racheld

A minute to breeeeeeathe. All is in order, the dishwasher is shushing, things are chilling or awaiting heating or thickening or baking. The turkey has progressed to the point that our macaw, who is outside on this GLORIOUS day, has had a nibble, the little cannibal. I stepped out the back gate a couple of hours ago to pick up one last item from the grocery store, enjoying the sunny day. I didn't realize until two ladies in parkas and slacks looked me up and down in one of those lorgnette looks, that I was out in November in Indiana, in shorts and a T-shirt. Nice long old-lady shorts, almost knee-length, as it happens, but shorts. This seemed to become an item of intense fascination for the two, so I hope it added to the gaiety of their celebration. They'll probably describe me at dinner, to great guffaws of revelry. It's nice to make people smile. I'm just giddy with relief that Chris is out of pain. I don't think he's reached the giddy stage yet, but I asked how he felt, and he said, "Fine." I don't know if I resorted to any of these in cooking this Thanksgiving dinner, since I just made the old standbys that my family has come to expect over the years. But I DID make this---I made a nice 9 x 13, poured, with cashews pressed into half. The other half is just plain chocolate, and rich as all get-out. I started scraping the pan, and it was getting a bit thick. To avoid making ripples and clumps in the top of the silky fudge, I left it. Daughter grabbed a piece of waxed paper and spooned out the last few little scrapes, which turned out to be regular-sized patties. Just like Mother used to make: Why she chose to lay the waxed paper into a non-stick skillet instead of a plate, I do not know. It's just a part of the joy of living with this quirky, good-natured family. But we did not make pecan pie this year, though we have several other old Family desserts. Chris did toast us a little dish of pecans to go with the cheese course. My Mother's own left-handed script: I've made this pie, and never ONCE did I notice that there was cinnamon in there. You certainly can't taste it, and I never imagined that it was there. I'll have to try that again. I'd taken out the little pans to make tassies, but then got too busy with other things. Better go get me dressed for this lovely occasion. Thankful doesn't quite cover it. moire non

Here's my MAJOR thankful today: Chris is so much better, he's out lighting up the grill for the turkey. Hosannas and Amen.

A gentle saute of the chicken livers now, to slip into the gravy at the very last moment, along with some soft boiled eggs. Southern turkey gravy is giblet gravy, made with chicken broth simmered with onion, celery and some of the leaves, then thickened with a little cornstarch in water at the last. It's a golden gravy, at least one gravy boat of it is---the one for me and for the other guests who aren't liver-likers. The broccoli and cauliflower just came out of their separate steams, perfectly almost there. As soon as the tray cools, I'll toss them with a little melted butter, lemon and salt, and then tray them up, wrap, and set aside until dinner. A couple of minutes in the microwave at dinnertime, under the wrap, will make them exactly right. The colors are beautiful and bright. And you know, a LOT of people Down South BOIL their turkeys, or bake them covered in those white-speckled blue two-piece pans, or the Wear-Ever one with the little vent eyehole in the top. They come out pale, overcooked, falling off the bone, and are sauced with the "dregs" left in the pan bottom. I was probably the first person in my family, in-laws included, to actually ROAST a turkey. In the oven. To a fragrant, golden brown, with the drumsticks firmly trussed neatly down with kitchen twine. (Well there WAS that time I thought it would be a good idea to bake the turkey on a nice bed of rock salt. Seeing those lovely brown drippings standing irretrievable beneath that bed of little rocks---weep worthy. No stuffing inside---that would have been too traumatic a change all at once. Besides, we all like the crusty outsides and bottom of a pan of good dressing. It's like great barbecue, with all the little bits of crispins on the unctuous soft meat of your sandwich, having all the crusty bits mixed into your serving of cornbread dressing. The little skillet I cooked the livers in, in just a couple of tablespoons of butter, is now fragrant with the liver essence, with some of the crusty drippings left in the clarified pool. I know several people who'd love to take a good hunk of heavy bread to those leavings, sopping up every delicious drop. Gotta go!! Moire non.

