I fell apart. My health deteriorated and my spirit died for the whole time he was gone. It was a long tour. Ed and I communicated by email while he was away, and I learned so much more about him. And then I learned he was even more a man than I realized, when he came back from Iraq. I tell him as often as I can how proud I am of him in every way. He and Shannan are my blood and heart, and I am a blessed woman to have two such wonderful children.
My recipe for my Pot Roast would have to be Ed. He is the meat eater. Don't bother him with sandwiches or any kind of sweet fluff. Just show him the meat and the gravy.
Recipe:
Mom's Yankee Pot Roast
3 lbs chuck roast
1 large onion chopped
4 - 5 carrots sliced (good size)
4 - 5 white potatoes cut into fourths or eights depending on size
oil
salt
pepper
water
2 cubes of chicken bouillon (I like chicken better than beef. Subtle)
I didn't like my little punky son-in-law the first time I ran into him, but he grew on me and my real husband, and there is no one on this earth I love more.
My real husband has a nick-name for everyone. I am "Pumpkin" (paying tribute to my round loveliness); my mom was "Smithie" (for Granny Smith Apples), and our son-in-law has been dubbed "Fast Eddie" by him and my father-in-law since Ed was 15 years old, and had dinner in our home just about every Sunday in Saco, Maine, until he went off to join the Air Force and later married our daughter when he was 21 and she was 20.
I can understand how he would be connected with quickness. Ed was the most aggressive athlete on any of the school's teams. What he lacked in height and girth, he made up for with guts and speed. He is still that person today. My son-in-law has broken many a finger and injured himself in innumerable ways playing on his church soft ball teams. You can't make him ease up.
He has a booming voice that can carry across a soccer field like an atomic bomb, but like Teddy Roosevelt, Ed " speaks softly but carries a big stick, " about what he believes. Ed never brings up his thoughts on politics to hit you over the head with them, and he respects each person's right to be wrong.
He could care less if you like him, but if he likes you, oh fortunate one, you now have the most loyal and giving friend you will ever have. He will never give up on you or say a bad word about you. He will defend your name and protect your well being with his life. He is the most honorable, decent, honest man I know, and he's a dish.
Because Ed and Shannan married so young, I was afraid for the prospects of their marriage, but the two of them are a perfect fit. Shannan can be controlling but she has a wonderful sarcastic sense of humor to deal with Ed for all of that. He enjoys her banter and knows just how far to let her go before reeling her back in. They are the best parents to their three kids. They protect them and teach them, but at the same time allow them the room to grow up to leave them one day.
A few years ago Shannan called to say that Ed was praying about going to Iraq to work for a year or more as a Contractor to instruct Iraqi police. I wasn't supposed to say anything to Ed or anyone else until he had made up his mind. I knew I didn't want him to go, but I have always supported their decisions no matter what. Once the choice was made and he was ready to leave, I fell apart. My health deteriorated and my spirit died for the whole time he was gone. It was a long tour. Ed and I communicated by email while he was away, and I learned so much more about him. And then I learned he was even more a man than I realized, when he came back from Iraq. I tell him as often as I can how proud I am of him in every way. He and Shannan are my blood and heart, and I am a blessed woman to have two such wonderful children.
My recipe for my Pot Roast would have to be Ed. He is the meat eater. Don't bother him with sandwiches or any kind of sweet fluff. Just show him the meat and the gravy.
Recipe:
Mom's Yankee Pot Roast
3 lbs chuck roast
1 large onion chopped
4 - 5 carrots sliced (good size)
4 - 5 white potatoes cut into fourths or eights depending on size
oil
salt
pepper
water
2 cubes of chicken bouillon (I like chicken better than beef. Subtle)
- Dry the chuck roast with paper towels.
- Salt and pepper dry meat and pat to make sure it sticks
- Add 3 to 4 tbs oil to just cover a very hot dutch oven and brown meat on all sides
- Add enough hot water and dissolved cubes of chicken bouillon to come up half the way of the meat. Bring the water and broth to a boil, cover and lower the heat to a slow simmer. Let cook for 3 to 4 hours. Check for fall apart tenderness.
- I don't care for the taste of my gravy loaded down with veggies, so when the meat is pretty close to being done, I cook the carrots first in a separate pot of boiling salted water and add the potatoes 10 to 15 minutes later. I let them cook for another 10 to fifteen minutes and move them to a large bowl until they are ready to go into the dutch oven. Reserve some of the veggie water.
- When the meat is done, take it out of the dutch oven and let it sit on a dish for 10 or 20 minutes, while making the gravy. This is the easiest part.
- Bring the meat juice back up to a slow boil and add a "slurry" of flour and water. (I use a nice little jar with a good tight lid. (I put 1/4 cup flour into the jar and add 1/2 cup cold water. This will work with any measurement for the slurry, just double the cold water to the flour. Put the lid on tight and shake until there are no more lumps. Pour the smooth slurry into the slow boiling juice and stir with a whisk until the gravy thickens and the flour taste is cooked off. If the gravy is too thick, add some of the veggie water you saved from before. If it's not thick enough, try a smaller - 1/8 to 1/4 - mixture of flour and water. If for some reason there are still lumps, pour the gravy into a bowl through a sieve, and just throw the left over lumps out. No one will ever see them.).
- Add back the veggies into the hot gravy and let simmer for a minute or two. Slice the meat, put on a pretty serving dish, surround the meat with the veggies, and put the gravy in a boat.
- Sit back and wait for your son-in-law to devour.
I didn't like my little punky son-in-law the first time I ran into him, but he grew on me and my real husband, and there is no one on this earth I love more.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Ex
Memory:
I have learned two things about my failed first marriage. The first is that, once I love someone, it is forever. It doesn't matter how many hurts or disappointments happen, I can't turn off love. The second is that I know it takes two to make a marriage work and it takes two to wreck it. Saying all that, it just makes sense to me that, since we had this remarkable, intelligent, gorgeous daughter together, why should we give up our mutual history and family simply because of a failure on our parts? So my ex-husband, John, is still very much a part of my real husband's and my life.
I have seen so many bitter ends to marriages and I want no part of it. Fortunately, I have a husband who isn't intimidated by anyone or anything, and jealousy isn't a part of his make up (even when it would be nice to see a little of it once in a while). So once a year when John comes in from New Haven, Connecticut to North Carolina to see his daughter and grandchildren, he stays with us for the week. The three of us go out together and talk about old times and friends. He and Michael talk about sports and politics. This Thanksgiving John will come to our house and share the holiday with us and the family. Cozy, huh?
Oh, I don't mean to imply that none of this is uncomfortable. There were reasons for our break up, but none of those are more important than what we still share, and I believe with all my heart that forgiveness is not only necessary for my faith but sometimes even more so for my sanity. I become a nasty, crazed little person when I can't let something go.
It's difficult also to equate a recipe with my ex. Like our Shannan, food doesn't really mean that much to him, but he does love a good story to tell. So my recipe for Scottish Eggs is my Ex, John.
Shannan was about 3 years old and the three of us were living in a tiny third floor apartment on Orange Street in New Haven. I was particularly in love with my Gourmet Cookbook, Volume 1 and was trying to wow my husband with my skills. He always likes the unusual and out of the ordinary about everything so I tried the most unusual recipe in my book that I could afford. I followed the directions to the tee, but the eggs came out terrible. I'm sure it was my fault because I tend to take every direction way too seriously and literally, but one way or the other, the Scottish Eggs were horrible. The egg story has become a part of our living legend and every time I am hit with it, it grows more spectacular and legendary. I have since rewritten the recipe in my own words so that if the opportunity ever comes up again to wow my ex with eggs, I'll be ready.
