racheld

What a lovely post!! I've been wondering where you were---that furry debauch of a cat is memorable, and I've missed him/her. We seem to have quite a few members from the Downs Under. (Is that still politically correct? I can't keep up). We now have all sorts of greens and condiments and some fruit and all kinds of goodies which are NOT turkey. That's the good part. Asian market yielded these nice supplies: The makings of a good many bowls of Pho as the weather chills this week; noodles, snow peas, bean sprouts, limes, some lovely little already-fried shallots, and some raw water chestnuts and ginger, with a couple of shiny pomegranates for dessert. They are on the counter in the upstairs kitchen, where the loud bird and the crockpot live, and savory broths are born. These greens are snugged away to stay crisp and green in the fridge: Baby bok choy, some kind of spinach-type greens, some pale ones that we cook like Savoy, and long beans. We also picked up a new kind of soy sauce and some really pretty tapioca, just for the novelty of it---it's strange; the colored ones are odorless, and the white pearls smell like fruit. A bottle of vinegar, some jasmine tea, and a can of something I cannot remember---perhaps lychees for Chris, who grew to like them when we met and befriended a young doctor who was born in Viet Nam. He and his family were on one of the last boats out, and all the siblings finished medical school. He was a member of the National Guard during Desert Storm, and was sent here to give soldiers their medical checkups when they returned home. He sort of got stuck here for longer than he thought, for they didn't send a replacement for quite some time. He missed his home and family in Ohio, and loved to come and have dinner at our house. He would bring a jar of lychees, a box of bean paste candy in fanciful shapes and colors, or a small cake, almost jelly in consistency, covered in coconut or chopped nuts. I love the look on the baby bok choy faces, as they cuddle up like piggies to their mama: And the grace with which they compose themselves: The icy coldness of water from the faucet keeps the leaves crisp and fresh. They will be bagged with paper towels, and used tomorrow. Just the words "crisp" and "fresh" are enticing, somehow, after this week of preparing and eating so much rich food. A simple broth with a little lime, a few snow peas dropped into the bowl to turn bright green, a few crispy bean sprouts---that sounds like the lunch we've been needing. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll finally get the time to show some of the "Goodwill" which featured in the title. And that fishfry. We wanted it in nice weather, and we got it. Couldn't press our luck much longer. And I'll bid you all good night, and a bright day tomorrow. moire non

Okay. We do NOT have yeast in our blood. It just seems so this week, in that we've trekked you through enough baked goods to supply a small country, and they are all just SO beautiful. This last one is the one I was planning to do originally, because it's within smell-the-fragrance distance down the street, and their stuff is delicious. The Nautilus shells are so pretty, as are the matching scallops: However, I couldn't miss this: We walked into the local bakery, Panaderia las Americas, and asked if we might photograph their lovely wares. We were passed from hand to hand, each saying that they would have to see, and finally were just handed a cell phone, on which I spoke to the owner. He needed a lengthy explanation of WHY and what I was doing and perhaps if I could just repeat that. I explained that he’s less than three blocks from I-465, EASY to find, and there are streams of thousands of cars going by every day, never knowing how close they are to those wonderful baked goods. I also said we had thousands of Internet members, and he said “How much?” It seems that two young men had offered to “Put him on the Net” several months ago, but wanted $800 to do so. So he was persuaded, and we proceeded to make pictures. Or, rather I did; Caro picked up a pan from the stack and a pair of tongs, and selected quite a few items for supper dessert. Busman’s Holiday, if anyone remembers that phrase. And so we filled our tray, not for the hunger of it, but for the sheer variety and the new experience of some of the items. And who can resist a rubber duckie, even a baked one? When the word spread through the store and kitchen that we were allowed to make photos, Magic happened. Doors were opened, partitions in the display areas slid aside, and great trays of fresh items brought proudly forth from the back rooms. Every time I wandered off to another display, Javier came out of the kitchen with another fresh tray: The diamond-incised bread was Heavenly---rich and moist and vanilla-flavored, like a not-too-sweet cake layer, and the rivulets of vanilla atop, almost like a crème anglaise, are delicious. Delicious on-a-mold baked horns, with a creamy center: These are like more-elegant little religeuses, with a jauntier wardrobe: They treated us royally, and we had a lovely time. One young woman looked at my camera view and wrote down names of things, by the numbers on the camera---little did I realize that those don’t apply after you actually take the card OUT of the camera. But everything was magnificent, just a teensy bit less sweet than our doughnut-accustomed palates have come to expect. This is what we brought home: We were stunned to learn that the grand total was less than eight dollars. This was a glorious afternoon, with meanderings and lookings, buying of baked goods, of greens, of spices and condiments to feed our tastes for the salty, the crisply fresh, the sizzled-with-garlic. No more butter-laden casseroles for a while, not til Winter sets in or Christmas Dinner comes. We will, however be having a fishfry tonight; Son promised me a get-out-the-black-pot real downhome fishfry, and I've got to get to work on the slaw and tartar sauce. So, one more foray into the richness of fish and hushpuppies and fried potatoes, with several sauces and wedges of lemon to offset the scent. I'd better get going at that, and will post the supper pictures later. moire non

