racheld
-
Posts
2,685 -
Joined
-
Last visited
Content Type
Profiles
Forums
Store
Help Articles
Posts posted by racheld
-
-
This one is memorable in that it appeared on the table at every special occasion, from the time I met my first Mother-in-Law, through the kidnapping of the recipe by my own Mother, who called it her own when she passed it around under the hairdryer, and on to all of my children, who still can these and cook them for their own special days.
These are pickled snap beans, pole beans, green beans---whatever your designation. They are cooked in brine and canned, then drained and cooked in a big pot in which some ham or bacon, as well as a BIG chopped onion, have been slowly fried into softness.
I've never tried them straight out of the jar, but we gave some as take-home to friends from Pennsylvania, and she put them out in a pretty bowl on the Christmas cocktail-party table, then raved over everyone's wanting the recipe.
We much prefer pole beans, such as Kentucky Wonder, but bush beans seem to be more prevalent in markets. And you can cut this in half EASILY, just don't reduce the cooking time by much.
For two gallons of snapped, washed beans:
Put the beans in a heavy-bottomed pot. Add 1 pint sugar and 1 pint vinegar, any kind but balsamic. Cover beans one inch with water and stir. Cook 45 minutes and can into hot jars. Screw on Mason lids and turn upside down til cool.
These have a slight sweetness, very little, and a nice vinegary tang. But they're meant to be a savory dish, so for cooking:
It will take two quarts to make a nice bowl of these, if you're going to cook them DOWN in the Southern manner.
In heavy-bottomed Dutch oven or pan: Gently fry six or so slices of bacon, cut into inch-bits or not. While bacon is still soft, but has rendered some of the fat, add one or two large chopped onions and fry a bit more. Dump beans in a colander and rinse, then add to pot. Add salt, pepper if you like, and a mere thought of garlic, then cover and cook at least 45 minutes.
They will cook down "considerable" and make approximately as much as two cans of Del Monte before cooking. These beans are not to be taken lightly, not the frivolous opening of the above DM for a quick GREEN addition to a meal. Pickled beans are SERIOUS, and should be served with the respect due a carefully-considered, long-taking task. Besides, they're DELICIOUS!!
For REALLY special, peel a couple of dozen baby red potatoes, just one little strip around, and drop on top the last twenty minutes of cooking. Scatter a bit of salt across the potatoes when you put them in the pot, and cover so they steam to a creamy softness.
Beans as they appeared on our Thanksgiving table:
Fine with turkey and all, but with a hot, crisp pan of cornbread, a fried chickenleg or two, and some of that preciously-guarded cut field corn from the freezer, baked with butter and salt and presented crusty and golden---THAT'S to be thankful for.
-
I'd like to laud the efforts of phlox, our peerless proofreader and a young woman of great style and taste.
I never knew---Thank you, phlox (one of my favorite flowers from childhood, by the way).
I have so many idio-whatses I don't know how you made it through the dashes and strung-together words.
-
Weirdity:
Perhaps it was reading all those adventures at bedtime, or maybe hearing all the places you've been. Perhaps it's your unashamedly-chronicled slightly-checkered past---or some strange amalgam of Kerouac-ian thoughts comparing the colors and characters you two seem to have in common. I must have been dreaming of this thread, because my instant waking thought this morning was, "Notes from the Rogue"---THAT'S the name of his book!
I know it isn't, but it seemed to fit right at that moment. But then, I hadn't had my four espressos yet.
-
AWWWW! Little blinky hearts!!
You didn't get a Sour Tooth? You miss out on a bunch; I guess you'll have to settle for chocolate.
Always good to hear from you, Sparrowgrass---could you elaborate on the story behind your avatar? I always get a dashing-girl-on-a-bike-before-her-time feeling, when I see it.
-
Thats a spot-on description of the scent of the average geranium leaf!
There are geraniums with chocolate scented, lemon-scented, mint-scented, rose-scented, etc leaves. My neighbor grows them all.
Despite all the "chocolate" and "lemon" appelations, the oregano-pepper-tang comes through, and I cringe. I love geraniums, and have a pot upstairs that I have nursed through TWO Indiana winters already; their bright red cheerfulness is terrific on the front porch. But only for looking at; when I deadhead the pot, several times a summer, I have to come in in search of some good handwash before I can continue.