Home-canned snap beans cooking with bacon and sauteed onion. Gravy simmering. Wild rice salad with apple, celery and cider vinegar dressing perfuming the kitchen. Table(s) set---a little round one nestled up to the end of the dining table, to hold three and for all of us to be together to talk and eat. Cinnamon sticks, allspice, cloves and star anise scattered in the big candleglobe with a fat white candle. Sherbet dishes stacked, awaiting the lemon pudding, and the ambrosia cake sits under the cake dome. All plates stacked for the courses: Nibbles, salad, dinner, cheese, dessert. Coffeecups and saucers lined up with their little silver spoons. Two compotes out, one for home cooked cranberry sauce, and one for the dipped-out Ocean Spray, without which Chris will not feel Thanksgiving. He's wandering around, much better, but still a little achy, and WILL do the turkey in a couple of hours. First thing in the car yesterday, he asked about the "turkey plans" as he always gets a fresh one, not frozen, from a certain butcher. When I said Daughter had reserved his and was bringing it home this a.m., his face brightened up and he started planning times and temperatures. I have so much to say to you all, you kind, understanding people---it will have to wait til I'm collected and have time enough to sit down and phrase things correctly. I passed a community center yesterday which is expecting upwards of 25,000 to dinner today. Boggly logistics, and wouldn't you like to see that gravy boat!!! I'm thankful for them, and that so many people will have a good hot dinner. And a HAPPY DAY to you all!!!

More on the Heidelberg later, but I promised Chef J that I would invite all of you: Good night to all---lotsa cookin' to do tomorrow. rachel

It's a Southern-quick recipe, but no canned soup involved, thank goodness. It does use soft, melty canned spears, the longer the better. I got Green Giant. I made up five cans this time, cause the kids and guests always hit the Glad boxes at departure, ladling in their favorite leftovers. Butter a casserole dish and scatter the bottom with a handful of crushed crackers. Allow 1/3 can of asparagus per person. Make a standard bechamel, except use the liquid drained from the cans instead of milk. For smaller quantities, the juice may not be enough, so pour the juice into the measuring cup and fill up to the line with milk. If you're accustomed to heating the liquid for a bechamel, don't. It does something to the juice, changes its fragrance and taste, somehow, whereas if you just make the sauce and bake the casserole, it's delicious. When the butter/flour/juice mixture thickens, stir in some salt, just a thought of garlic powder, and several handfuls of grated cheese, any kind, but yellow looks better. Stir in just a teaspoon or two of mayonnaise. Lay the drained asparagus over the bed of crumbs and top with sauce. If you can make two layers, build it up. Top with more crumbs, preferably crushed and sauteed in some butter til nutty and golden. If you're storing casserole overnight as I do, before cooking, save the crumbs til baking time. Bake til the proverbial gold and bubbly.

I remember a Kinsey Milhone novel in which she said she'd sooner have licorice on broccoli. So much for Sue Grafton. We're having sweet potatoes, baked ones, baked sloooowwwly until they're almost caramelized, and the juices escape onto the baking pan and make a little snick when you lift the potato. And a quick tip, if you don't already: Microwave the potatoes for a few minutes to get them hot all through. Nuking them completely changes them from a good baked to something else entirely. But letting them get really hot inside---that just takes away a lot of the prelim time in heating them from the OUTSIDE in, then starting the actual OVEN-baking, which is the only way to go. Ours will be cooled for a bit, sliced into THICK slices, maybe four per potato, with the little end-tips cut off for lying flat. They'll go into a buttered casserole, scratched a teensy bit with a fork to make more room to hold more vanilla butter. It's butter, light brown sugar, and a glug of vanilla. Dot and smear all over the potatoes, put back in the oven for a few minutes, then scatter with marshallows. Bake some more to brown or not---we like ours with the little white pillows still pale, but swelling their little sweet bodies into greater selves, ready for that first BITE. And soft, peeled potatoes mixed with all the above, then more marshmallows on top, that's a good thing, too.