We're about to be out and about, pillaging markets and seeing one more bakery, within aroma distance of our back door. We don't go SHOP on the day after Thanksgiving, but today will be a little tour of some more places we like to go--an Asian market or two, for some good fresh GREENS after all those carbs and for just getting out into this glorious sunshine. We could not have ordered a week of better weather for the holiday. But first, COFFEE, as I have it every morning, S&L and skim. It makes me human in just a few sips, and I love the throaty little chuckle as my little pot leans to pour: And breakfast, the pastries brought from work by Caro, still warm: I keep meaning to ask how they make that rectangular one look as if it's turned inside out---the little stretch-marks take on a wonderful crispness around that soft, yeasty interior. The others are twists and two raspberry-filled for Chris. And we shared: Soft scrambled eggs laid over slices of provolone on rye; the melting and melding was amazing. But this has been a heavy-food weekend, and I could only bite the tip off one of the twists, after that half sandwich. Shoulda had a yogurt. I missed showing our distinctive skyline building; we were riding around after going to Shapiro's the other night, and Chris would stop, I'd hop out with the camera, and hope to catch something on that lovely clear night. This is the tallest building we have, from whose windows I showed the War Memorial in the teaser photo last week. Where he stopped the car, I just had to walk a little bit to sort of line up three of the downtown landmarks, though they are blocks apart: The tall building, which at night with the roof lit, reminds me of stadium seats, lit brightly and rising to a point in the sky; the War Memorial, with its pyramid lost in the darkness at the top, and the obelisk in the park. One of the guesses pointed out the War Memorial to be the same style building as the Scottish Rite Temple in Washington. This is our OWN Scottish Rite Temple, which won an award for best architecture of the year when it was built. When it's all lit up at night, it's an immense wedding cake with towers and swoops. Ours is more Wren-ish, I think. It's beautiful. Chris is feeling fine, and is off to a camera show. Caro and I are going out for green stuff. moire non

You're just WELCOME!!! I'm glad you're all better and can enjoy it.