-
Rachel--I think you've taught me as much about Southern food as Miz Lewis and Mr. Peacock by this point, and as long as you continue, I think you'll outscore all other sources. I've never heard of lime sweets before, and now I long for one.
I was going to say that you write with eyes on the back of your head, but that image tends to evoke Sarah Michelle Geller in the trailer of a cheesy remake of a Japanese horror movie, so I'll resist. Sort of, as you see.
Let's say, you look back to the past without replicating it, from the act of going against your father's pragmatic desire to get all your family could from those seeds while fetching those tender little beets and beans, to finding commonalities in the kimchee you savor in the big city. Given all the references to books set abroad, you seem to delight in the food of not only your own great-great-grandmother, but everyone's great-great-grandmother.
Speaking of literary references, I also like what you say about the role of pickles in otherwise bland diets. You remind me of the fact that my British stepfather filled the narrow shelves of the fridge door with blistering mustards, thin bottles of odd, brown spicy sauces from former British colonies and lots and lots of store-bought pickles. For what it's worth, he spent his final days deep in the heart of the South, perhaps discovering what you know full well.
Minor correction: I think you encountered cipolline in supermarkets, if I understand the point of reference. Curious, too: why the archaic form of "recipe" mixed in with the word and spelling that's replaced it? Is this a way of fusing the era of yellowed receipts to the present?
ETA: Just used Google and "cippolini" seems to be the new "arugula" in terms of Americanized Italian.
Methinks we worship much too reverently at the Google altar. I had none of the little tubs left to consult, if indeed they had the name on, and so I just took the Big G's word for it. I like yours much better, and it's mine now. I noticed that our DS#4's about-to-be-Mother-in-Law spoke of "cippola" or "cibbola" when she referred to the Bloomin' Onions we had ordered at the Texas Roadhouse. We were stumbling through the noise level of fourteen people at table, the general babble of a kicker-wearin' peanuts-on-the-floor restaurant, and our dearth of each other's language, but that WAS a word I recognized.
And I DO love the old recipes, the old ways; they were born of what you HAD and what Grandma had. Her methods were formed like the cut-the-ham-in-half joke---the family had done it for generations. Tracing back, they found that Great-Grandma did it because her roaster-pan was too small.
"Receipts" were what cooking directions were called by a couple of aunts who had "married into" the family. We took to saying either/or, and definitely calling them "Aunt Etta's receipt for teacakes," or "Aunt Len's receipt for Lane Cake."
Ours were all "recipes" but we gave the honors to the giver, still decades later.
And I thank you for putting me into the exalted sharing-company of Lewis/Peacock; they had and have the constraints of writing, editing, marketing, waiting for publication. I just set my teeth into a memory, start writing, and hang on for the ride. I do, however, have a pot of mustard greens a-simmering with a chunk of Chris' Birthday ham, and a skillet of smothered squash and onions steaming for supper. If you went more South than that, you'd fall in the Gulf.
It was my first Grandfather-in-Law, my children's Great-Granddad, who was the stickler for not picking the young vegetables. But some of his tiny crisp turnips would have turned out the best kimchee---our favorite one is turnip and red pepper, with a hearty crunch and eye-sting whoosh of heat.
I DO love the recipes that go back generations; everyone's family favorites must have SOMETHING to recommend them.
And may I ask WHERE in the South your father spent his last days?
-
Linkie to Helenjp: Well, Pickle me!Do my Japanese friends think I can't "really" cook? To be honest, I think they've fallen over all the pickle containers in my corridor so often that they believe I *do* cook, whether I *can* or not.
.....
I'm just off to put some pickle recipes on recipe gullet, before I post about pickles.
Roughly, pickles in Japan fall into these groups.Basic salt pickles - either dry salt or brine. Usually intended for long storage, and often for vegetables which will be re-pickled in other forms, e.g. most of the popular commercial pickles such as fukujin-zuke, shiba-zuke, etc. Varying amounts of fermentation are permitted, depending on the type of vegetable.
Cultured seasonings - soy sauce, miso, sake, natto, vinegar, etc. usually involve basic ingredients, and usually salt, and always some kind of culture starter.