Recipe:
6 hard boiled eggs chilled
1 lb of sausage meat
2 tbs fresh minced parsley
1/2 tsp ground sage
1/4 tsp pepper
2 eggs beaten
1/2 to 3/4 cups breadcrumbs
oil for frying
I heard a great conductor being interviewed on NPR just a few months before he died of pancreatic cancer. The reporter asked him what he wished to be remembered for. He said he wanted to be remembered as a musical entertainer like Bach, Ira Gershwin or Beethoven. I thought about what I would like to be remembered for when I am history. It would be that I lived and loved every minute of my existence. Life is too short for anything less.
I have learned two things about my failed first marriage. The first is that, once I love someone, it is forever. It doesn't matter how many hurts or disappointments happen, I can't turn off love. The second is that I know it takes two to make a marriage work and it takes two to wreck it. Saying all that, it just makes sense to me that, since we had this remarkable, intelligent, gorgeous daughter together, why should we give up our mutual history and family simply because of a failure on our parts? So my ex-husband, John, is still very much a part of my real husband's and my life.
I have seen so many bitter ends to marriages and I want no part of it. Fortunately, I have a husband who isn't intimidated by anyone or anything, and jealousy isn't a part of his make up (even when it would be nice to see a little of it once in a while). So once a year when John comes in from New Haven, Connecticut to North Carolina to see his daughter and grandchildren, he stays with us for the week. The three of us go out together and talk about old times and friends. He and Michael talk about sports and politics. This Thanksgiving John will come to our house and share the holiday with us and the family. Cozy, huh?
Oh, I don't mean to imply that none of this is uncomfortable. There were reasons for our break up, but none of those are more important than what we still share, and I believe with all my heart that forgiveness is not only necessary for my faith but sometimes even more so for my sanity. I become a nasty, crazed little person when I can't let something go.
It's difficult also to equate a recipe with my ex. Like our Shannan, food doesn't really mean that much to him, but he does love a good story to tell. So my recipe for Scottish Eggs is my Ex, John.
Shannan was about 3 years old and the three of us were living in a tiny third floor apartment on Orange Street in New Haven. I was particularly in love with my Gourmet Cookbook, Volume 1 and was trying to wow my husband with my skills. He always likes the unusual and out of the ordinary about everything so I tried the most unusual recipe in my book that I could afford. I followed the directions to the tee, but the eggs came out terrible. I'm sure it was my fault because I tend to take every direction way too seriously and literally, but one way or the other, the Scottish Eggs were horrible. The egg story has become a part of our living legend and every time I am hit with it, it grows more spectacular and legendary. I have since rewritten the recipe in my own words so that if the opportunity ever comes up again to wow my ex with eggs, I'll be ready.
Recipe:
6 hard boiled eggs chilled
1 lb of sausage meat
2 tbs fresh minced parsley
1/2 tsp ground sage
1/4 tsp pepper
2 eggs beaten
1/2 to 3/4 cups breadcrumbs
oil for frying
- Peel hard boiled eggs. Make sure the eggs are well-chilled so that the sausage meat will cling to them more easily.
- Combine sausage, parsley, sage, and pepper in large bowl; mix well.
- Press meat mixture evenly around eggs, keeping the oval shape.
- Sprinkle eggs with flour, coating lightly all over. Dust off the excess
- Dip into beaten egg; then roll in bread crumbs to coat
- Pour oil into deep-fryer, or large heavy saucepan, to fill 1/2 full. Here's the tricky part. the oil has to be hot, but if it's too hot the sausage will crack and you have greasy, gritty, fatty egg balls. Yum!
- Cook 1 egg at a time, for about 4-5 minutes until meat is well-browned.
- Drain on paper towels; cool
I heard a great conductor being interviewed on NPR just a few months before he died of pancreatic cancer. The reporter asked him what he wished to be remembered for. He said he wanted to be remembered as a musical entertainer like Bach, Ira Gershwin or Beethoven. I thought about what I would like to be remembered for when I am history. It would be that I lived and loved every minute of my existence. Life is too short for anything less.
A Tale of Two Women
My daughter, Shannan, and I are as different as any two people could be. It's funny too, because so many people think because our voices are similar and we both have the same mannerisms that we are alike, but nothing could be farther from the fact.
I am short, fair, all-American looking, and I remind everyone of someone they used to know. Shann is tall and tans beautifully. She has an exotic, European look to her that comes from her real dad, and only has my eyes to testify that she and I are related. I love the arts - all of them. I swoon at Italian operas, never miss a Carolina Ballet production in Winston Salem, adore jazz, history is my favorite pass time next to cooking and I am a loud, joyous singer. My idea of rest and relaxation is being trapped in a car with my real husband and driving 4 hours to Wilmington, North Carolina for a lunch at our favorite restaurant and coming right back home. All of the above would only be torture for my daughter.
Shannan does not live to cook; she cooks to live and would be just as happy to survive on a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee for the rest of her life. She has been bored with my attempts to initiate her into the world of the arts since she was a child. She likes country and western music, hates traveling in a car anywhere, and her idea of history is the last soccer game her youngest son was involved in.
Where I feel the most alive and the most "real me" is when I am singing a solo in my church. Shannan (although she has a lovely voice and enjoys singing) makes herself so sick at the prospect of getting up in front of other people, it just isn't worth it to her.
If you want to show me love, spend time with me and give me words of affirmation. I want to waste as much time as possible listening to every word you say, staring lovingly into your eyes. For Shannan, 25 word or less would be perfect. She, like my mother, would say, "Talk is cheap." And time means nothing to her unless she is being "productive." Yet she is my oldest and dearest friend. No one except my brother can make me laugh harder and louder than she does (I must admit though, that my brother can actually make me snort when I laugh).
I can only remember one time when food meant anything to her at all. She was 18 years old in her final year of high school and her life had completely turned upside down. She had lost 20 pounds from just not being able to eat anything and she was thin to begin with. I would have done anything, made any food to get her to eat. One dish and one dish only did the trick - my quiche Lorraine.
Recipe:
Maine Quiche Lorraine
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp salt
7 tbs cold butter cut into pieces
1 to 2 tbs ice water, or more if needed
6 ounces thick cut bacon, cut into narrow strips
2 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 1/4 cups half-and-half
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground pepper
Pinch nutmeg (the recipe calls for fresh - I use what I have)
1 cup grated Gruyere or Swiss cheese
I don't make this very often anymore. For one thing Shannan has never needed it again, and neither my real husband or my son-in-law (and I cook mainly for my son-in-law) likes cheese. I will make it anytime it is wanted. I hope I never have to make it again because it is needed.
I am short, fair, all-American looking, and I remind everyone of someone they used to know. Shann is tall and tans beautifully. She has an exotic, European look to her that comes from her real dad, and only has my eyes to testify that she and I are related. I love the arts - all of them. I swoon at Italian operas, never miss a Carolina Ballet production in Winston Salem, adore jazz, history is my favorite pass time next to cooking and I am a loud, joyous singer. My idea of rest and relaxation is being trapped in a car with my real husband and driving 4 hours to Wilmington, North Carolina for a lunch at our favorite restaurant and coming right back home. All of the above would only be torture for my daughter.