Me, too. I want to live with Rachel - not in any scary, internet stalky way , I just love everything I read and see and experience in all of your posts here, Rachel! I am so glad you printed your entire Fairey Tea poem. I just love the poem and the story behind it. The artist is wonderful, too! Thanksgiving dinner looked wonderful. I really missed my pimento cheese this year. MIL has a little yankee in her and never has it! Oh, well, I am in charge of Christmas Eve dinner and it will be there! Kim ← Oh, Kim; you would be most welcome. I had friends once say that they wanted to go live at to Camp Rachel. This has just been such a nice experience, and I SO appreciate the warm reception. I'm so very glad you liked our little story. And you go get out that Paminna Cheese recipe and make you some, right now. Thanksgiving was quite a day, and I hoped to convey some of the rich, longtime heritage of the Southern Thanksgiving. I thought of so many occasions in the past in which family or friends celebrated the holiday, and the ways and little rituals and handed-down recipes that are included year after year. My own memories and my book memories and family tellings all swirled together into one huge history, and I had to sift among them for the best of my own. To my knowledge, we never celebrated the DAY anywhere except our house and our one Mammaw's house, and then at my In-Laws home after I married. My first Mother-in-Law would get up at three a.m., even after having boiled the turkey the day before. She almost invariably had Thanksgiving dinner on the table by eleven a.m., so that the deer hunters could be on their way to camp, full of dressing and pie, their camo and John Deere caps disappearing into revving pickups with guns and leftover food, leaving the disheveled, stripped feast table to us stay-behinds and the relief that comes after hard work, a swift, rowdy meal and the departure of enough preposterone to fill a stadium. My MIL was a FINE cook---Miss Emma could get in that kitchen WAY before daylight, crank up that shiny white stove, and turn out pans of biscuits, ham and bacon and eggs, grits and home-canned jams and jellies and preserves, just to get the farmers into the fields. They usually came home for noon dinner, and it was a hot meal, fried chicken or pork chops, meat-laden spaghetti dishes, several dishes of beans or corn or potatoes, with a hot bread coming out of that oven, steaming and crusty, at every meal. I just knew she must long for a graceful moment, a little corner of respite from the cooking and laundry and all those rough garments bustling through the door with whoops and appetites and elbows. She DID have the little peace of quiet afternoons, the time right after the noon dishes were done, the dishrag wrung and hung, the floor swept. A bath in that huge old clawfoot tub, her hair up in a little terrycloth band, a fresh outfit from her closet, and she had a little time to regroup and gain peace. Everyone worked hard, ate heartily, and the day-to-day labor of it, running those planters and tractors and cotton pickers, spending nights lugging the irrigation pipes from field to field, working in the midnight dust-haze, the bright beam of combine lights cutting the hazy darkness like alien ships as they waited for the plates of heavy sandwiches and pie to sustain until breakfast---so farmers passed the days. One year our farm planted many acres of okra; the contractors came in and picked it, and when they finished, all the rest of the season was ours, and we had okra to give away for miles. A neighbor usually contracted with a bean company to raise bush beans, another for cucumbers and those contractors picked ONCE only, mowing at those bushes like our combines stripped the soybeans. We were then invited into the flattened fields and harvested whole winters' worth of beans for the freezerm and cucumbers enough to satisfy Heinz. But the best part was the farmer who grew potatoes. He'd say, "They'll be here on Monday," and we knew that by Wednesday, the churned-up fields would be ours to share. We'd take lugs and tubs and baskets, and rootle around in that turned-earth for the pinky-brown potatoes. My children treated it with the delight of an Easter Egg hunt, gathering and digging and grabbing with shouts of discovery and whoops of victory when a particularly immense one was unearthed. Those were just a few days a year, and not hard work, but it was so nice to have all those good vegetables just handed to us, and the canned and frozen bounty was like riches to look at, stored in cabinets and storerooms and under beds and in tidy rows up the attic stairs. The potatoes went onto racks and planks and old screendoors set onto sawhorses under the no-longer-in-use egg sheds, to dry from the wet earth so we could store them inside the storehouse. And our own garden covered a good three acres, including the corn patch and the watermelon and cantaloupe patches. We were blessed with great stores of foodstuffs for the winter days, and I could not IMAGINE the people who had to cook straight out of the grocery store. Our Thanksgiving table held the work of our own hands, sometimes a fresh-shot wild turkey from our woods, and the corn and beans and sweet potatoes, potatoes and peas and turnips and greens; our peach and apple and cherry trees had borne bushels, to be frozen or canned and to go into desserts all year. Our one persimmon tree, little golden lanterns dangling in the sunset, was just for PRETTY, for no one liked the fruit very much, but the bowl on the dining table was like a ray of light. The pecan orchard is well-grown now, from the time that my boys and their Great Grandfather planted it, laying out the plotting with stobs and string, setting those strong young trees into a grid that marched straight in whatever direction you looked. And I'm just as thankful now, for a loaf from Caro's bakery, for the store-bought produce from lands I can't imagine, for the ease of self-rising and the convenience of Pillsbury. We put together a tableful of the old foods, some cooked in new ways, all tasting of the THEN, blessed by the work of our hands and of those we'll never know. And we bow for the Blessing, break into a hot, buttery roll, taste the old familiar tang of cranberry and the rich, redolent steam of gravy, and we ARE blessed. And thankful we were. We were farm people, of the land, though I had been raised in the little town a few miles distant. Our living depended on the rain and the soil, and I think having to work and pray hard for your livelihood makes you ever so much more grateful for whatever you ARE granted.