Condiment pickles - miso pickles, soy sauce pickles etc. Usually the pickles are enjoyed as snacks, and the pickling medium is used as a seasoning or condiment.
Other cultured pickling mediums - bettara zuke, karashi-zuke etc depend on cultured rice.
Rice-bran pickles - a mixture of rice bran, water, and salt, which is permitted to develop lactic acid-producing cultures.
Semi-preserves -- foods simmered for a long time in soy sauce, such as tsuku-dani.
Quick pickles -- food marinaded in a sour/salty mix, but not fermented. Expected to be eaten within 24-36 hours.
How PERFECT that you put the link to Helen's pickles here!!! I've read only the list you quoted, as I'm trying to keep up with answering the posts---I'll immerse myself in the blog/thread soon.
What flavors and brines and added ingredients I'd have never thought of! The rice-bran is still a mystery---the cultures are used to pickle OTHER things? There seemed to be nothing in that one that you could pick up with chopsticks, fork or fingers, so there must be some more to add before eating?
I could get with you on nearly all of those; soy sauce of every shade and density is on our cabinet shelves---I've been known to fudge on the old Southern recipes and put a few dashes into collards, greens, pinto beans, almost any soup or gravy. I remember when we first started using soy sauce, unknown to our little country family. An elderly uncle was over for dinner one night, and he especially liked the gravy I had made to go over the rice.
I do not care for the bitterburnt smell of flour browning in oil or shortening; the only exception I make is for a good roux---roux is a separate entity, made only ONE way, like hollandaise or bechamel, and deserves every minute and method it requires.
I had dissolved the flour in the fat left from frying some pork chops, had let it cook for long enough to get rid of the "raw" taste; then I poured in the boiling water, stirring the gravy into a whitish sauce, to which I added a good glug of soy sauce to get it to the just right brown color. Uncle tasted, dipped a biscuit, ate some more. He never said he liked it or how did I make it, nothing.
He merely said, "If I come over about four tomorrow, will you have me a quart of this?" He did, and I did, and a family history of gravy-tradition was changed.
Only one item stands out as a definite NO: I've encountered natto, via Iron Chef, and though I've never tasted or smelled it, it didn't appeal to me A-TALLL.
-
I know people around here who pickle fish, Northern Pike in particular. It's easy to catch 2-3 pounders, but they have lots of small bones. Pickling softens the bones, making the whole chunks edible.
SB (doesn't care for it himself
)I love pickled herring, actually. Yum. But aren't pike related to sturgeon? Might get some decent caviar to pickle from those babes.
Pickled herring goes very well with pickled beets.
I covered the fish bones thing in the Salmon Croquettes thread over on the Southern Food Culture category. Not for me, but I'll cook 'em for you.
Chris has introduced all the children to pickled herring, with mixed reviews. Most don't care for the "fish pickles" but a couple will gather round the jar with little cocktail forks, spearing and munching til they're gone, or I call, "SUPPER!"---whichever comes first.
-
No more recipes right now. It just doesn't seem decent somehow.
Let's see if I can fix that up. Preachers like flowers, don't they? We'll think of him and send along in mind some pickled nasturtium buds for his pleasure. I think we'll be right with whomever it is he talks to, now.
Pickled nasturtiums, it is. That was the name my Daddy gave to every flower, a little jest that we came to expect, especially when we were talking about Shasta daisies or floribunda roses, etc. He would just say "Nashaturshums," and we'd all crack up laughing.
I like nasturtiums, and have even tasted the pickled ones; never made 'em, though. I know how Papa felt, with us picking the before-their-time baby vegetables---eating a bud that would otherwise blossom into something so beautiful, something WE could not make or replace---that makes me feel sad.
Every country kid has tasted every flower in reach---we partook of honeysuckle blossoms, sucking those drippy stem ends like tiny straws; we sampled rose petals, and no matter the color, no matter the name, they all tasted alike. We got caught trying to extract nectar from even-smaller-than-honeysuckle verbena blossoms, and Mammaw wasn't mad---she just said, "Y'all be careful and don't suck those little things down your throats."
She DID, however, give us all a stern talking-to the day she came upon our little circle, sitting with our laps full of the dangling cleome "peapods," trying to shell out the microscopic peas. It would have taken the whole flowerbed to feed Barbie.