Yes, Indiana has lots of really GOOD fried chicken, little meat N threes still making their way in this franchise world. And as far as cooking it, you need not look far away: our own crowd has posted some mighty pretty pictures, and several have received their G.R.I.T.S. credentials just on the photographs alone. Before we get into the Pure Southern dishes on the Thanksgiving table tomorrow, I thought I'd show you a little party we did for fifty a few weeks ago for a friend. she wanted a "tea party" with dainty sandwiches, etc., for her mother's 85th birthday, but also some more substantial fare for the cocktail-time crowd. We did a few plain old teaparty trays: Left are chicken salad finger sandwiches; right are pimiento cheese triangles, the two mainstays of the Southern bridal shower, Eastern Star and bridge party circuit. Little cucumber hearts with dill cream cheese. Both the dill and the tiny crisp cucumbers came in from the garden not five minutes before the sandwiches were made: Daughter did miniatures of several of the sandwich rolls they make at her bakery: Little subs with salami, provolone, basil leaves and garlic/oregano vinaigrette: Wheat rolls with Chris' smoked turkey, warm from the grill, with cranberry mayo. Small egg rolls with deli ham, American cheese, mustard/mayo for the children, though quite a few adults were partaking: Broccoli/grape tomato/ham quiche rectangles---one of the most requested dishes at weddings and parties that we catered over the years. I've mentioned before the Mother Of The Bride who read the menu, called me with her selections, and ordered the "quickie." Baby red potato salad, the one true recipe I follow to this day; after the pickles are gone from the pantry, I make up just jars of the juice, with vinegar, sugar, cloves and allspice (only one of each per quart), for anointing the still-warm potatoes before adding the minced sweet onion, minced bell pepper, and boiled eggs, along with a mustardy mayonnaise and celery seeds. A three-layer mold of a firm egg salad, very little mayo, some mustard, lots of salt and pepper; cream cheese with a breath of garlic and gently-stirred-in salmon caviar; avocado with lots of lime and salt. Dark breads for spreading. Sweet/sour meatballs with pineapple. The sauce is the one used at our favorite Chinese restaurant, and since we've been there almost every week for fifteen years, they parted with their recipe---very easy and delicious. Crudite with dill dip---I've found that leaves of baby butter lettuce or baby romaine are some of the most popular dippers. The ever-popular devilled eggs---she said "very plain" so I just used a bit of tomato or parsley. A corned-beef cheese ball--my Mother's recipe. She heard about the dried beef one (probably under the hairdryer) and mistook the corned beef for what the recipe called for. She smushed up an entire can of Hormel and mixed it with cream cheese, garlic, mayo, and lots of scallion tops; a family favorite was born, especially after she started patting on toasted pecans. Quite good for cocktails, though there was one man who, at every party, would seek out whatever dip or spread had bread along with it, and commandeer two slices. He'd come back and cut a great slab of the corned beef ball, make a sandwich and munch away happily. A lovely endive tray with mascarpone mixed with dried cherries, topped with a recipe I borrowed from tammylc ---walnut halves candied with port. I saved the reduction after I took out the glazed halves to dry and took it along to the party in a little jar. After the tray was arranged and the walnuts in place, I drizzled a bit of the wine glaze down the length of the spread. They ate up every bite. The buffet--the hosts did the shrimp, the fruit tray, the chunky Caprese with balsamic, and something in a crockpot: I do hope I can make up for my absence from the screen for such long times. Chris has not been well and had to have a kidney stone crushed. I've just been running back and forth to the hospital, needing to be with him, and knowing I was short-changing all of you who were looking in. I appreciate your patience. I looked forward to this for so long, and made so many plans, and here I am not even here for HOURS at a time. I do apologize, but he's my main concern in life, and he needed me; now he's home and sleeping. He even insisted on re-sizing these for me so I could show them to you. rachel ETA: the word "salad" to the chicken salad sandwiches. There's a world of difference between a delicate bit of sliced chicken breast, maybe with a little buttered bread, eaten daintly with delicate fingers, and a little sandwich containing the lifelong Family Recipe for gently poached chicken, minced apples, boiled eggs, the finest-cut crisp celery, a few of the homemade lime pickles, and a mayonnaise dressing with celery seeds and just an imagination of powdered sugar. Whole Bridge Clubs and Sunday School class parties have hinged on less.