Thanks, Miz D---I love the teaset as well; it's so small, a fingertip would fill the cup. The fairy asleep in a nutshell was a gift from them this past Christmas. I do, however, feel that in contrast to all that cold china, the fairy folk would have been much better served had they been offered sanctuary in your tres elegant hat.

Three of the best attributes possible---thank YOU, Abra!! rachel

AWWW, Smithy!!! And blessings on you as well. We're all just so fortunate that magic IS.

I hope you'll enjoy it---the lovely pale turquoise soap graced the upstairs bath. Thanks again, rachel

Thank you so much; we're right here---two guest rooms, good cookin' if you travel. rachel

I thank you, sir, and wish I could be in some of your concert halls this holiday season. rachel

My goodness!! What a lovely thing to say!! I wish we could, but it takes time and depends on lots of things. But the artist is amazing, isn't she? Thank you so much, rachel

I'm SO glad. Wow. Thank you so much, and I hope tomorrow is wonderful. rachel

Well, I'm glad you found it---always good to hear from you. I'm glad you enjoyed today's little surprise, and I appreciate your kind words. I, too, wish I had more time to do justice to what I meant to do, but I'll give it my best in the next two days. Thank you, rachel

You're quite welcome, and have been tossing around a little magic, yourself. Always glad to hear from you, and thank YOU. rachel

Ahhh!!! We'll be delighted. Five lumps or six?

Thank you so much, fellow pot-collector!! I appreciate your kindness, and the Halls, McCormicks, et al, are all well, but perhaps dusty during this hectic time. I'm glad you are enjoying this; I certainly am, and wish I had had more time to do it justice. rachel

Thank you so much---I can take no credit for the pictures; I picked her off the internet, and she just ran with the idea. The Grandmother part is one of my favorite and proudest accomplishments. I'm glad it provided you with a good memory to savor. rachel

Marlene, That was more touching and more valuable to me than all the publication in the world. What a sweet thing to do!! I've known from your posts that you have a very special young man there. Thank you for telling me. rachel

It takes a LONG time to paint all the pictures for a verse-by-verse book, and she's quite in demand by firms that actually PAY her the fees that her work commands. I just started out needing a few little things to print out and stick in a booklet, and it's just such fun to see the pictures in and on books, and little snippets of the verse inside, with credit to Gracie and me. But it's very nice that you think it should be. We'll save you the moustache cup.

