214 replies to this topic

[Susan in FL]

I just got home from work, fixed some food, and set up my laptop in front of my dinner to read while I eat..... I wish I had some Rachel-like words to give my thanks, here at Thanksgiving week, for the perfect eG blogger on this occasion.
Y'all, as she would say, are putting it into words, so add "inspiring" to the many descriptions we have for Rachel.
...And add stunning photography to captivating, beautiful prose when we are talking about her talents.
Best of all, she is genuine and sincere -- she has a real appreciation of food and drink and all it means.
Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, with special thanks to Rachel.

[racheld]

Oh, My. I am humbled and amazed. Styron and Fisher all in one day, and a wonderful day it has been.

Since I'll be away all day Friday, I plan to post a little surprise, a little silly thing, just for entertainment's sake. I do hope that those of you making your own memories with your children or grandchildren will read it to them, or let them read it at the computer with you.

And now, good night to all. Thankfulness is just the beginning.



rachel

[racheld]

Oh, My, again, Susan. That, as Groucho Marx used to say, is "an e-comium of which I am not worthy,"---probably just before he said the one about he wouldn't belong to a club. . .

This has been a stunning, wonderful day. I just throw pages into boxes, boxes into closets, and there sit my thoughts.

I post a few, and the whole world opens like Dorothy's door. Wow.

Y'all just DO beat all.



rachel

[Nishla]

Rachel, you made me late for work this morning! I had a few extra minutes and decided to check eG, and had to read every word of your blog before I could leave.
You've opened the floodgates to so many amazing stories, at the perfect time of year. My grandmother (wai po, chinese for maternal grandmother) was the cooking influence in my family. She's in a nursing home now and can't cook, but I managed to get some lessons from her when she was still able to get around in the kitchen. Chinese meat pies, scallion pancakes, braises, egg drop corn soup (and not the goopy stuff you get for takeout). Last night I made one of her really simple soups: sliced lamb, cucumber, garlic and cilantro. It took me right back to her kitchen...

[purplewiz]

In this time of family and celebration, I'd love to hear what EVERYONE called their Grandmothers, and which one was the defining influence.  And in some instances, we may need a little translation, which would just round out the experience.

I'm enjoying your blog even if I'm probably going to have to finish it next week, as life has taken a busy turn and then we're away to the in laws for Thanksgiving itself. I need more TIME!

Both sets of grandparents were simply Grandma and Grandpa (pronounced gramma and granpa, the d's were always silent). My paternal grandparents were not much of an influence, as they lived 8 hours away and that was a LONG distance to drive in those days, especially on the East Coast. I know they loved us, and when we went to visit them we always ate homemade sauerkraut and hard boiled eggs pickled in beet juice, both of which seemed very exotic to me at the time.

My maternal Grandmother was THE influence. Grandma was definitely a force: extroverted, opinionated, generous to a fault, she was definitely a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately she was also very difficult to live with, at least partially caused by her chronic depression.

If a holiday celebration was held at Gram's, she cooked. She was a good, capable midwestern cook - not very inventive, but very rarely making anything inedible. (Her red jello salad with canned fruit cocktail topped with a dollop of mayonnaise being the notable exception for me.) Her repertoire ran mostly to roast beef, ham, turkey, or hamburgers with the appropriate sides.

But Gram also baked. Most of her recipes came from Mrs. Worman, one of her friends. These recipes were so good that they're now family staples - we all have copies of the recipes for Mrs. Worman's Butter Cookies and Mrs. Worman's Chocolate Chip Coffee Cake, among others. These are the tastes of my childhood.

When Gram passed on, I asked for her cookbooks. Sadly, most of them had been lost/given away through the years, but she had two church cookbooks left. And yes, I have them now.

Marcia.
who is drooling over your bakery pictures

[Cadbury]

Damn these pregnancy hormones, the day started with a few tears and got worse when I came on here and read this wonderful blog and the lovely references and memories of grandparents.
I had a Grandma on my dad's side. Grandma made chutney and jam and cooked wonderful meals with fresh veges from grandpa's garden. She made cakes, lamingtons and all things sweet and bad for you. She was a lot older than my Oma. Oma is Dutch and her cooking was/is not standard Australian fare (thank goodness). Oma's kitchen was big enough for me to "help" from an early age. She had a wood stove and we were allowed to heat up stew or casserole etc in the saucepans from a little metal tea set. Oma made food with lovely spices and flavours.
My children have a Grandma and Grandad, and an Oma and Grandpa as well as Great-grandmothers - Granny and Oma Mab (my Oma).