Her Royal Poshness this morning. And the gaudy hawk upstairs has had his bacon. This was my own breakfast, with a press-toasted English muffin and three cups of Espresso. Homemade pear preserves, made with the old sandy pears from our trees back on the Mississippi farm. This is the view from our back yard, with the back door just out of sight to the right of the windchimes, of which there are four sets, from little tinkly silver ones to a set that could practically boom out Bach. The red bush drops its leaves, but makes a lovely shade and a lovely color from inside both the upstairs sitting room and the downstairs kitchen, which you could see straight ahead were the bushes not in the way. Chris calls the big green one the weatherbush---we can look out the low window and see what the climate is outside. It's also home to what he calls my "third pet," an immense spider which has lived there for two years. She is known as Mistress Octavia, Ogress of the Weatherbush. I have lots more pictures loaded into the special album which Susan issued just for this blog, but I'm having trouble retrieving. More to come when I get a little tech help. It's the day BEFORE the Day, and I can imagine the aromas that are wafting from all the kitchens in preparation. Our own goings-on include boiling and shelling the eggs for the devilled egg tray and for the gravy---italics just don't seem to do it; we need a flinch-when-you-say-it font. The asparagus casserole is ready in the upstairs fridge, the ambrosia cake is frosted and encrusted with a new kind of coconut we got at Wild Oats---it's not-quite-dry shreds with an intriguing coating of sweetness. Too much going on to actually whack one with a hammer and grate it right now. Daughter is upstairs, putting together a wild rice/brown rice salad, and I'm about to make another asparagus casserole and one of mac and cheese to take on our trip Friday. The lemon pie will take only minutes, the mixed-berry crumble will bake tomorrow, and the pan of fudge is solid and fragrant. I won't cut it til it's time to put it on the candy-stand. I've been meaning to answer: Sandy, we hear Indiana called that all the time, and the atmosphere is NOT big-city, though it IS one, and even though people remark on my accent all the time, THEY seem to speak just like me---at least to me. Maybe because so many communities grew up and were absorbed, there's a small-city feel to this whole place, and then there's downtown, a few miles from your door. Markets with goods and items I would never have thought could be; restaurants of every ethnicity you can think of; fields of corn and lettuce and okra and soybeans. And beautiful melons. Indiana is known for the Decker melon, with a short season and the sweetest, meatiest fruit you've ever tasted. They are hefty guys, several pounds apiece, and have the typical veining and color, but a little smoother with definitions all around, grooves like the way a child draws a pumpkin. They gush sweetness at the first stab of the knife, and are so juicy that they leak all over the plate when you serve them. Delicious, and I wish they were around more than just July.

More bakeries on the schedule yesterday---we live close to both a German bakery, and a Hispanic one---The Heidelberg Cafe, and the Panaderia las Americas. We went totally worldwide, as well, and snagged a few greens and some condiments at the Asian market while we were at it. A look into the Heidelberg pastry case: The young hostess, Jeannin, was so nice---the glare on the glass was distracting, so I asked if we might look in from the back side, and she hustled along with me, opening doors, and even moving gnomes around for a better shot: I meant to buy one of these---don't know if that's flour or powdered sugar. An excuse to go back. I love how the bread is just right out there in the old manner, just living its life for however it lasts---no chilling or bagging or coddling. Just good honest bread, with its traditional ingredients, and no need for change. This was midafternoon, and the morning crowd had changed the landscape of the loaded trays: Biscotti invites for a moment's pause with some of that GOOOOD coffee: Chef Jeurgen has one of the world's largest collections of Springerle molds. This is just a small display: And, of course, clocks:

Dinner tonight---an old friend, a funny, sweet friend, came by last week to use one of our printers. I had to be out of the house, but Son #2 was working in the workshop, so he let him in. He left us a Thank You note with his email address, so I did a one-line note to confirm. I merely said, "You're welcome any time." Quicker than lightning came back, "I'll visit soon. How's Tuesday with you?" So we had dinner. I happened to spend some time out photographing a German bakery not too far away, and our guest has been to Germany MANY times, so we decided on a sissified version of sauerkraut and weenies. We had a little cranberry-ginger spritzer to start, along with some Alouette and crackers, and Chris' favorite, the pineapple glop in the teensy little glass from Kraft. I had made and baked the meatballs (panko, an egg, a thought of garlic, and a pennyworth of Dijon, in 94%), whilst the spoonbread was in the oven. The "sauerkraut" was indeed a can of Bavarian, but cooked according to my first Father-in-Law's recipe (not that he ever cooked anything but catfish in a big pot outdoors---that will probably be Saturday night's treat). Once when I was cooking dinner for the In-Laws, I realized that the small cabbage I had shredded and stirred in a bit of garlicky oil was just TOO small for five, so I threw in a hot-water-rinsed can of kraut. Father-in-Law LOVED it, and ate up all the scraps---he said it tasted just like "my Mamma's homemade kraut, made in a churn." So that's what we had, with some turkey Kielbasa, cut into quarters, and four apple-Gouda sausages. After they had all had their turn on top of the simmering cabbage, which I'd stir-fried first in some oil I'd fried onions in, I laid on the meatballs and covered the pan, letting it sit for a few minutes. The whole thing was ladled onto a platter, steaming and fragrant with vinegary-tang and caraway: A salad of Pinto beans, Vidalia, red and yellow peppers and the TINIEST little wheels of pasta, with a homemade creamy Italian: Some cucumbers for Megan in cider vinegar and mustard seeds: And in keeping with the theme---Southern Spoonbread with corn: It's been quite a day!! moire non