Thank you all for reading so far. It's been just a delight to be able to share our home and our Holiday with you. I've mentioned earlier that we'll be traveling in a couple of hours to visit with our children and Grandchildren, who are now a couple of hours South of here, at their other Grandparents' house. I'll be leaving you until late tonight, but I want to leave you with a little gift that's been a long time in the making, and still has a way to go. The STORY: Several years ago, our daughter and Granddaughter came to live with us, and stayed a year and a half. Gracie was just two-and-a-half when they came to us, and was with me every day, in and out of the kitchen, the garden, out and about for groceries and museums and parks. We formed a wonderful bond, and are still marvelously close to this day, despite the distance between us. She has her Mom and a wonderful new Stepfather, as well as a dainty/sturdy little sister, who is now the age that Gracie was then. That Christmas that they lived here, Gracie and her mother gave me a tiny teaset, a doll-sized little affair, with wee cups and saucers, and all the needfuls for doll-tea. That next Summer, after they had moved away, they were back for a visit. We were sitting around the table after a good supper together, when Chris said, "Why don't we all go Maggie Moo's for ice cream? My Treat!!" I said I'd just stay and do up the dishes, and Gracie said, "I'd rather stay with you." What a lovely compliment!!! And as we cleared the kitchen, she pointed to the little shelf with the teaset. "I want to wash THAT," she said. And so we got her little step-stool; I put a small plastic pan into the sink to avoid mishaps, filled it with warm soapy water, and she washed. I dried, and then she wanted to have tea. So we sat down; she poured; we sipped. Then she looked up, reached, caught, and put something into the teapot. She kept at this until she heard no more, and said, "Now they're safe, the Fairies." We continued our tea, Family returned, and so to bed. I sat down here and dashed off a little story for her, and then months later, I decided to make it into a little booklet for her Christmas present. I found some enchanting fairies online, and wrote to ask the artist if I might use some for a one-of-a-kind little booklet. She asked to read the poem, and wrote back that she'd like to do some watercolors for it. So she did, and is still sending sketches of the ongoing group of paintings. Some of them have been in "faerie books" published in England, including one of her own, and the latest Linda Ravenscroft features the teapot as its backcover art. So, for all of you who have children, please accept this and read it to them; for all of you who just enjoy a little story, please enjoy, and for all of my eGullet friends, thank you from my heart for being so kind and supportive of my little scribblings. rachel FAIRY TEA One nice summer day in August, everyone was out and gone; Save for Gracie and her Ganjin, who had stayed at home alone. They were sitting at the table, both enjoying Fairy Tea, After washing up the teaset, gently, oh so carefully. In the pan of soft warm water, they so gently washed each cup Gracie did the careful washing; Ganjin did the drying up. Tiny muffins, crumpets, teacakes, set upon on the table there All beside the steaming teapot---Oh, what tasty fairy fare!! Fairy tea has its own magic, for it never does run out, And the flavor you imagine will come streaming from the spout. So each person at the table conjures up her favorite kind-- Lemon, thimbleberry, moonbeam, what the drinker has in mind. And you never spill it on you, even if you drop your cup, Its enchantment keeps it safely; you just reach and pick it up. And the pot stays warm forever, until washed and put away. It will last the longest teatime, for an hour or a day. So they sat there sipping, pouring, tasting different kinds of tea; When they heard a noise above them, a soft humming like a bee. And then Gracie looked up, listening, hearing hums of fairy flight; Then she reached up, caught one gently, put it safely out of sight. In the sugarbowl it rested, lying softly in the sweet As she reached for several others, placed them gently on their feet On the cakeplate, where they sampled tender crumbs of cake and pie, While she kept on catching fairies, as they kept on floating by. Some she put in cups and saucers, and a few she hid away In the creamer, where they frolicked, swimming, giggling in their play. In the teapot went a dozen, with the cover, softly laid, And they yawned and stretched and nestled, as the light began to fade. Gracie made the fairies welcome, with a place to spend the night, With a lot of downy pillows, cushions, blankets softest white, Then she laid some bits of napkin all across the cups and bowls, So they’d all be safe and comfy, air-conditioned by the holes. Gracie worked her childhood’s magic, as the night grew soft and deep, And she leaned down close and whispered: “You’ll be safe here; go to sleep.” But somewhere a Fairy Poacher tracked their whereabouts to there, And he took a Bumbletaxi, coming buzzing through the air. For it’s a fact, and we all know, that Poachers cannot fly, And could not catch a fairy, when they’re soaring through the sky. So he had to catch them sleeping, but he could not find their nest. They surround themselves with magic, when they lay them down to rest. He’d been sent to find some fairies, for a circus far away, He meant to catch some, and be gone, before the break of day. But he’d been a long time traveling, and was hungry from his flight, So he sat down on the table, and ate everything in sight. Crumpets, muffins, little cupcakes, all the sandwiches cut small; Jam and cream and scones and teacakes—he sat there and ate it all. Then he reached for that small teapot, tried to pour himself a cup; But he couldn’t make the tea pour; magic had the spout stopped up. So he peeked down through the spouthole, and he saw them lying there, And he squeezed into the teaspout, so’s to catch them unaware. But those crumpets, scones, and teacakes made his tiny self too wide And he woke them with his shouting, as he tried to squeeze inside. He was stuck, and could not move, and thus was trapped inside the spout. He was dangling, just above them, though his feet were hanging out. And his little face grew redder, from his being stuck so tight; So the fairies all took pity, and they freed him from his plight. Then the Poacher was SO sorry, and he swore to mend his ways; Now he’s poaching eggs at Denny’s, and he’s cooking Hollandaise. As for Gracie and her Ganjin, they still hostess Fairy Tea, People come, and sit, and visit, but the only ones who SEE Are those who believe in magic, and that dreams, indeed, come true. You’re invited ANY teatime. And we all BELIEVE----Do YOU? I hope so. rachel