Most flowers are wonderful garnishing a tray, hovering above an icy drink, sitting complement to plated items, scattered upon a Spring salad. But when Miss Martha mentions geranium sugar, made with those peppery, disgusting leaves nestled into the cannister---I run for the hills.
-
Have you ever pickled meat, Rachel? I would guess you've done beet-juice pickled eggs. . .pickled meats are so very very old-fashioned, aren't they? I've always had in mind to pickle a pig's foot or two.
I've pickled baloney for a friend who was addicted to that gray-pink vinegary stuff. It was cut from a "log" of bologna and I cut it into good sized cubes, some of which were more pie-shaped from the outside curve. Into a jar it went (for some reason, anything smaller than a gallon is a "jar" and gallons and up are "jugs." No matter if they are wide-mouth, Mason-ring size, or tee-ninecy bottle-sized mouths with that convenient one-finger ring of molded glass so useful when slinging a jug a shine onto your shoulder for support as you take a companionable glug. And of course, a mouth-sized mouth renders ANY size a jug, be it gallon, half, quart, or those little touristy dollar-an-ounce maple syrup jugs.
End lecture; on to cooking: Heat cider vinegar, water, salt to a boil, pour over the baloney which has been loosely packed into the container---too many sides squashed together won't let the brine soak in properly. Scatter a few peppercorns, garlic toes, a bay leaf, even sliced hot red peppers amongst 'em, seal, cool for a bit, then keep in the fridge. You can do this with any kind of "lunchmeat" except olive loaf (they keep falling out and floating away, leaving little peepholes like pink Swiss cheese) and liverwurst---I imagine it would make a very sour, very salty sludge, of a color I cannot bear thinking of.
Never had any dealings with pigfeet, ears, or tails, except for one hot noonday dinner when Mammaw had just set the steaming bowl of ears 'n' dumplins on the table, and the Preacher appeared, smiling through the front screendoor. I was maybe eight, and already eeewwwwy from the scent of all that porkfat boiling, and just the idea of the gristly texture between your teeth. I felt the tide rising, and I couldn't get away fast enough, so I ran from the front door of the little three-room shotgun house, and managed to make it all the way to the kitchen door. It was latched with the big screenhook up high, and I could reach it, but there was no time. The result when an eight-year-old meets screen in a frenzy of escape/throw up is not pretty.
No more recipes right now. It just doesn't seem decent somehow.
-
Recipes, we need recipes and pictures, we need pictures...
Recipes forthcoming---my Mom's recipe box got packed FAR away in the storeroom during all the Thanksgiving and Christmas put-this-away, bring-out-the-chairs frenzies. I know several "by heart," just from the sheer repetition over the years.
And the pictures---the lovely sunlit GREENTH of those shining jars above are due to Mr. Dave Scantland, photographer and artiste extraordinaire. I just sent Maggie the piece and they took it from there. Even the title is not of my own making, but I find it particularly apt, like some of Piers Anthony's Xanth titles.
And I am completely out of photo space in my albums, since my Thanksgiving blog. I have to make time to do the donor thing and get more picture space---I had just learned how to post a picture, and just got caught up in the saving.
So, my thanks to Maggie and Dave, for all their time and patience and work. How they juggle all the writing and editing and proper artwork and all the temperaments and styles of this group---it's a mystery past my solving.
And I want to thank my piano teacher in Omaha. . . Does this tight dress make my bee-hind look big? I just know I'll have to pee before it's my turn to accept. . .No, wait, I'm in the wrong place....got carried away there.
I'll take my fate in my hands and tackle a path through that storeroom today, I hope.
edited because Maggie got bolded and Dave didn't. Equal work/equal pay.
-
Wow I am SO making Cheater Pickles right quick here. Thanks, Rachel!
The only pickles I make regularly are Japanese, quick cucumber and other veg, and longer-ferment napa.
For dill pickles and cornichon types I rely on the Middle Eastern market, which has an entire aisle devoted to the category. But no sweet chips; Cheater Pickles are just what i need.
Go ye therefore. This is an easy, messy prep, and do try just a quart. You can buy the whole ones, introduce them to your mandoline, and start from there. No one has EVER made them with homemade dills---it would be a sacrilege, somehow, to convert something so RIGHT into another form. Bought ones---they have no sentimental place, and can be altered to your heart's etc.