Shannan does not live to cook; she cooks to live and would be just as happy to survive on a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee for the rest of her life. She has been bored with my attempts to initiate her into the world of the arts since she was a child. She likes country and western music, hates traveling in a car anywhere, and her idea of history is the last soccer game her youngest son was involved in.
Where I feel the most alive and the most "real me" is when I am singing a solo in my church. Shannan (although she has a lovely voice and enjoys singing) makes herself so sick at the prospect of getting up in front of other people, it just isn't worth it to her.
If you want to show me love, spend time with me and give me words of affirmation. I want to waste as much time as possible listening to every word you say, staring lovingly into your eyes. For Shannan, 25 word or less would be perfect. She, like my mother, would say, "Talk is cheap." And time means nothing to her unless she is being "productive." Yet she is my oldest and dearest friend. No one except my brother can make me laugh harder and louder than she does (I must admit though, that my brother can actually make me snort when I laugh).
I can only remember one time when food meant anything to her at all. She was 18 years old in her final year of high school and her life had completely turned upside down. She had lost 20 pounds from just not being able to eat anything and she was thin to begin with. I would have done anything, made any food to get her to eat. One dish and one dish only did the trick - my quiche Lorraine.
Recipe:
Maine Quiche Lorraine
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp salt
7 tbs cold butter cut into pieces
1 to 2 tbs ice water, or more if needed
- In a food processor, combine the flour, salt, and butter and run the thing about 10 seconds or until the mixture looks like coarse crumbs .
- With the machine running, add the ice water through the tube and pulse 5 or 6 times, or until the dough starts to pull away from the sides of the processor.
- Dump the dough onto a floured surface and roll into a ball, flatten it into a disk, and wrap it in plastic wrap. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour.
- On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to an 11 inch circle and roll it onto your rolling pin to put into your pan. I use a 9-inch fluted tart pan but a 9-inch pie pan is perfect, trim the edges. Refrigerate for at least 30 more minutes.
- Line the the dough in the pan with parchment paper and fill with pie weights (I used dried beans). Bake 12 to 14 minutes. Take out the paper with the weights, and bake another 8 to 10 minutes. Take out of the oven and cool on a rack. Leave the oven on.
6 ounces thick cut bacon, cut into narrow strips
2 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 1/4 cups half-and-half
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp ground pepper
Pinch nutmeg (the recipe calls for fresh - I use what I have)
1 cup grated Gruyere or Swiss cheese
- In a good size skillet, cook the bacon until crispy and the fat is gone, about 5 minutes and drain on paper towels. Arrange the bacon evenly over the bottom of the baked crust.
- In a bowl, beat the eggs, yolks, and half and half. Add the remaining ingredients and whisk to combine. Pour into the baked crust and cook until it's golden and puffy. It should be set but still a little wiggly in the center, 30 to 35 minutes.
- Take it out of the oven and let cool on a rack for 15 minutes before eating, or else you'll be calling the paramedics for your blistered and burning tongue.
I don't make this very often anymore. For one thing Shannan has never needed it again, and neither my real husband or my son-in-law (and I cook mainly for my son-in-law) likes cheese. I will make it anytime it is wanted. I hope I never have to make it again because it is needed.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Secret Ingredient
Memory:
My "recipe" for my spaghetti sauce would have to be my real husband, Michael. Both of us lived most of our lives in and near Italian neighborhoods in Bridgeport, New Haven and Stratford, Connecticut. It doesn't really matter what your ethnic background is up north - Irish, Jewish, African American, Polish, Asian. When you live in the shadow of Pepi's Pizza, you grow up speaking a form of Sicilian dialect, and it never occurs to you that the rest of the United States doesn't.
Naturally, our favorite foods are Italian. But now that we live in North Carolina, my real husband and I must travel 2 hours down to Charlotte for a holy pilgrimage to Dean & DeLuca's Delicatessen in the Queen's City when we want to close our eyes and breathe in the heady aroma of Genoa salami and Reggiano Parmesan in one room. It isn't always easy being an ex-patriot far away from home.
But it is particularly difficult for my Italian loving husband to live in the south. First of all, he has a Yankee accent. He'll ask for a cup of "cuawfee." He'll take his car to a "caa wash," and he calls a friend of ours down here "Chaalie." Secondly, his car's license plate reads "YANK4LFE," and he's not referring to the baseball team. Finally, when he goes to an Italian restaurant to order a cheese pizza, he will ask for a scamorza (or as we grew up saying "scamotz"). No one down here knows what the heck he's talking about. You can't even buy scamorza down here. But does that deter him from asking for it? No. For some unknown reason, he feels he must be loyal to his own strange Sicilian food code.
When he is especially homesick, I know it is time to make his spaghetti sauce. But my Michael is rather high maintenance when it comes to food. He won't eat meat, sugar, white flour, salt or anything else that's delicious, and I do my very best to cook for him the way he likes. But Italians don't cook like that. The sauce he likes has meat in it, and salt and lots of other things. So, I revert to my secret ingredients and only my daughter knows the truth. The biggest secret of all is pure, white sugar. He would die, roll over and come back to life again if he ever knew there was sugar in his sauce. He knows I make the sauce with sweet Italian sausage, but he doesn't eat that part of the sauce, because, as Michael puts it, "I don't eat flesh." Fine, but you do eat sugar.
I got this recipe from the wife of a musician I used to work with in New Haven when I sang professionally. The band would rehearse at his house and his adorable, little Italian American wife would make enough sauce for her family and the entire West Haven Sons of Italy to eat for a week. Since I could never read music I wasn't much help with song arrangements, so I would take a break and keep her company while she cooked. She was a master. I watched; I learned. My recipe isn't exactly like her's. She would use body parts of animals I don't even want to think about to flavor her sauce, but the idea is pretty close. Everyone has their own version of this American standard. This is the one my husband calls the best. But, when my son-in-law comes over, I add meatballs and pork chops to the sauce too.
Recipe:
New Haven Italian Spaghetti Sauce.
Most of this is in my head, but this is the best I can put on paper.
2 lbs. sweet Italian sausage links
Olive oil
1 to 2 onions chopped
3 to 4 minced garlic cloves
8 oz. slice mushrooms
1 palm full of dry oregano
1 palm full of dry basil
salt and pepper to taste
1 large can whole peeled tomatoes (I buy San Marzano - better than fresh)
2 small cans tomato paste (whatever - Michael insists on organic)
2 tbs. or more sugar
1/2 to 1 cup good red wine
equal parts water of the tomato paste and the Marzano cans.
Thought:
Wives should never lie to their husbands. But my mother taught me well. She said she never lied to my father. She just never told him everything.
My "recipe" for my spaghetti sauce would have to be my real husband, Michael. Both of us lived most of our lives in and near Italian neighborhoods in Bridgeport, New Haven and Stratford, Connecticut. It doesn't really matter what your ethnic background is up north - Irish, Jewish, African American, Polish, Asian. When you live in the shadow of Pepi's Pizza, you grow up speaking a form of Sicilian dialect, and it never occurs to you that the rest of the United States doesn't.
Naturally, our favorite foods are Italian. But now that we live in North Carolina, my real husband and I must travel 2 hours down to Charlotte for a holy pilgrimage to Dean & DeLuca's Delicatessen in the Queen's City when we want to close our eyes and breathe in the heady aroma of Genoa salami and Reggiano Parmesan in one room. It isn't always easy being an ex-patriot far away from home.