[MarketStEl]

Whew. Just got caught up with this wonderful blog. Warm, evocative, sentimental writing, some of the best photos of baked goods I've ever seen, great-looking wooden utensils and blue glass, and real down-home cooking and memories mixed in. Indeed, Susan chose the right week for you to blog.

I never knew Grandpa Davis, as he died before I was born. Grandma Davis -- I called both her and Dad's mom "Grandma" -- was a jovial presence in my life for the first eight years of it, but I remember her as vividly for her last year on this planet, hooked up to an oxygen tank, barely able to move around her house.

The bulk of my grandparenting, and all the Sunday dinners, came from the Smith side of the family. I spent almost every Sunday with Grandma (Smith) and Grandpa, during which time we would go on scenic drives around the region--up to Fort Leavenworth, over to see the Civil War cannonball still lodged in the Johnson County Courthouse portico in Lexington, to Topeka to see where a tornado had taken a bite out of the state Capitol dome, and sometimes all the way across the state to St. Louis. Grandma would always pack sandwiches -- liverwurst and cheese was (and remains) my favorite -- and we'd eat at a rest stop somewhere on I-70 on the way down.

If the trip was to a place nearby, the day ended with dinner prepared by Grandma. (Some of it would be cooking before we departed.) All of it was good, and the veggies usually came from the garden Granddad (and Dad, after Granddad died) tended, but what I remember most were the rolls she baked--hot out of the oven and so delicious. (Well, I do have one other vivid memory: Granddad letting me have a taste of his Coors at age four.)

Thanksgiving was when Grandma pulled out all the stops. Turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, collard greens, cranberry sauce -- jellied, thank you -- and more of those wonderful rolls, topped off by pumpkin pie for dessert.

I guess my own Thanksgiving efforts are an attempt to channel Grandma in a different place and context.

Going back to your initial post, Rachel: Indiana "the northernmost of Southern states"? I know that southern Indiana, like southern Illinois, has much in common with the lands across the Ohio, but I've never thought of Hoosier country as particularly Southern. I would sooner attach that designation to my native Missouri, which recapitulates just about all the country's regional splits within its borders -- and which was a slave state, after all.

Or do you live in Kentucky now?

[hzrt8w]

Great blog, rachel!

In Cantonese, we call our paternal grandmother "Ma Ma" (more like "Maa Maa", need to lower the Arr sound. As "Ma Ma" (short Arr) means mother), and our maternal grandmother "Poh Poh". Thanks to the Chinese single-syllable words, and repetition to make it easy for young children. But... like many things Cantonese, we usually add a meaningless adjective "Ah" in front of a noun. So more commonly you would hear "Ah Maa" and "Ah Po". (Same way that I got my nick name "Ah Leung" )

I look forward to seeing some of your daugther's cooking.

[Ondine]

Oh Rachel, I just have to delurk to say this.

I have loved and faithfully followed all the foodblogs on eGullet (often several days or weeks after the fact, due to shiftwork-related exhaustion), but I never dared hope to see you blogging.

I love your lyrical style or writing, so evocative, so glorious.

Hats off to you!

[Mooshmouse]

My maternal grandmother, an extraordinary lady, is a cancer-sufferer but is still going strong as she approaches her 91st birthday in January. I call her Lola, Filipino for grandmother, and miss her terribly. She was a school teacher, classical pianist and preacher's wife (my Lolo, 15 years her senior, passed away some 17 years ago), creative enough in the kitchen to feed the inevitable crowd gathered in her dining room on a shoestring budget even during the leanest of times.