I have a feeling that Crab-man's cucumber-loving boys will not let that quart come to fruition---it's too tempting to just dig out a few and see if they're ready. Until there are none left.
-
Ah, yes, but the “snuggle in the fridge for several days” part is the problem for me. That, and I have the typical male inability to find things in a less-than-relentlessly-organized refrigerator.
Now, see, that is the difference between your three-things-in-woks to turn out beautiful, varied dinner delights, with all the exotic flavors and textures and fresh just-kissed-the-flame crunch, and my three-pans-on-the-stove. I just relax and enjoy. My fridge is full of leftovers and five Glads of pickles of various sorts in various stages. Pulling out Wednesday's turkey chili and the bag of Tuesday's cornbread---crumble, top, bake---those are the serendipity of our days. Relentless just has no place in a kitchen, unless you're battling ants.
Caro's upstairs fridge is a Dorothy-door of lovely greens and fresh crisp things, tofu and strange, delicious vegetables from the Asian or Indian markets, and all the ingredients for currying, stir-frying, soup-making and a thousand kinds of salad, all at hand, neatly arranged. Her own Glads of steamed vegetables, five or six kinds, are stacked like boxes of diva shoes, the light shining softly through the dozens of colors.
And, I must mention, mine usually holds a teacup, a dishwashered yogurt container, a cottage cheese tub, with or without lids, the food quickly hidden away as I wipe the counter and go settle in for a TV show that's coming-on-right-now.
The teacup is a Southern must-have. Open cups have fulfilled a tradition which has not been trifled with since refrigerators came to be---the last tablespoon of green peas (English peas from a can started the whole thing) MUST be rattled into the cup and left to dessicate before tossing away. You CANNOT throw away a soft pea---it's the LAW. When you give the cup a little circular swing and hear the peas scritch around with a whishy sound, it's time. Your duty has been fulfilled.
So, start with a quart. Consider it Daddy-time and do the sugar thing. Let him clove to his hearts content; you'll find it more than a bonding experience. One or both of you will likely end up with your shoes stuck to the floor.
edited for apostrophetic accuracy
-
Thank you, Mr. Crab-man. There ARE almost-instant pickles, and ones which take five minutes of your time and a snuggle in the fridge for several days. Unless you want to go wake them up early, or prod them to check for flavor, you don't have to give them a thought until time to eat. (Or moss grows up and out the lip of the jar--trust me, we have two fridges and occasionally forget a bit of something WAY in the back).
What kind of sweets does your DS#2 like? I find ALL store-bought sweets just appalling---not sweet enough, and with an overwhelming spice that I have never been able to pinpoint. I just know I do not like it, Dr. Fell.
Our favorite quick-sweets (always called Cheater Pickles) are a sweet dill pickle made from a gallon of thin-sliced dills, straight from Costco or Sam's or Gordons.
They had no sliced last time, and I have a gallon of whole ones, awaiting the attention of the mandoline.
Funnel all the juice from the gallon into other containers---it's our constant source for Ranch dressing. Mixed with mayo and some crushed garlic, with a little snipped or dried dill for the color flecks, it makes an even tastier dressing than that little packet. And I can NEVER remember to keep buttermilk in the house.
OKAY---back to the sweets. Dump out almost all the slices into a sizeable container. Onto the inch or so of slices left in the gallon jar, sprinkle in about a half cup of sugar, a clove or two, and a couple of dried allspice berries. (Ground versions of either are NOT good---brown brine is neither aesthetically pleasing nor particularly tasty).
Throw in another couple inches of slices, pour in enough sugar to dribble all down amongst the spaces clear to the bottom---shake the jug to sort of crust over all the cucumbers. A couple more spices, more cukes, more sugar, shaking with the lid on from time to time (DRY YOUR HANDS---I will not tell of the unfortunate droppage and the resulting sticky floors that resulted, plus you CANNOT sweep up broken glass if it's glued to the floor, rug, or side of your shoe). And if you try, your broom will look like a matted-together Mohawk.
Just fill up the jug, no juice at all, just lots of sugar, a few spices, a week's wait in the fridge (put the whole thing in a BIG Tupperware that will lie flat between the shelves if a jug is too tall). These are crisp, translucent, very sweet, with just a hint of clove and allspice, and can take their place with anything Ms. Heinz and Mr. Vlasic want to throw against them. And they don't have that turmeric/alummy taste of the "bought" ones.