But it is particularly difficult for my Italian loving husband to live in the south. First of all, he has a Yankee accent. He'll ask for a cup of "cuawfee." He'll take his car to a "caa wash," and he calls a friend of ours down here "Chaalie." Secondly, his car's license plate reads "YANK4LFE," and he's not referring to the baseball team. Finally, when he goes to an Italian restaurant to order a cheese pizza, he will ask for a scamorza (or as we grew up saying "scamotz"). No one down here knows what the heck he's talking about. You can't even buy scamorza down here. But does that deter him from asking for it? No. For some unknown reason, he feels he must be loyal to his own strange Sicilian food code.
When he is especially homesick, I know it is time to make his spaghetti sauce. But my Michael is rather high maintenance when it comes to food. He won't eat meat, sugar, white flour, salt or anything else that's delicious, and I do my very best to cook for him the way he likes. But Italians don't cook like that. The sauce he likes has meat in it, and salt and lots of other things. So, I revert to my secret ingredients and only my daughter knows the truth. The biggest secret of all is pure, white sugar. He would die, roll over and come back to life again if he ever knew there was sugar in his sauce. He knows I make the sauce with sweet Italian sausage, but he doesn't eat that part of the sauce, because, as Michael puts it, "I don't eat flesh." Fine, but you do eat sugar.
I got this recipe from the wife of a musician I used to work with in New Haven when I sang professionally. The band would rehearse at his house and his adorable, little Italian American wife would make enough sauce for her family and the entire West Haven Sons of Italy to eat for a week. Since I could never read music I wasn't much help with song arrangements, so I would take a break and keep her company while she cooked. She was a master. I watched; I learned. My recipe isn't exactly like her's. She would use body parts of animals I don't even want to think about to flavor her sauce, but the idea is pretty close. Everyone has their own version of this American standard. This is the one my husband calls the best. But, when my son-in-law comes over, I add meatballs and pork chops to the sauce too.
Recipe:
New Haven Italian Spaghetti Sauce.
Most of this is in my head, but this is the best I can put on paper.
2 lbs. sweet Italian sausage links
Olive oil
1 to 2 onions chopped
3 to 4 minced garlic cloves
8 oz. slice mushrooms
1 palm full of dry oregano
1 palm full of dry basil
salt and pepper to taste
1 large can whole peeled tomatoes (I buy San Marzano - better than fresh)
2 small cans tomato paste (whatever - Michael insists on organic)
2 tbs. or more sugar
1/2 to 1 cup good red wine
equal parts water of the tomato paste and the Marzano cans.
- Place the sweet sausage in a heavy, large, cold pot. Add 1/4 cup water to the pan. Turn the heat to medium high and cover for about 10 minutes or until the meat is steamed cooked.
- Remove the lid and allow the water to boil off and brown the sausage on all sides. Good sausage will make its own grease. Remove the meat from the pan and add 3 to 4 tbs. olive oil.
- Add the onions, mushrooms and garlic to the hot oil. Add salt, pepper, oregano, basil and any thing else that says Italian to you at this point and let the vegetables cook until they pick up the color of the meat. Add back the sausage.
- While the vegetables are cooking, I usually pour the tomatoes into a bowl and squash them in my hand to break up the whole tomatoes before I put them in the pan.
- Add the tomatoes and one equal can's amount of water to the pan.
- Add the tomato paste and, again, equal amounts of water. Let the sauce come to a boil and reduce the heat to a low simmer.
- Leave the lid off the pan. It may splatter all over the kitchen but leave it off. The sauce needs to reduce and that won't happen with the lid on.
- After the sauce starts to thicken, taste it for flavor. At this point add more salt, seasonings and the sugar starting with 1 tbs. Let it cook for a minute, taste again. Add more sugar, if needed. Don't go overboard or else it will taste like tomato candy soup and your husband will finally know what you're doing.
- Add the wine. If it does get too sweet, add more wine. Let the sauce cook until it is more of a ragu than a sauce. This could take 3 to 4 hours. We Americans like our sauce thick and hearty.
Thought:
Wives should never lie to their husbands. But my mother taught me well. She said she never lied to my father. She just never told him everything.
Friday, August 28, 2009
I am GDAWG
Memory:
I am not cool. I am rolly-polly and I have freckled saddlebags for cheeks. I am only two months away from my 62nd birthday. Yet I am the GDAWG.
A few years ago my oldest grandson, Matt, and youngest grandson, Jake, were forced to share a room together due to lack of space in their home, and Matt hated it. My real husband and I would use this situation as an excuse to lure him to our house for Friday night sleep-overs. Those were some of the happiest nights of my life.
He would bring his XBox-360 over with him and we'd have Pepsi and popped corn, while he wiped my face in the dirt beating me in every video game. I am not a "gamer" by nature. I am a cook, but what wouldn't I do to be with my grandson? Who really cared anyway that I could never make my guy turn around in the cave, or that I got shot before I could even pick up my sonic spear? It made my gorgeous Matthew laugh and I loved it.
One game in particular was my favorite to lose. It was a street racer game, in which each player got to design his own car. The more races you won, the more you could add to it. Matt had his tricked out Honda with flames and skulls and whatever on it. I chose a tasteful little Miata, that would never have the threat of wearing skulls hanging over its English Racing Green hood, because I could never win to earn them. Eventually, the game said I had to have a street name.
My name is Grammy actually. It suits me. But in the game there was all this cool rap music in the background. Pink haired girls were cheering as the racers took off, and tattooed men waved their fists as the cars flew into hyper-space on something Matt kept calling noss. I just couldn't be Grammy around all this pink hair, tattoos and noss. I had to become something more; much more. That was the birth of the GDAWG, and so it shall always be.
After Matt would have his fill of annihilating me, his grandfather and I would watch a movie with him. It was usually some "Lord of the Rings" type production, but oh what bliss. And then I'd poop out, and his Papa would stay up with him to watch "Trick my Truck" or something like that. The next morning we'd go out and do whatever we had to do, and leave our grandson in his bed to waste the rest of the morning sleeping. When I'd get back, it was time for me to make breakfast for Matthew.
It wasn't always easy to make the breakfast he would have wanted. We had issues in our home. My real husband is a vegetarian. No food can be processed. No one can have soft drinks in the house, and especially not in the morning. We only have wholesome, whole wheat or multi-grained bread. My grandson only likes pasty, white WonderBread. He loves Pepsi in the morning and is a carnivore. So Michael and I would hash it out before we got back to the house about how I always spoil Matt; how someone has to give Matt an example of how to eat right, and the food Matt likes might taste good, but it's not good for you. Yada, yada, yada.
I would soothe my health conscious husband and encourage him to mow the lawn, as I pulled the rashers of bacon out of the refrigerator and tucked the pasty white bread under my shirt to make as many egg and bacon sandwiches on his disgusting white toast as I could put in front of my baby with a glass of Pepsi to wash it down. I was no longer just Grammy. I was GDAWG; hear me roar, and this was my time with my grandson. I knew there would be only so many Friday nights left. The time would come (and it did) when Matt would have his own room, his own car and his own life, so I had to make bacon while the sun shined. I miss those nights so much, but, hey, there's always the next grandson.