The table, afternoon, whilst the sun shines and the aromas of bacon and onion frying and gravy simmering fill the house. The little table sat a bit lower than the other, but it was fun; Chris and I sat there together. We call these glasses the "Mammaw goblets" because she had about a dozen of them, clunky old heavy things, with feelable grapes etched into the sides with what feels like emery under your fingertips. She had them on her table at every occasion---they were probably the only glasses she had that didn't say "Welch's." (Or Garrett---Mammaw had a sister who dipped). These were also the tea receptacles involved with the Bottomless Teapot of my childhood, the one that she poured and poured from, never seeming to run out of the strong Lipton brew. We use them for all important occasions; I have found several more in flea markets over the years, but still recognize the originals---the grapes are larger, but smoothed by countless hands, and the gold rim is just a whisper on the lip. This is not on the buffet because it was the Forgotten Thing. Never a holiday or Sunday meal is spent without missing an item---a congealed salad made the day before to chill, then pushed WAY back into the refrigerator and missed when the table is set. A bowl of potato salad, to accompany the cookout hamburgers, left at home/in the house and not thought of until breakfast, when you have to move it to get at the bacon. It's happened to us all, especially when the menu is not just the usual meat, two vegetables, and salad. All the little Tupperwares and Glad Boxes, filled for easy fitting into a crowded fridge, then the contents forsworn and neglected, but nice for a quick lunch next day---those cause a start of dismay, then an easy laugh because of the inconsequence of the loss. I'm just surprised that a hue and cry did not emanate from Chris' end of the table; he LIKES his Ocean Spray, and that would have clued me in to go get BOTH the compotes from the fridge. As it was, I went for the dish of cut lemon and spied this, halfway through the meal. I just set both bowls on the table to be passed. There was a gorgeous cheese plate, but I didn't get all the names from Carole, so I'll detail it later---some blues, a Brie and a good hearty, crumbly cheddar are all I remember. Grapes, apple slices, and good old meaty Mississippi pecans toasted by Chris' special recipe to accompany. And there was dessert. I had made a Key Lime pudding---the old Eagle Brand lemon pie recipe, but with those pesky little Barbie-limes that yield half a teaspoon apiece. Chris' request, and he brought in the limes. Carole made an ambrosia cake, involving using crushed orange segments for part of the liquid in the batter; it makes a rich, moist layer. It was a single layer, frosted with Cream Cheese Frosting, then patted thickly with a long-shred sweet coconut we hadn't tried before. She also did a WW recipe for a three-berry crumble with oatmeal streusel topping, which was yummmmmy. The candy-stand held the making of fudge, along with some Lindt truffles and some tiny pocky-like things with no handle, chocolate over espresso centers. DDIL came in with the three-layered chocolate cream cheese Cool-Whip dessert left from her Mom's dinner, and our other guests brought TWO of the creamy cheesecakes-in-a-piecrust topped with wonderful sour cherries in sauce. The dessert service was also chaos, with everyone hopping up to get and serve their own offerings, so the plates look a little chaotic. I was reaching WAY over the table to make sure everyone got a slice of cake---some slices toppled onto the plates like Jengas, and the creamy cakes got sort of jiggled onto the plate. The only sedate item seemed to be the sherbet dishes of the lemon pudding, with their little whipped-cream topknots and tiny slice of lime. I left the cream off the berry crumble---it WAS WW, after all, and there was quite enough schlag on the plate already. And one last item, a treat-beyond-marvel, a delicious combination of supremed orange and tangerine segments, as the final palate-memory of a good meal. This was a coveted dish, a put-forward-to-company dish, from the days when oranges were dear and scarce, the finest gem in a Christmas stocking's toe. My still-limited camera skills cannot do justice to the colors, the orange and the pale gold, of the fruit; the little dish of cool fruit was a fitting finale to the heavy, rich, traditional Southern Thanksgiving meal. Ambrosia: The port went wanting, and I STILL can't look at that bottle of Bailey's in the fridge.