For a couple of years, my Mom and I lived with my grandparents before we emigrated to Canada, and I'm certain that my love for food was born in her kitchen. One of my earliest memories is the sweet, musky smell of a batch of Lola's guava jam simmering on the stove and her arms around me as I helped her stir the pot... or scattering grain across the back yard and watching the chickens come running... or standing in her kitchen doorway, clutching a mango pit in my little four-year-old hands and grinning with delight as the juice ran down my chin and my elbows. On special days, the two of us would bundle into a pedicab and take a ride to the Magnolia House ice-cream parlour. I'd chatter all the way there with giddy excitement, and our exchange would invariably go something like this. "What kind of ice cream are we going to have, Ying (a childhood nickname)?" "Any kind you like, Lola... but Super Mocha only, okay!" I'd slide into the booth beside her and we'd spoon into the pint of ice cream together... my mind's palate can still taste that creamy coffeed goodness.

Recently, while hunting through family archives to dig up photographs for my son's school project, I came across the travel journal I kept during my last visit to the Philippines eight years ago. In one entry, I reflected about comparing hands with my Mom and my Lola one afternoon, three generations of hands with the same slightly crooked pinky finger. I held up my hand against my Lola's to measure and was astonished to find that our hands are virtually identical. Small, strong hands, hers worn from years of caring for others. That afternoon, I remember wishing that my hands would be as capable as hers and my Mom's had been in motherhood... comforing, nurturing and sure.

My Lola is very special to me and I do miss her so. Thank you, Rachel, for opening the floodgates of memory for so many of us.

[racheld]

Good Morning, Everyone!!!

It's just a joy to hear all the memories, to bring out all the memories, to give a remembrance to our past. I've felt a tug on my heartstrings every time I open a post, scrolling down to hear the names, to hear the thoughts, the little quirks and the great and wonderful amount of interest given by our grandparents. And the theme is kin, as well: Kitchen, cooking, eating together.

I love the shapes of the names---all the ahhs and ohs and MMMMMs in the forming of the syllables. And we are learning of each other, of our past experiences, and childhood memories are sometimes the sweetest. I think of our grandmothers, how early they must have risen, have dressed and gone into that sunrise kitchen, cranking up the woodstove, the Tappan, the General Electric, getting the scents of the familiar into the morning air.

I cannot tell you how appreciative I am of the trusting aspect of all this, how we remember and share with each other, digging deep into the sense-memories, the scents and the tastes---that coffee ice cream; the liverwurst sandwich, packed in waxed paper and crinkled open miles from home; the kimchee with its pungent authority born of careful preparation; the fresh-from-the-hen-with-your-own-hands egg not five minutes from the nest, served up golden on a plate.

We say, "Here, this is mine. This is who handed me a spoon, who stood me on a chair, who let me stir and pat and taste." And though we had patted out one biscuit with clumsy hands, we beamed proudly when the entire pan was presented as "our" work.

More markets, cooking, bakeries, little peeks into my kitchen to come.

moire non

[Pan]

I really had three grandmothers -- two by blood, and one fictive. My mother's mother was called Grandma ("Gramma"). The main thing I remember her cooking is stuffed cabbage, with dried fruits and ginger snaps. I always loved it, but when my mother and I have made it from her recipe, it's never tasted like I remember it. Maybe I just don't like it as much, or maybe it's missing the magic of a grandmother's love. I still miss her. Grandpa ("Grampa") died when I was four or five, so I don't remember as much about him, except that he was so tall (only 5"6', but I was little then) and a benevolent presence. I remember him giving me guava juice to drink when I visited my grandparents in Miami in 1969.

My father's mother was called Baba, Ukranian for Grandmother. My father drove us across the Queensborough Bridge every Saturday to visit Baba, and I always remember the delicious smell of the bread baking in the Silvercup factory below the overpass on the Queens side; even though Silvercup bread was not good, the smell of it baking was delectable. Baba was a diabetic when I knew her, so I remember her having various kinds of dietetic cookies around, like Stella d'Oro breakfast treats. But I also remember that there was always ripe fruit and compote - not for drinking, but for eating. Stewed prunes and so forth. And I always liked it. I also remember that there were almonds and filberts and walnuts in quantity and a wooden nutcracker that we passed around. Baba was a forest Jew, having been born in a village in a forest clearing in what's now Ukraine (then part of the Austrian Empire). There were always flourishing, leafy plants of all varieties in her apartment. Unfortunately, I never met her husband, who was a heroic labor organizer: He died when my parents were not yet engaged. Baba died when I was eight, and it took me some time to get over that, because we were very close. She used to sing me a lullaby from the old country that had a melody like one of Bartok's Romanian Folk Dances (actually, all of those dances feel very nostalgic to me, and I have a deep affinity to them). I remember that when Baba died, people came to our apartment and I think some of them brought food for us. We had cold cuts like tongue, pastrami, and turkey; cakes, vegetables and fruit, I think. I remember that many relatives and friends came by and my father was reeling and my mother wasn't doing so well, either. Put yourself in the place of an 8-year-old who had never seen his father so shaken and who was upset himself and unable to fully comprehend what was going on, other than that someone he loved and who loved him had just died. I felt that it was a good thing that all the more distant relatives and friends came by to distract us, be stronger than us, and bring us food, although the whole thing seemed a little unreal to me. I thought it was too bad when they left and we were left by ourselves again.