Recipe:
Matt's Egg Sandwich
Thought:
I happen to agree with my real husband about food, but I don't regret gutsying up and being GDAWG for my babies whenever they give me the chance.
I am not cool. I am rolly-polly and I have freckled saddlebags for cheeks. I am only two months away from my 62nd birthday. Yet I am the GDAWG.
A few years ago my oldest grandson, Matt, and youngest grandson, Jake, were forced to share a room together due to lack of space in their home, and Matt hated it. My real husband and I would use this situation as an excuse to lure him to our house for Friday night sleep-overs. Those were some of the happiest nights of my life.
He would bring his XBox-360 over with him and we'd have Pepsi and popped corn, while he wiped my face in the dirt beating me in every video game. I am not a "gamer" by nature. I am a cook, but what wouldn't I do to be with my grandson? Who really cared anyway that I could never make my guy turn around in the cave, or that I got shot before I could even pick up my sonic spear? It made my gorgeous Matthew laugh and I loved it.
One game in particular was my favorite to lose. It was a street racer game, in which each player got to design his own car. The more races you won, the more you could add to it. Matt had his tricked out Honda with flames and skulls and whatever on it. I chose a tasteful little Miata, that would never have the threat of wearing skulls hanging over its English Racing Green hood, because I could never win to earn them. Eventually, the game said I had to have a street name.
My name is Grammy actually. It suits me. But in the game there was all this cool rap music in the background. Pink haired girls were cheering as the racers took off, and tattooed men waved their fists as the cars flew into hyper-space on something Matt kept calling noss. I just couldn't be Grammy around all this pink hair, tattoos and noss. I had to become something more; much more. That was the birth of the GDAWG, and so it shall always be.
After Matt would have his fill of annihilating me, his grandfather and I would watch a movie with him. It was usually some "Lord of the Rings" type production, but oh what bliss. And then I'd poop out, and his Papa would stay up with him to watch "Trick my Truck" or something like that. The next morning we'd go out and do whatever we had to do, and leave our grandson in his bed to waste the rest of the morning sleeping. When I'd get back, it was time for me to make breakfast for Matthew.
It wasn't always easy to make the breakfast he would have wanted. We had issues in our home. My real husband is a vegetarian. No food can be processed. No one can have soft drinks in the house, and especially not in the morning. We only have wholesome, whole wheat or multi-grained bread. My grandson only likes pasty, white WonderBread. He loves Pepsi in the morning and is a carnivore. So Michael and I would hash it out before we got back to the house about how I always spoil Matt; how someone has to give Matt an example of how to eat right, and the food Matt likes might taste good, but it's not good for you. Yada, yada, yada.
I would soothe my health conscious husband and encourage him to mow the lawn, as I pulled the rashers of bacon out of the refrigerator and tucked the pasty white bread under my shirt to make as many egg and bacon sandwiches on his disgusting white toast as I could put in front of my baby with a glass of Pepsi to wash it down. I was no longer just Grammy. I was GDAWG; hear me roar, and this was my time with my grandson. I knew there would be only so many Friday nights left. The time would come (and it did) when Matt would have his own room, his own car and his own life, so I had to make bacon while the sun shined. I miss those nights so much, but, hey, there's always the next grandson.
Recipe:
Matt's Egg Sandwich
- Fry bacon, lots of bacon in a large skillet
- Fry up one egg per sandwich and break the yoke just before turning the egg over in the pan. Don't bother with the salt and pepper. Your grandson will load it down with those anyway.
- Toast the mushiest, most deadly white bread you can buy, and then butter the toast with way too much butter. Matt really prefers margarine, but there's only so far I will even go.
- Layer the toast with the egg and the bacon. Slice in half. Pour the Pepsi.
Thought:
I happen to agree with my real husband about food, but I don't regret gutsying up and being GDAWG for my babies whenever they give me the chance.
Mama Mia
Memory:
Anyone who truly knew my mother, often called Norma Marie, by my father; Ma, by by brother and real husband; Mama, by my daughter, and GiGi, by my grandchildren, knew she passionately stood up for the "underdog", loved animals and defended her kids like a rabid "she-bear." But we also knew she had a slow burning temper hotter than her red hair, that would explode like a Molotov Cocktail, a sniper's grenade, or a suddenly erupting volcano whenever she had taken enough. She could be standing in a room working on her ironing, and some small thing or word would take her past her limit and "the grenade went off." Mom was never dull.
My mom had a sweet and loving side to her that was genuine, and it was the one she preferred those outside of our walls to see. But there were just so many sides to her, and most of them were good ones (many of which I see in myself and my daughter). She loved people with a love that could border on religious adoration, but it was suffocating. And, if mom were ever crossed, she could put up a barrier that only apology after apology could start to tear down.
She was so passive on the outside, but so stubborn and fierce if she thought she was being told not to do something. It set off a charge in her that couldn't be stopped even when she knew it should be. Like the time at age 78, when she married a man who was totally blind and, unknown to her or us, bi-polar and crazy. This was particularly dicey because mom was also blind. Mom was told by his family and hers not to move away from Maine and live in Oregon all alone with him. But that was all it took. Once you told her not to - she had to. Two years later my real husband and I moved out to Oregon to ship her crazy husband back to Maine, and help her with her divorce at age 80.
It would be difficult to pick a "recipe" to be my Mom. For one thing, she loved food; all food; any food. Yet you would never have pictured her to be a good cook, unless you had lived with her for 40 years, as I had. When my brother, Johnny, and I were kids, the best we could hope for most of the time was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or Campbell's Soup. On a good day, we'd have some kind of cheap cut of meat, canned vegetables and french fried potatoes and not necessarily all at the same time.
As I grew up and she actually had more food in the house to cook with, I found out my mom was a darn good cook. She could make the best scalloped potatoes, creamed broccoli soup, banana bread and the lightest, fluffiest fried fish I have ever tasted to this day. I don't have recipes for these, because she never wrote them down, and I was always at work when she made them. Her food became our language of love. As she went into her mid-80's and, until age 91, she became my child. Food was again our love language, but now I cooked for her and she ate everything I made as if it were her favorite dish of all times.
When she was 89 years old she took the horrible decision to go into a nursing home out of my hands, and told her doctor she was ready to go. That was the purest act of kindness and love my mom ever did for me (I only hope I have that kind of courage and selflessness for my daughter when the time comes). Once again, food was our bond. I went to see my mom in the nursing home every day at lunch and evening meals on the way home from work. She could no longer feed herself so I did it for her. Once again, my mom surprised me. She became a picky eater in the home and would eat only the things on her tray that she liked. I had never seen this side of her before. She was never what you expected her to be.
I won't pretend that it was easy caring for my mom all those years. I wondered at times if she would outlive me, and I would die at her nursing home with her. I'd feel so guilty for thinking like this and nothing ever seemed normal. But when she did die in her nursing home bed, I knew I had done my best, without regret. But there was regret. I looked down at her, and realize the saddest part of her passing for me was that I had been grieving and missed my real momth - the one who saw and remembered me - for at least 10 year. I looked down at the same face I had seen evey day for lunch I sang her favorite song to my real mom who had been gone for years, "I'll Be Loving You Always" - "not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but Always."
Recipe:
Food; all food; any food.
Thought:
I learned the hard way from my mom that parents do the best they can with what they have and that just has to be good enough, because we'll only do the best we can with what we have when we're parents.