More on the feast: Of course, no Thanksgiving, barn raising, baptising or Hog Roast would be complete without devilled eggs: Daughter requested a steamed broccoli/caulifower combination, simply dressed with lemon and salt. This, oddly enough, almost exactly matches one of only three pictures I managed to post LAST Thanksgiving. It tasted fresh and lemony and was a good contrast to all the richness elsewhere on the table. It was also probably the only dish without butter, except for the cranberry: Daughter-in-law brought this from her Mom's house; they had eaten a lunchtime dinner with her parents, and she sent leftovers: the cranberry salad and the remains of a "Mountain Mama," with all its layers of cream cheese, pudding, and a Pecan Sandy crust. We also had a cooked cranberry sauce with little supremed orange segments, as well as the obligatory can of Ocean Spray. DDIL also brought her broccoli/cauliflower salad, made with raisins, bacon and cheddar. It's an expected regular on the tables of BOTH sides of the family, now. There's always a discussion of who just HATES broccoli, but they tried this and ate the whole bowl. Chris always requests Aunt Barbara's Five-Cup salad, made with impossible amounts of Cool-Whip and sour cream, along with crushed pineapple, halved red grapes, and enough marshmallows to float the Bismarck. Nobody ate it but him, I think. Consider it medicine. The table was crammed. I was snapping photos, people were emerging from the kitchen with hotpads full of dishes, asking, "You want this HERE?" and "Shall I put the spoons IN the bowls?" Lotsa help, lotsa chaos, and we got the pictures, said the blessing, served our plates and sat down. We serve so many company meals buffet style, and the rule is, if we've said the blessing, you eat when you sit down. Somebody will be right there to keep you company, and the food doesn't get cold waiting decorously for everyone to meander through the line. Some of everything on the plate at Thanksgiving always makes me think of Marge in Fargo when she and her husband are going through the buffet line at the BIG LUNCH. They just talk and glop and sling great ladles of stuff onto unseen plates down below camera level. This, for the first time for the viewing public, is what they REALLY looked like: From twelve o'clock: Broccoli/cauliflower; dressing; tomato; wild rice salad; green beans; stuffed egg; corn; broccoli salad; turkey. Center: baked sweet potato slices with vanilla butter and marshmallows. Daughter (newly registered eGullet member caroled) says I need to apologize to torakris and all her compadres on the No Touching thread. And I DO apologize. For this plate, I grovel, I cringe. Moire non.