Just give them a turn upside down now and then so the juice can run (up? down?) and help moisturize the sugar up top. One minute, back in the fridge, and wait if you can. You can always start with a pint or a quart---we've graduated to the BIG guns.
And DS#2 will love making them--easy as pie. Just have a broom for the sugar and mop for the spills and you're in business.
Edited to add an errant parenthesis arm---it made an unfinished hug.
-
A great piece, Rachel. I made a quick fridge pickle of beets this morning before work, and I smiled to read your perfect verb: peel-slipping.
Thanks for dipping us in the brine.
Thank you, Chris. We, too, have a fresh little GLAD tub awaiting the weekend. Could have had them for supper tonight, but they're really better with a little waiting.
Brine-dipping on request, anytime.
-
Pickles! Pickles. Aww, PICKLES! I adore a good pickle, but have never canned them myself. The simple add-more-vegetables-to-the-leftover-brine method is my go to recipe, bested only by the put-the ingredients-in-the-jar-and-set-it-in-the-refrigerator method.
Ahh, but I DO adore a decently pickled item, truly, I do! And, as importantly, I enjoy the word itself, PICKLE.
In a pickle...Such a pickle... Aww, PICKLES!... What the pickle!?... I have turned many a silly phrase and uttered quite a number of pickle accented phrases over the years, with a myriad of meanings!
Pickle, go ahead, say it aloud! It is just such a GOOD word, descriptive of so many feelings and beings and happenings. But, Rachel, as usual, with your lilting voice shining through the letters on the screen(or page!), you have captured the happiest and most tender meaning of the word.
Thank you. And I mean that, from the bottom of the barrel, to the top!
edited by me for spelling, PICKLE!
I just LOVE this!!! You make them sound like food, dessert, swear words, idioms, therapy, puns, elocution lessons, recipes and a lesson straight from McGuffey's.
-
I just purely love the way you write, ma'am.
We, my dad, sister and I, used to pickle onions. The sight of the large jars, somewhat amber from the cider vinegar & spices, gave my dad joy and my mom heartburn.
I kept being reminded of one of the foodblogs from Japan (Helenjp's, I think).
Also a devoted pickle maker and the techniques are so different.
Buckets of bran in the hall instead of gleaming jars, etc.
Kind words, indeed---I write just like I talk, only faster---waiting for this Southern Accent to get all the words out is a pain, sometimes.
I love the vision of you three in the kitchen, with all the pots and jars and that cider vinegar cutting the air. I love it when families work together, expecially in the kitchen. We used to do food for weddings and parties, and my home kitchen had such a long bar that we could spread out, alternating sides, with four of us at work at once---one spreading dainty sandwiches, one stirring up quiche batter by the gallon, one washing and cutting crudite, and me in my spot, stacking and frosting layer after layer of the cake.
I never decorated then, though---that required late night solitude, an extra little throw rug under my tired feet, a BIG pitcher of iced tea, and Water Music or The Four Seasons to keep me company.
But pickles, now---they love a crowd.
I'll have to look up that blog. Could you elaborate on the buckets of bran?
-
There's a lot to be said for robust and hearty, even without all the color. Whole or sliced?
-
I'm wondering if you're mumbling tongue-in-cheek, or have really thought that thought. I, too, am probably a slice of green tomato, maybe the bottom slice, slightly rounded, the piece with the waterproof skin on one side for protection. Slightly tangy on the inside, but the outside dripping with sugary-rich syrup. And then probably not. That big smile/bigger stick persona is not mine. Sugar-dripping is the parvenu of the faux-Belle.
Belle I've never been, but I can be a formidable faux, especially in the face of pure-D meanness; guess I'm a chameleo-dill, sweet or briny as the occasion requires.
-
A note from the CANYON!!! Lovely.
A full pantry, especially by your own hands' work, is wealth indeed. I used to put up probably three to four hundred jars every summer when we had the several-acre garden. There would be cases of Mason jars, heavy with bounty, stashed in every spare inch of the house, back porch, and overflowing into the several sheds out back. Our old-fashioned bedsteads allowed for sliding about a dozen cases beneath, though our beds of today are not as hospitable.