My fictive grandmother was Mrs. Carr, whose first name was Ethel. She was a Baptist from Mississippi, and lived on 112th St. and Lenox Av. in Harlem when that was a really awful, dangerous neighborhood. She used to come once a week or so and help clean things in my parents' apartment, and she also sometimes babysat me (she loved children and was an excellent block-player). But as I recall, she never arrived emptyhanded. She always came with some wonderful home-cooked delight - sweet potato pie, peach cobbler, apple pie, black-eyed peas, collard greens, cornbread, bread pudding -- you name it. My mother always told her she needn't have, but it gave her pleasure. My mother paid her as well as she could from funding from a Danforth grant for her graduate school, which had a line item for child care. Later, when Mrs. Carr was too old and frail to work and I was older and didn't need a babysitter so much, the checks continued to come, and my parents just sent the money to Mrs. Carr. She was invited to come and have dinner with us every so often, and my mother would cook for her. She was a wonderful person, and my taste for soul food comes from her beautiful soul. I remember that in spite of all the hardship she endured, she always had a smile for everyone and called everyone "Sugar," not because they were sweet but because she was. After her apartment had been burglarized five times, my mother prevailed upon the proud old lady to leave behind her beloved neighborhood church and friends and accept an offer from a nephew to move into his place in the Pittsburgh area. We never heard from her after that, so we figured she must have died shortly thereafter.

Rachel, thank you for helping me to remember my grandparents. I love and miss them all and I hope they are enjoying their alternate existence, whatever state they are in.

Edited by Pan, 22 November 2006 - 02:09 AM.

[racheld]

With all the rushing about yesterday that came up unexpectedly, we got a bit off the schedule we had planned. Daughter's Ma Po Tofu dinner turned out to be just the dish of fried rice when I got home out of the cold night.

So, I think she'd like me to show you a previous pan, a little photo-taking when I was learning to use the camera and she was in the kitchen.

All set out, ready to go:




My Daddy always said, "There's no way to mess up a dish by starting with some fried onions and peppers---except maybe boiled eggs and Jello." This one just uses onions. And Garlic.



Tofu is like a teenager looking for a peer group; it takes on the persona of its surroundings



Sizzling up the garlic, ginger, onion in peanut oil: This is when the house gets irresistibly fragrant. Daughter works nights, and comes in ready for dinner, when I'm barely vertical. She goes cheerily into the kitchen, chopping and slicing, setting out all the necessaries in a little tableau.

Then, when the cooking starts, we're all enveloped in a fragrance, a blanket of warm anticipation that says, "Eggses---who needs eggses? Toast? Who ever heard of such a thing---I want Ma Po Tofu!!!" I usually do the rice, three cups of Calrose, the short, roundy little grains. I like the washing, the squeezing of those little dry kernels as the warm water flows into the pot. It usually takes about three rinsings to get the water JUST clear enough, then a little salt in the palm, a stir as it comes to the boil, then the gentlest possible flame, to collect its thoughts and turn into perfect little translucent pearls, tender and soothing under the heat of the spicy cloak.



In between came the saucing, the mixing of all the flavors in a bowl, the careful hand with the hot elements, the generous one with the sweet and rich. A simmer, a stir-in of the slurry, and it's a lovely pool, ready to receive the chunks of tofu and give them their new personality:




And here 'tis, our little kitchen version of a lofty dish, learned at the feet of the Master:




We somehow even happened to have a set of his dishes:



Fried rice, just like last nights---onion, sliced pork, bean sprouts:



Pay no attention to the dumplings lurking on the sidelines--they came out of a box.
But the dipping sauce was Heavenly.