Good Morning After!!! It was a lovely evening, with friends and food and candlelight and lots of laughing. From the first sweep down the stairs of Dear Son bearing an immense pan of Aunt Glynda's-recipe-dressing to go into my big oven, to the last fading taillight through the front screen, it was a beautiful evening. Chris was right there at the head of the table (albeit the little table, which we had to attach to the big one. The big glass one served just nicely to seat eight last year, but when we bought the lovely new table-bottom at Goodwill several months ago---an excellent buy, beautiful verdigris scrollwork, etc., we did not allow that three cannot fit to a side, by REASON of those gorgeous table legs). So we went upstairs, unseated a parlor fern the size of a Volkswagen, and brought the little 2 1/2' round table down, snugging it up against the big one. It's a little lower, but we fit just fine. We started with cranberry/gingerale coolers, so beautiful in their old cut-glass pitcher, and some apple cider. Of course, the kickoff, the starter pistol, the opening of the gate of a Southern Thanksgiving MUST involve some form of Pimiento Cheese. Stuffed celery with Pimiento Cheese, with cashew butter and benne seeds, and a bowl of Daughter's Famous crab and green onion spread, set atop a battered old travelin' trunk in the sitting area: We nibbled and munched whilst the oven finished its business, turning out a lovely golden pan of dressing, divided into two sections: regular recipe in one half, and boiled eggs and celery enrichening the other. Note the yellow gravy boat; it contains the giblet gravy, dark and rich with with sauteed, sliced chicken livers---several of our family members just SWEAR by it. Others won't go near it. The turkey came off the grill after several hours, golden brown and magnificent, a not-too-big specimen, with melty-soft dark meat and smooth, moist slices of white: It was just perfect---compliments to the chef all round: I must point out three things on our Thanksgiving table, because they were not store-bought: The tomatoes, which came from our Summer garden, and have been snugged away upstairs in little pockets of newspaper, slumbering til needed. The Snap Beans, also grown in our garden---we got three nice pickings off the little rows, and this is two quarts of them, canned in July by my first Mother-In-Law's recipe, which was later appropriated by my own Mother and claimed for her own. So in effect, the two of my children who were present sat down to a dish long served to them by BOTH of their Grandmothers. The beans start with a few slices of bacon, rendered slowly to give up its fat and shine, then a big chopped onion is added, to fill the kitchen with a home-fragrance reaching back generations. The two quarts of beans, which had been canned with a little vinegar and a little sugar in the brine, were rinsed in a colander and added, to simmer for perhaps and hour and a half. That's just the way Southern green beans, not just canned ones, are cooked. At the end, whilst Son was checking on the oven, I finger/thumb fished out one bean and gave him a taste. I always say, "Is that CLOSE?" The big thumbs-up with the huge green oven mitt said I did. And Daughter's eye-closed sigh at her first bite of beans from her plate said the same. Home and memory and food from other hands, remembered for the times and the circumstances and the sheer FEEL of the other woman's kitchen and table. And the CORN. It started life in an Indiana cornfield, bristling from those waving green stalks, and was transported to our back yard one day in July. Son and I stood at the tailgate, shucking the rustly green ears, and as we "got some ahead," I sat down to silk as he finished crackling the shucks from the fourteen dozen ears. He came in to wash and cut, first nipping the tips off the kernels with a sharp little knife, then reversing the blade to scrape every drop of the milk from the corn. We blanched the batch, watching it go from a yellow-studded liquid in the pan, to a bubbling, thickening mass, with little "puh" sounds punctuating its cooking changes. Into the freezer in pressed-flat neat little bags, and three of the bags went into the skillet yesterday. My Mother always had a skillet of oven corn on her Thanksgiving table. She would take three of the little freezer boxes out, plok them upside down into the skillet, drop in a stick of butter, pour in about an inch of hot water, and shower salt over the whole thing, then plop it into the oven. As it heated, she would screech out the oven rack and reach in with a long spoon, scraping off the thawed, withering tops into the liquid, stirring, but only until all was thawed and mixed. THEN, the corn was left to do its own magic, developing a little bottom crust of a flavor and texture beyond any human-created foodstuffs. The center was creamy, the top getting firm and golden, and the corn was ready to pull out and serve to kings. So that's what we had last night, from field to table, through our own hands: I'd proudly set that old black skillet on any table, beside the Sheffield and Limoge. I'm going to post this much now, as I did a great long one the other day, and lost the whole thing into the air. Besides, we're all together, Chris and Daughter and I, and it's time for breakfast. moire non

The last guest has ridden away, the dishes are rinsed and stacked, and all that food is safely away in about 900 tupperware dishes. It's been such a week, and I cannot do justice to this occasion or this evening unless I have some rest. We are not leaving nearly as early as I had thought---the invitation was for dinner, not lunch, so we'll be leaving about 1 p.m., and I'll get lots done in the morning, including a little special something I have planned for while we're gone. I hope everyone is well and happy, and that your Thanksgiving was as bountiful as you could wish for. til morning . . .