Anyone who truly knew my mother, often called Norma Marie, by my father; Ma, by by brother and real husband; Mama, by my daughter, and GiGi, by my grandchildren, knew she passionately stood up for the "underdog", loved animals and defended her kids like a rabid "she-bear." But we also knew she had a slow burning temper hotter than her red hair, that would explode like a Molotov Cocktail, a sniper's grenade, or a suddenly erupting volcano whenever she had taken enough. She could be standing in a room working on her ironing, and some small thing or word would take her past her limit and "the grenade went off." Mom was never dull.
My mom had a sweet and loving side to her that was genuine, and it was the one she preferred those outside of our walls to see. But there were just so many sides to her, and most of them were good ones (many of which I see in myself and my daughter). She loved people with a love that could border on religious adoration, but it was suffocating. And, if mom were ever crossed, she could put up a barrier that only apology after apology could start to tear down.
She was so passive on the outside, but so stubborn and fierce if she thought she was being told not to do something. It set off a charge in her that couldn't be stopped even when she knew it should be. Like the time at age 78, when she married a man who was totally blind and, unknown to her or us, bi-polar and crazy. This was particularly dicey because mom was also blind. Mom was told by his family and hers not to move away from Maine and live in Oregon all alone with him. But that was all it took. Once you told her not to - she had to. Two years later my real husband and I moved out to Oregon to ship her crazy husband back to Maine, and help her with her divorce at age 80.
It would be difficult to pick a "recipe" to be my Mom. For one thing, she loved food; all food; any food. Yet you would never have pictured her to be a good cook, unless you had lived with her for 40 years, as I had. When my brother, Johnny, and I were kids, the best we could hope for most of the time was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or Campbell's Soup. On a good day, we'd have some kind of cheap cut of meat, canned vegetables and french fried potatoes and not necessarily all at the same time.
As I grew up and she actually had more food in the house to cook with, I found out my mom was a darn good cook. She could make the best scalloped potatoes, creamed broccoli soup, banana bread and the lightest, fluffiest fried fish I have ever tasted to this day. I don't have recipes for these, because she never wrote them down, and I was always at work when she made them. Her food became our language of love. As she went into her mid-80's and, until age 91, she became my child. Food was again our love language, but now I cooked for her and she ate everything I made as if it were her favorite dish of all times.
When she was 89 years old she took the horrible decision to go into a nursing home out of my hands, and told her doctor she was ready to go. That was the purest act of kindness and love my mom ever did for me (I only hope I have that kind of courage and selflessness for my daughter when the time comes). Once again, food was our bond. I went to see my mom in the nursing home every day at lunch and evening meals on the way home from work. She could no longer feed herself so I did it for her. Once again, my mom surprised me. She became a picky eater in the home and would eat only the things on her tray that she liked. I had never seen this side of her before. She was never what you expected her to be.
I won't pretend that it was easy caring for my mom all those years. I wondered at times if she would outlive me, and I would die at her nursing home with her. I'd feel so guilty for thinking like this and nothing ever seemed normal. But when she did die in her nursing home bed, I knew I had done my best, without regret. But there was regret. I looked down at her, and realize the saddest part of her passing for me was that I had been grieving and missed my real momth - the one who saw and remembered me - for at least 10 year. I looked down at the same face I had seen evey day for lunch I sang her favorite song to my real mom who had been gone for years, "I'll Be Loving You Always" - "not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but Always."
Recipe:
Food; all food; any food.
Thought:
I learned the hard way from my mom that parents do the best they can with what they have and that just has to be good enough, because we'll only do the best we can with what we have when we're parents.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A Shumaker by Anyother Name Would Smell as Sweet
Memory:
I was twenty-two years old. I wasn't married at the time in 1970, and I had a baby. A wonderful, blue-eyed baby who terrified me to death.
I was going to be the next Barbara Streisand. I was going to travel to Europe and live in New York. All my furniture was going to be made of chrome, and I was never going to have children. I didn't really like them. Maybe I'd get married when I was in my thirties, but I had plans.
Now the only plans I had were to figure out what to do with this tiny invader who had changed everything, and I was clueless. I handled things pretty well alone in our first floor apartment in Devon, Connecticut that I shared with my mother. That is, until one day when Shannan was a few month old. I had put her in the middle of my bed and surrounded her with pillows so she couldn't move, but darn it all if she didn't figure out a way to do it anyway. She rolled off the bed and landed on the floor right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. I was still in my nightgown when I picked her up off the floor. She was crying. I was crying. I ran out the front door barefooted into the street holding her in my arms so afraid I'd crippled my baby for life and screamed, "Help me. Somebody help me."
Thank God no one came out. I was always a drama queen, but this would have secured my reputation beyond all hope. I finally skulked back into the apartment and called a doctor's office to ask how badly my daughter might have been damaged from my stupidity. The nurse told me not to worry. Just check a few things and, if they still worked, everything was OK. I checked; she worked. I hadn't killed her. From that point on we did better.
A few weeks later a neighbor and younger high school classmate of mine, Linda Shumaker, who lived across the street from me with her mother, saw me and asked how my baby was doing. She told me that her mom had seen me in the street that day and hoped I was doing alright. I can't tell you how much I loved Linda's mom right then. She hadn't come out to make me feel even more stupid than I did already. She hadn't told Linda what a jerk I'd been. She just cared about us, and so did Linda.
Shannan was about a year old when her dad, John, and I finally had her christened. He picked a friend of his from New York to be Shann's godfather. Never seen him since. I asked Linda to be her godmother. Wise choice on my part. Years passed between that time and now. I married Shannan's dad; moved away; divorced; remarried; inherited my son-in-law; had grandchildren. And one day I found out Linda had been searching for Shannan and me all that time, but now her name was Martin.
A while back Shannan called me to say it was Linda Martin's birthday.
"Linda Martin; Linda Martin, who the heck is that?" I asked her.
She said, "You know -- my godmother?." Once again I felt so stupid around my daughter (never the invader anymore, but the best thing that ever entered my world. Besides, who really wants chrome furniture anyway?).
"Oh, you mean Linda Shumaker?" I said red faced. In my mind and in my heart Linda would always be a Shumaker - my little, blond, big eyes "Shumaker" not a "Martin." I'm not good with change.
The best present I ever received from anyone was a gift Linda gave me back in the scary days; a Gourmet Cookbook, Volume 1. It was enormous. It was the first cookbook I'd ever received of my own. It lit a light in me that has never gone out. I love to cook, and I'm good at it. I love that cookbook even when I can't afford the ingredients; even when I can't read the French titles. But, of the titles I can read and the ingredients I can afford, I have made recipe after recipe and seen Linda Shumaker in every one of them. She was my spark! I love her still.
Recipe:
Out of my Gourmet Cookbook: Volume 1. (The way it's written in the book, and with an English accent. Anyway that's how I've always read it).
Chicken Cacciatora
In a large skillet in 2 tablespoons olive oil saute 2 medium onions, coarsely chopped, until they are slightly browned. Remove the onion from the skillet and reserve it. Cut into serving pieces two 2 1/2 to 3 1/2-pound chickens and dredge the pieces with seasoned flour. Saute them until they are well browned on all sides in the oil in which the onion was browned, adding 3 tablespoons olive oil. Add 2 cups fresh tomatoes, peeled and seeded, or canned tomatoes, one cup seeded and coarsely chopped sweet green peppers, and 1 garlic clove, finely chopped. Return the reserved onion to the pan and simmer chicken and vegetables together, covered, for 15 minutes over very low heat. Add one cup white wine and season with salt and pepper. Simmer the mixture, covered for about 30 minutes longer, or until the chicken is tender.