Now we fill one floor-to-ceiling shelf upstairs with "salt-water dills" and the last hurrah of the garden's small stuff--tiny green grape tomatoes in the dilly brine, all the small cucumbers left a-dangling from their sturdy fence when the frost is ready to visit, and whatever other bits might freeze. All that GREEN still looks the same as it always did, shining in the sunlight.
There's also a little row of glowy-pink pear preserves, from a bushel brought back by DS#2 from his fall hunting trip Down-Home. Those ranks were reduced by one on Sunday, as a guest at Chris' Birthday Brunch consumed almost a whole jar, piling them upon butter-soaked biscuits and murmuring softly to himself with every bite.
His thank-you e-mail included the note that he had gone right out and purchased a bag of the Pillsbury frozen biscuits, plus a broad hint that a pint of those preserves would not be taken amiss.
-
I'll bet there's even a Pickle Fairy in your kitchen, isn't there, Rachel.
Shhhh. . . don't say her name out loud - she might become startled, and fall right into the very pickling juices and vittles that she's protecting!
I'm sure she has lovely long green-and-gold hair, and that her perfume wafts the incense of spices and mustard.
She's hiding right there, behind your sentences, with a tiny knowing twinkling smile.
AHHHH, you've met Vivelda!!! She is and has, and it does.
-
Yes, Aunt Bea and all her town cohorts could turn out a spread to make your tastebuds dance. But those PICKLES!!!
She must have made a good batch SOMETIME, though, for there's another episode in which diplomats have gathered in or near Mayberry, and for lack of hotel space, had to be distributed out amongst the townspeople. Much dissent and wrangling over the conference table, then the two majorly-opposed-to-each-other's-opinions were sent to find bed and board at Andy and Aunt Bea's house.
A wonderful supper, then to bed. Later a noise in the kitchen, and a click of a light revealed Oscar Homolka, bless his sagebrush eyebrows and curmudgeonly heart, marauding the refrigerator. More folks gathered, and Tupperwares were spread onto the kitchen table. A jar of pickles was set down, and Balkan-language Oscar's character tried to read the label: Puh E Kless.
One taste, and that moustache uncovered a wide grin: "Oh, PEEE-kles!" (nodding vigorously).
All extraneous cast tiptoed away, the two protagonists sat down to cold fried chicken, several containers of whatever delicious they had had for supper, and more of those pickles. Conviviality led to d'accord, and history was changed.
Doncha think a lot of sit-at-a-desk decisions could be discussed much more fruitfully and intelligently, not to mention in a more friendly manner, over a midnight fridge raid? Especially in Aunt Bea's kitchen.
Edited to correct the spelling of Dear Oscar's name. R.I.P., Uncle Chris
-
Lovely, Chef. From childhood, I've wanted the adventure of riding a train, just to experience the romantic ambience of the dining car. I used to go climb a tree at the end of the block every night about six, as the passenger train stopped to get water at our little whistle-stop. From my height almost level with the windows, it was like a peculiarly-colorful movie, with the ladies in hats, and the silent passages of white coats as the waiters wielded the silver coffeepots and set down the dinners. They HAD to be ambrosial, served in such a perfect site, though I could see nothing below the diners' shoulder level; they were like beautifully sculptured, colorful busts floating in the window, just for my viewing pleasure and envy.
And when our Caro was EIGHT, a smiling waitress in a New Orleans restaurant scribbled her way around the tableful of us, taking beverage orders. Caro was a tall child, and had her hair up for the special evening, but offering her a cocktail!!! That was par for New Orleans, I guess, and a family joke still today.
And your ability to Kiss-and-Nearly-Tell is astounding---I thought for a moment there that we'd have to repo your G.R.I.T.S. credentials. Thin Ice, Kiddo.
Thanks for another chapter. War and Peace, remember?
-
A sneaky lurky thought says it was a male writer---my astonishment at a little boy even IMAGINING a grownup lady HAD a bottom---my STARS!!! I truly don't know what I thought that HE thought she sat on. Other than that consensusly-coveted sandwich, which was the envy of all those bread-and-oil-sandwich-carrying pupils.