Our feast:



So---that was supposed to be dinner last night, and since we have people invited for a couple of other nights, and Thanksgiving night, etc., this was it, in retrospect.

Gee, I wish she'd worked LAST night---she'd be in the kitchen right now, stirring up that heavenly aroma.

Edited by racheld, 21 November 2006 - 07:46 PM.

[racheld]

Hey, Y'all!!! A little tech support, if you can.

I was just sailing along, uploading pictures, and now when I get to the part that says "Browse" and click on that, I go to my big list of pictures I want to select from, but it won't let me double-click to get them. As soon as I do the double-click, it zooms right back to the browse screen and I've posted THREE little totally black pictures in my steadily-getting-fuller albums.

Can anyone tell me what I'm doing wrong?

thanks!!

EDITED______________________________________________
I GOT it!!!! It was a re-size thing, and it's working now. Couldn't let you miss out on looking into my coffee cabinet and fridge, now could I?

Edited by racheld, 21 November 2006 - 07:21 AM.

[sparrowgrass]

Rachel, I will be sure to drive up to Indy to that deli the very next time I visit my son in Bloomington.

I lived for 5 years near Bedford, IN, and I can vouch for the "Southern-ness" of the area.

When your choices at a "meat and three" or buffet include hominy, ham and beans and fried cabbage, you are closer to Atlanta than to Chicago.

[suzilightning]

OMG...what a treasure!! miz d. is blogging...and while those pictures are purty the word pictures are the best. what can i say i am a librarian after all

i never knew my paternal grandparents since - highly unusual for the time- my parents split in 1955 when i was a mere 1 year old. my maternal grandmother was nan or nana or nanny but her influence was small since she was in ill health and died when i was 5 almost 6. my maternal grandfather pretty much raised me till he died when i was 20. pop was a character - who preferred cooking and doing housework to doing outside chores. i am going to be making his clam chowder later today for johnnybird and a friend's mom and john still loves it when i make smooch(that pastiche of macaroni, tomato and ground beef).

i also got to know - over 20 years- john's grandmother (granma)who was a diplomaed (?) cook from germany. while her daughter and granddaugher didn't have the inclination to cook, and only did under duress, i learned how to make apple kuken, esslin(butter cookies made in the shape of an s), spaetzle, potato salad and cucumber salad in her kitchen. i also spread out from there and have become adept at maltashen and a few other southern german items.

really looking forward to spending this holiday with you......

[racheld]

It's lovely to hear from everyone this sunny morning.

Enjoying the sun in the upstairs kitchen is our bird, referred to by another member as a feathered boltcutter. I've always called him our Gaudy Hawk.



He has about eighty words, and living in this household, nine tenths of them consist of FOOD-related items, the most prominent being "Cookie" and "Frenchy Fries." He can smell bacon cooking in a campsite in Montana, knows the clink of fork against plate means he's gonna get a bite, and will bite any part of your person that gets too near his beak.

I didn't notice that this was his outdoor cage til I noticed the rusty lock. It's a smaller version of his home indoors, and he goes out every day in warm weather, enjoying the breeze and the birds, and has quite a stream of visitors from all around the yard. I know when the squirrels or chipmunks are scavenging under his cage, because I hear him calling our GrandDog's name: "Bid-deee!!! Biddddd-deee!!! C'mere!!! C'mere!!!"

All animals are Biddy, all meat is chicken, all fruit is apple and vegetables, cooked or raw, are salad. And he orders from the menu about once every thirty minutes.

In this picture he's hanging in his "Getcha feet" posture, and will spring up there for you to tickle his feet.

He's a dancer, and our song is Louie, Louie---I don't know the words, so I just sing "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh," for the second line---He'll chime in on the "OH" part, and when he really gets going, he stops swaying and bouncing, climbs to the top of the cage, hangs by one huge claw, and does the wing-work.

He'll sing out, "C'mon!!! Let's DANCE!!! C'mon!! Getcha ARMS up!!!" with all sorts of swinging and arm action.