Thought:
Names change; people change, but friends never do - still as sweet.
I was twenty-two years old. I wasn't married at the time in 1970, and I had a baby. A wonderful, blue-eyed baby who terrified me to death.
I was going to be the next Barbara Streisand. I was going to travel to Europe and live in New York. All my furniture was going to be made of chrome, and I was never going to have children. I didn't really like them. Maybe I'd get married when I was in my thirties, but I had plans.
Now the only plans I had were to figure out what to do with this tiny invader who had changed everything, and I was clueless. I handled things pretty well alone in our first floor apartment in Devon, Connecticut that I shared with my mother. That is, until one day when Shannan was a few month old. I had put her in the middle of my bed and surrounded her with pillows so she couldn't move, but darn it all if she didn't figure out a way to do it anyway. She rolled off the bed and landed on the floor right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. I was still in my nightgown when I picked her up off the floor. She was crying. I was crying. I ran out the front door barefooted into the street holding her in my arms so afraid I'd crippled my baby for life and screamed, "Help me. Somebody help me."
Thank God no one came out. I was always a drama queen, but this would have secured my reputation beyond all hope. I finally skulked back into the apartment and called a doctor's office to ask how badly my daughter might have been damaged from my stupidity. The nurse told me not to worry. Just check a few things and, if they still worked, everything was OK. I checked; she worked. I hadn't killed her. From that point on we did better.
A few weeks later a neighbor and younger high school classmate of mine, Linda Shumaker, who lived across the street from me with her mother, saw me and asked how my baby was doing. She told me that her mom had seen me in the street that day and hoped I was doing alright. I can't tell you how much I loved Linda's mom right then. She hadn't come out to make me feel even more stupid than I did already. She hadn't told Linda what a jerk I'd been. She just cared about us, and so did Linda.
Shannan was about a year old when her dad, John, and I finally had her christened. He picked a friend of his from New York to be Shann's godfather. Never seen him since. I asked Linda to be her godmother. Wise choice on my part. Years passed between that time and now. I married Shannan's dad; moved away; divorced; remarried; inherited my son-in-law; had grandchildren. And one day I found out Linda had been searching for Shannan and me all that time, but now her name was Martin.
A while back Shannan called me to say it was Linda Martin's birthday.
"Linda Martin; Linda Martin, who the heck is that?" I asked her.
She said, "You know -- my godmother?." Once again I felt so stupid around my daughter (never the invader anymore, but the best thing that ever entered my world. Besides, who really wants chrome furniture anyway?).
"Oh, you mean Linda Shumaker?" I said red faced. In my mind and in my heart Linda would always be a Shumaker - my little, blond, big eyes "Shumaker" not a "Martin." I'm not good with change.
The best present I ever received from anyone was a gift Linda gave me back in the scary days; a Gourmet Cookbook, Volume 1. It was enormous. It was the first cookbook I'd ever received of my own. It lit a light in me that has never gone out. I love to cook, and I'm good at it. I love that cookbook even when I can't afford the ingredients; even when I can't read the French titles. But, of the titles I can read and the ingredients I can afford, I have made recipe after recipe and seen Linda Shumaker in every one of them. She was my spark! I love her still.
Recipe:
Out of my Gourmet Cookbook: Volume 1. (The way it's written in the book, and with an English accent. Anyway that's how I've always read it).
Chicken Cacciatora
In a large skillet in 2 tablespoons olive oil saute 2 medium onions, coarsely chopped, until they are slightly browned. Remove the onion from the skillet and reserve it. Cut into serving pieces two 2 1/2 to 3 1/2-pound chickens and dredge the pieces with seasoned flour. Saute them until they are well browned on all sides in the oil in which the onion was browned, adding 3 tablespoons olive oil. Add 2 cups fresh tomatoes, peeled and seeded, or canned tomatoes, one cup seeded and coarsely chopped sweet green peppers, and 1 garlic clove, finely chopped. Return the reserved onion to the pan and simmer chicken and vegetables together, covered, for 15 minutes over very low heat. Add one cup white wine and season with salt and pepper. Simmer the mixture, covered for about 30 minutes longer, or until the chicken is tender.
Thought:
Names change; people change, but friends never do - still as sweet.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Irish or not - here I come
Memory:
My real husband, Michael, and I are both of Irish/Catholic descent. So much so, that my daughter was named for the Shannon Airport in Ireland after it was bombed in 1970, and my younger brother, Johnny, and I were as close to being IRA supporters as any two Bridgeport, Connecticut idiots could be without carrying a gun.
But my "recipe" for my Irish Soda Bread is Emi, my 14 year old granddaughter. Nothing about this girl is Irish, but that has never stopped me before. My daughter is mostly Polish and Russian from her real father, John, and her husband, Ed, is French Canadian and Native American, which means none of my Irish eyes and red hair ever made it near my little Pocahontas. But, once a year around March 17th, this dark eyed, dark skinned beauty starts to look more and more like me when we make our soda bread together.
There is a certain ritual to this event. We use a special, huge pottery bowl and only this bread bowl to mix up our precious dough. We always watch "The Secret of Roan Inish" movie to help create the mood. Otherwise, how could the two of us believe we were doing all this in a whitewashed cottage on one of the Republic's sod covered coastal islands.
This dough is one of the stickiest, messiest muddles I've ever worked with (so be warned), but I wouldn't change it even if I knew how. It wasn't that way when I originally got this recipe from an Irish friend of mine, Alice Conway, in the 1970's. Back then it always had a firm dryness to the mixture, and when it was put in the cast iron pans, it was easy to crisscross the top before baking, but not since Emi and I have been making it together. Don't know what made the difference, but it was one of the happiest mistakes that has ever happened to me, and I really believe the bread tastes better. There is nothing like goo up to your elbows and a grandchild to turn a round loaf of bread into a holiday.
Recipe:
Grammy's Irish Soda Bread
Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees
Grease and flour two cast iron skillets about 8 or 9 inches round
1 quart buttermilk
2 eggs beaten slightly
1 tbs. oil
8 cups all purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 tbs. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 tbs. salt
2 cups raisins or one box
1/4 cup caraway seeds.
Thought:
This might not make you an Irish Soda Bread lover if you are not one already, but it's pretty good and my family thinks it "gold."
A quote from my "Black Irish" dad, "The Irish are lovely people," and he ought to have known.
My real husband, Michael, and I are both of Irish/Catholic descent. So much so, that my daughter was named for the Shannon Airport in Ireland after it was bombed in 1970, and my younger brother, Johnny, and I were as close to being IRA supporters as any two Bridgeport, Connecticut idiots could be without carrying a gun.
But my "recipe" for my Irish Soda Bread is Emi, my 14 year old granddaughter. Nothing about this girl is Irish, but that has never stopped me before. My daughter is mostly Polish and Russian from her real father, John, and her husband, Ed, is French Canadian and Native American, which means none of my Irish eyes and red hair ever made it near my little Pocahontas. But, once a year around March 17th, this dark eyed, dark skinned beauty starts to look more and more like me when we make our soda bread together.
There is a certain ritual to this event. We use a special, huge pottery bowl and only this bread bowl to mix up our precious dough. We always watch "The Secret of Roan Inish" movie to help create the mood. Otherwise, how could the two of us believe we were doing all this in a whitewashed cottage on one of the Republic's sod covered coastal islands.