I did think of it quite a bit some twenty years ago, when I worked as secretary/whatever for Chris' family business. Most of the time, I'd go to the kitchen in the morning and put on a pot of beans and a skillet of cornbread, or a huge vat of soup, or some kind of nice roasty meal in the oven. Any number of the ten employees would come in for lunch, depending on who was on the road at the time.
Occasionally, everyone was out of the building except for Chris' Dad and me. If I knew ahead of time, I'd plan a delicious little lunch, something too persnickety to work on for ten, but nice to share over family reminiscences. I learned a lot about the whole family that way---Chris' childhood, their several homes over the years, how everyone's life came to be in that particular spot.
One morning after a weekend of houseguests, I saw them all on the road with a big Southern breakfast of ham and eggs, homemade biscuits, jams and jellies and all sorts of B&B goodies. I'd said I'd be late to work, and took my time getting the dishes scraped, etc.
Then I remembered a tale dear FIL had told me about his own childhood. The little country school was just around a curve of the winding road we all lived on, our houses sprinkled along the blacktop like dandelions in Spring. He had always walked to school, along with his several siblings, and the oldest sisters had been assigned lunchbox duties. Their Mama always made an extra pan of biscuits at breakfast, and they formed the base of the children's lunch---buttered and sugared, filled with homemade pear or fig preserves, sometimes wedged wide with juicy slabs of country ham or extra-thick bacon, or with a little jar of home-grown-and-bubbled sorghum syrup for dipping.
So, after my houseguests left, I took the remaining three biscuits, which had already been split and buttered at their peak of steamy heat, and I filled two with slices of the nice baked ham I had skillet-fried for breakfast. The other one, a big ole cathead biscuit probably four inches across, received three whole preserved figs from my prettiest jar. The figs lay upon the biscuit like puppies in a nest, dripping with thick clear syrup, and perfectly intact even after all the careful simmering in the jam pot.
I decided to wrap them authentically, so my Saran-accustomed hands wrestled with squares of Cut-Rite which I kept for lining cakepans, tucking and tucking the crinkly stuff, and wondering however it stayed together or kept anything fresh with all the gaps I was leaving. The three biscuits made quite a heavy parcel as I placed them carefully into a small brown grocery sack and folded down the top.
Lunchtime came, and I dumped my baggie of salad-from-home into my bowl, poured the iced tea, and we sat down. FIL looked at his empty plate, then at me, then repeated the process. We held hands and he said the blessing, then I smiled and lifted the hefty little sack from its hiding place in a chair. He opened the bag, lifted out each little packet curiously, set them beside his plate.
As he rustled open the waxed paper and glimpsed the biscuits with their good homey fillings, I saw little gleams of tears puddling in his eyes. I ate salad, giving him a moment I had not meant to create, but which was a good honest response to something which evoked another time in his life.
He picked up a ham one and took a bite. He chewed reflectively, and I supposed that he must be thinking of all those school lunches with past friends and family, of the work of actually raising that pig and doing what was necessary to bring about those tasty hams which swung from the ceiling in the smokehouse, then the cold-shed (where he, as a little moment from his past, did tell me of entering in the sun-to-dark and encountering a chickensnake hanging from the ceiling like a Tarzan-vine. The snake had grazed his face as they made an equally-startled escape from each other).
He bit into the biscuit filled with figs, and an expression of bliss flashed across his face as he savored the burst of juicy-ripe, cooked-in-the-skin figness. And he said that of all the lunches I had cooked since I had been there, that was the best. I never repeated that paper-wrapped lunch again; it seemed like a ONCE moment, and he still fondly mentions our school lunch.
Greens
in Southeast: Cooking & Baking
Posted · Edited by racheld (log)
I've got a nice mess of tender mustard greens and some big hunks of leftover baked ham cooking in my new-for-Christmas LeC Dutch oven, along with a skillet of stir-fried yellow squash and lots of chopped onion---tiny bits of roasted red peppers for the pretty of it. The cornbread just turned out nice and crusty, and I also cooked a small acorn squash that had been lingering about since before Christmas. It's in a butter-sugar-vanilla syrup, so Chris will probably treat that as dessert.
There's a lovely jar of salt-water dills chilling, along with a big flat broad-shouldered sweet onion.
All that and several of our favorite shows on Tivo---Sounds like it will be a perfect night, as soon as Chris gets home.