He reverts to "baby" when I sing Mr. Rogers' theme---it's the only way we can get his nails and wings clipped---and will try to "feed" me when he gets all cozy and coy.

He's eight, will live to be close to eighty, and Chris says, "We'll have to leave him to someone in our Will---which of the children do we like the least?"

[MarketStEl]

Metaphor of the Week:

Tofu is like a teenager looking for a peer group; it takes on the persona of its surroundings

Now I'm gonna have to swing by H-Mart on the way home and pick up some. D*mn you!

Wait--I'm going to have to resist this urge. There is a 22-pound turkey hogging precious fridge space, waiting for its star turn on Thursday.

As a gay man, I know that Thanksgiving -- the most family-oriented of all our holidays -- can be problematic for some of my brothers and sisters who, for whatever reason, feel less than welcome celebrating the holiday with their own families -- even if those families make every effort to include their gay members in their celebrations. My partner and I felt it was important to establish our own Thanksgiving tradition, independent of our respective families'. (It was fairly easy to cut out mine: 1,200 miles separated me from them, and both parents died within a year of each other in the late 1980s.)

An important part of that tradition is inviting friends over who may have no dinner of their own to look forward to. Even though I buy a big enough turkey to feed multitudes -- my partner has a thing about small turkeys -- our apartment is only so big, and thus we can accommodate only a few each year. But it's always a pleasure to be able to cook a traditional Thanksgiving feast for friends who appreciate it all the more because it lets them be part of what I think is the best holiday of them all.

Edited by MarketStEl, 21 November 2006 - 09:28 AM.

[racheld]

I have to give equal time to the catly contingent---Kitty is maybe eighteen or twenty, the Vet said. She came into the house on Halloween five years ago, after enjoying the patio buffet for several months. She is now entirely toothless, but STILL wants her dry food.

She's otherwise a tinycan Fancy Feast girl.

Her eyes are a fierce GREEN, just like the picture. Even the irises have a deep emerald look.



This is birdie's other outdoor companion. It's lovely out there in Spring and Summer, but this was the farewell bow of the Hostas, before they went to sleep under a good mulching.



I'd wander out with my first cup, sip it as I made the garden rounds, and say a prayer for our friend Rebecca, who has been my online coffee companion for quite some time.

Moire non

[Swisskaese]

I think someone asked earlier , but what does "Moire Non" mean?

[racheld]

It's a little closing in letters to an old friend---I told about it in Post #37.

The response to this has been just overwhelming, and I'm just stunned at all the replies and PM's.

Thank you all for following along on this small journey, and thank you for giving so much of your family history.

[Kouign Aman]

That cat has amazing eyes. And fur like velveteen.

Your bird is lovely. Does he let you or Chris preen him? Do you ever rub the feathers on the top of his head the wrong way, gently?
Do you ever wonder if he'd be quieter in the soup pot?

[racheld]

Finally:

Breakfast: An English muffin, toasted in a non-stick skillet with a smaller-size pan to press it down. Dickinson's strawberry preserves.




Daughter's lunch----Pho



Okay----FRIDGE SHOT



Couldn't resist, though the bottom is full of leafy, green, healthful things. This is the way refrigerators appeared in all the ads in years past.

[M. Lucia]

What a loquacious bird. In Arabic "bidee" means I want, I always hear bratty Damascene kids squaking biddee this and biddee that. So when I first read your post I thought your parrot was saying 'I want,' or wanting to eat the other animals, eek.

[racheld]

He's just calling for his old friend, who lived with us for a year and a half, along with Daughter #2 and oldest Granddaughter, along with an immense desert tortoise, who was mentioned in a LONG ago post. I think, of all the animals, I miss Sheldon most.

All animals are referred to as Biddy, including Maddy, our Granddog who lives near us here.

Reggie even calls out to the squirrels in my voice, "C'mon, Dolling!!!" They must be so disappointed when they arrive and the nut brigade is absent.

[racheld]

We're heading out for a bit; I'll see y'all later!

[Smithy]

Oh, Rachel. Your writing always makes me slow down and savor the words. Your posts resist skimming and speed-reading as surely as my bowl of rocky road ice cream demands that I notice and enjoy every bit of sweet or crunchy or savory or cold or soft. We are rich indeed to have you posting, and triply rich that you're willing to blog on Thanksgiving week. I suppose you'd have to say that we who are short of time for our online community are now in treble trouble.