This dough is one of the stickiest, messiest muddles I've ever worked with (so be warned), but I wouldn't change it even if I knew how. It wasn't that way when I originally got this recipe from an Irish friend of mine, Alice Conway, in the 1970's. Back then it always had a firm dryness to the mixture, and when it was put in the cast iron pans, it was easy to crisscross the top before baking, but not since Emi and I have been making it together. Don't know what made the difference, but it was one of the happiest mistakes that has ever happened to me, and I really believe the bread tastes better. There is nothing like goo up to your elbows and a grandchild to turn a round loaf of bread into a holiday.
Recipe:
Grammy's Irish Soda Bread
Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees
Grease and flour two cast iron skillets about 8 or 9 inches round
1 quart buttermilk
2 eggs beaten slightly
1 tbs. oil
8 cups all purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 tbs. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 tbs. salt
2 cups raisins or one box
1/4 cup caraway seeds.
- In a small bowl combine all the wet ingredients.
- In a large bowl (pretty darn large, too) sift all the dry ingredients. Combine well.
- To the dry ingredients, add the caraway seeds and the raisins. Be sure to coat the raisins in the flour or you'll have raisin balls in the thing.
- Make a deep well in the middle of the dry ingredients and pour in the liquid mixture.
- Stir this until blended.
- Divide the dough in half to make two round loaves and place in the prepared skillets.
- Bake for 1 hour until golden.
- Be sure to make a cross on the tops of the bread before placing in the oven. AMEN
Thought:
This might not make you an Irish Soda Bread lover if you are not one already, but it's pretty good and my family thinks it "gold."
A quote from my "Black Irish" dad, "The Irish are lovely people," and he ought to have known.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
First day; first memory
The Memory:
My recipes are people - not ingredients. My dad, my mom, my brother, my ex-husband, real husband, daughter, son-in-law, grand kids and others always make my recipes more than just "whip it up; put it in a pan." Baked macaroni and cheese is always my Aunt Joyce and my granddaughter Emi. Scottish eggs are my ex-husband. Pancakes and spaghetti sauce are my real husband. Yankee pot roast is my son-in-law and so on.
My oldest recipe is my Aunt Joyce. She gave my mom and me her recipe for Vermont Baked Macaroni and Cheese when I was seven years old in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She was no more my "aunt" than our landlord who kept live chickens in the basement of our city apartment building on John Street, and chopped the poor chickens' heads off in our backyard, but I loved her until the day she died when I was thirty-eight years old. Aunt Joyce and her "husband" were hard drinking; hard smoking; hard swearing folks from Craftsbury Commons, Vermont, who moved to Bridgeport trying to find a better life. When Aunt Joyce left Bridgeport and moved back to Craftsbury Commons "because no life was better than there," no street address or zip code was ever necessary for my card or letter to reach her in her village not far from the Canadian border. All I had to write on the envelope was her name, the town and end it with VT, and the mailman always found her even when they moved to a different home. Now the recipe is my granddaughter, Emi. I don't have to ask her what she'd like me to make, but I do it anyway, because no one says it sweeter than she does when she tells me "your macaroni and cheese, Grammy."
My recipe is always made with sharp or extra sharp cheddar cheese, and I never buy the pre-grated kind. There is something that says home and cold yankee nights taking a block of Vermont Cabot cheese, holding it in my hand and shredding it- taking all the time I need - relaxed and in love with everyone who will taste my love every time I make it.
The Recipe:
Vermont Baked Macaroni and Cheese
Pre heat the oven to 375 degrees
1 8 oz. package elbow macaroni
1/2 cup butter (3 tbs. and 5 tbs. in different parts of the recipe.)
1/4 to 1/2 cup of finely chopped onions
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp. salt
2 cups milk
8 oz. block sharp or extra sharp cheddar cheese (grated, the sharper the more Vermont it is)
3/4 cups bread crumbs (I put 2 to 3 slices of bread slices in the food processor - pulse until it is fine.)
1/4 tsp. paprika
You might have to have some "Yankee" coursing through your veins to fully appreciate the complexity of this simple, straightforward, no nonsense dish. But I don't think so.
My recipes are people - not ingredients. My dad, my mom, my brother, my ex-husband, real husband, daughter, son-in-law, grand kids and others always make my recipes more than just "whip it up; put it in a pan." Baked macaroni and cheese is always my Aunt Joyce and my granddaughter Emi. Scottish eggs are my ex-husband. Pancakes and spaghetti sauce are my real husband. Yankee pot roast is my son-in-law and so on.
My oldest recipe is my Aunt Joyce. She gave my mom and me her recipe for Vermont Baked Macaroni and Cheese when I was seven years old in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She was no more my "aunt" than our landlord who kept live chickens in the basement of our city apartment building on John Street, and chopped the poor chickens' heads off in our backyard, but I loved her until the day she died when I was thirty-eight years old. Aunt Joyce and her "husband" were hard drinking; hard smoking; hard swearing folks from Craftsbury Commons, Vermont, who moved to Bridgeport trying to find a better life. When Aunt Joyce left Bridgeport and moved back to Craftsbury Commons "because no life was better than there," no street address or zip code was ever necessary for my card or letter to reach her in her village not far from the Canadian border. All I had to write on the envelope was her name, the town and end it with VT, and the mailman always found her even when they moved to a different home. Now the recipe is my granddaughter, Emi. I don't have to ask her what she'd like me to make, but I do it anyway, because no one says it sweeter than she does when she tells me "your macaroni and cheese, Grammy."
My recipe is always made with sharp or extra sharp cheddar cheese, and I never buy the pre-grated kind. There is something that says home and cold yankee nights taking a block of Vermont Cabot cheese, holding it in my hand and shredding it- taking all the time I need - relaxed and in love with everyone who will taste my love every time I make it.
The Recipe:
Vermont Baked Macaroni and Cheese
Pre heat the oven to 375 degrees
1 8 oz. package elbow macaroni
1/2 cup butter (3 tbs. and 5 tbs. in different parts of the recipe.)
1/4 to 1/2 cup of finely chopped onions
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp. salt
2 cups milk
8 oz. block sharp or extra sharp cheddar cheese (grated, the sharper the more Vermont it is)
3/4 cups bread crumbs (I put 2 to 3 slices of bread slices in the food processor - pulse until it is fine.)
1/4 tsp. paprika
- Boil elbow macaroni for 6 minutes (it will finish cooking while baking). Drain well
- Grease casserole dish and put aside.
- In heavy sauce pan, melt 3 tbs. of butter
- Saute chopped onions until clear, but not brown
- Stir in flour and salt - let the flour taste cook off
- Very slowly add milk to the onions and butter in 2 to 3 intervals stirring constantly until it is thick
- Pour drained macaroni into the casserole dish, followed by the white sauce
- Add the grated cheese and combine until completely mixed
- In a small pan, melt the rest of the butter (5 tbs.)
- Stir in the fresh bread crumbs until golden and toasted.
- Spoon the bread crumbs over the top of the casserole
- Finish by sprinkling the paprika over the bread crumbs.
- Place in the oven and cook for 25 to 30 minutes.
You might have to have some "Yankee" coursing through your veins to fully appreciate the complexity of this simple, straightforward, no nonsense dish. But I don't think so.
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