I never met my maternal grandmother; Mama Keen died before I was born. Pop, my maternal grandfather, is a benevolent mystery whom I only met two or three times, since we lived on opposite coasts. It was Nana and Papa, 50 miles away, who formed my ideas of good grandparenting, and who cemented the core of our clan. When my sister, the eldest of my generation, was born, Nana spent endless time teaching her to say "Nana" and "Papa", much to the then-disgust of my grandfather. By the time I came along, the names were a done deal for all of us, and Papa had forgotten to mind it any more.

Nana was firmly in the "food is love" camp, and it was impossible to drop by without having her try to stuff food into you before the hello's and hugs had been completed. Our family gatherings were feasts of the first order: turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans that broke all the rules and were to die for, stuffing, sweet potatoes, biscuits, jello, and doubtless other things I've forgotten. Then there was dessert. The women of the next generation down were allowed to participate in some of the dessert making, so I can't remember just who brought what - except that my mother generally made the apple pie and a chocolate pie and a mincemeat pie 'specially for Papa. At other times of the year, Nana would have cobbler waiting in case someone dropped by; the peaches often came from our trees, but she had more local sources as well.

Those green beans were of the melt-in-your-mouth, army drab variety, with bacon, and they were the best beans on earth. (I stick by that assertion, even though soft green beans are no longer in vogue. ) We kept trying to work out how Nana did it. Bless her, she had no secret recipes and was always willing to help, but nobody could get it right. One year my cousin Sally dogged Nana's footsteps around the kitchen and took notes. Sally is a precise and clever woman, so her notes should have been right. They didn't help. We finally concluded that it was the cooking pot, but really, I think it was the love and Nana's special touch.

I did take that cooking pot when Nana passed on, though, and it makes passable beans even if they don't quite measure up to Nana's. One summer when my parents were visiting, Dad looked at that pot where it simmered on the stove and said, "I remember when Mom got that pot." He told me about Nana hosting a Wear-ever party, like the Tupperware parties of later years, and getting the pot set (2 pots, 1 lid, a steamer insert) as a hostess prize. That was right around Dad's 10th birthday. I felt warmed and cherished, and still do, knowing that I'm the 3rd generation to cook in a 1929 set of cookware. The connections go on.

Doggone it, now I'm getting misty-eyed. Thank you, Miz Rachel, for hosting this blog.

[Priscilla]

Pretty Kitty! She looks like a Russian Blue.

And pretty pink breakfast plate. Izzat Waechtersbach?

[Kim Shook]

Rachel! I am so, so glad to find you blogging! I was just a leetle down this week - lots to do, no time, numb hands, sore feet and then "what to my wondering eyes should appear" when I take a moment to check out egullet, but Miss Rachel writing her wonderful, evocative prose ! Thank you so much for sharing this week with us. I know that I will be including you and this blog in the thanks that I give on Thursday morning!

My grandma’s were Bomo (pronounced Bawmaw – baby pronunciation of Grandma, I think) and Bebo (not sure where that one comes from). The first couldn’t cook a lick, but made delicious Duncan Hines chocolate cakes . The other was a former flapper who had dance cards from the White House in her cedar chest. She gave me Metrical cookies and delivery Chinese when I spent the night at her house and cooked one wondrous meal a year – Christmas Eve.

You live in INDY!! We lived in Batesville for a couple of years! Have you ever been to Metamora? It is a little ersatz, but charming on a snowy day when all the tourists are gone – your little couple from the Feast of the Hunter's Moon would fit right in. Blog on, ma’am – we are all breathless with anticipation!

[snowangel]

I love that you have coffee with Rebecca. At our old house, when our "rebecca" fell over in a storm, we put in a patio on her resting ground, and built a pergola, and then planted a wisteria the wisteria was who I shared coffee with every day. In the new house, we have a deck that's high off the ground, so I have my coffee perched on my patio table (which I do keep shoveled off in the winter, and the snow pants are right inside the patio door for "protection") and have coffee with the birds that perch on the perennial plants I don't cut down.

I love my morning coffee companions.