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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?"

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?

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.

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

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

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

Sorry for taking a break; there was a little emergency this p.m. and I had to dash off. Just got home thirty minutes ago. Daughter had made a nice skillet of fried rice, mostly from leftovers; there was an extra pork tenderloin in the fridge, baked yesterday with its anointment of soy sauce and garlic. Slivers of that, little pearls of leftover Calrose, onions, peppers and bean sprouts---she's a genius. She also made a dish of broccoli and snow peas, with a bit of Hoisin, some soy, garlic, fish sauce and a few fried shallots. It was wonderful to come home to a good hot dinner on this cold night. Somebody (probably online) is teaching her some GREAT dishes. She can tell you the recipe for the Bhindi Masala tomorrow---I know it's okra, tomatoes, and lots of lovely air-perfuming spices. I forgot to mention: I was so excited that this was about to begin, and Susan said to post after midnight---I woke shortly before then, and I've been enthralled and haven't been to sleep since. The sillies are about to set in, and since today's posts were so long and wordy, I think I'm going to bid all good night and gently fade away. It's been a WONDERFUL day, a SUPERLATIVELY great day, with so much interaction and interplay and all the absolutely priceless Grandma stories. I did not imagine such a response, and am just awed at the memories and emotions that flowed from that one simple question. Tomorrow: A little trip to a German Bakery, perhaps to the Hispanic one just here near our house, and friends to dinner!!! Our best friends have always celebrated Thanksgiving with us, but this year, this IMPORTANT year, they are invited to the home of their lovely daughter's Intended, with all the import of that gathering and meeting. I'm glad for them and they will join us for a good old Southern dinner tomorrow night. Good Night, my lovely friends. It's been one of the most memorable days of my life. Moire non, rachel

For taking up space and being repetitive, I'd agree with you. But try telling that to a G.R.I.T.S. with five boxes of monogrammed notecards, a Shaeffer pen and nine pairs of white gloves put away in sachet. Now where DID I put those floral stamps?

I'd better get back onto the mundanities of the day: Breakfast was three cups of Senseo, S&L & Skim. I'll post a picture later---they all look alike, but I love to watch it burble from the little spouts, making that lovely creamy top. Lunch was LOVELY, done by Daughter, who is off tonight, and thus could cook something she was craving: Bhindi Masala. It's close to downhome Southern, with a bit of exotic flair---the smalltown girl all gussied up with every spice in the cupboard: It was DEEEEE---Licious!! Also a little side slice of a wonderful spinach pie that Daughter made yesterday; a simply wonderful copy of creamed spinach, but made with skim milk, low-fat cheese, Egg Beaters, a little flour, a bit of garlic powder, a breath of nutmeg, a handful of minced raw onion, and a few grinds of pepper. A two-pound bag of frozen spinach, squeezed dry, combined with above, then pressed into a deep 9" cake plate. Baked for a bit more than an hour, as it was really thick, and never did sink after cooling. It was a bit firmer than creamed, and could be neatly sliced. It tasted REALLY good. Today was to be fudge-making day, as we have one guest who would pass on the turkey and head straight for the candy-stand. He starts hinting mildly in August, proceeds to mentions in September, and by October is downright asking if I'm going to start fudging early this year. I've just been so busy with little household chores and bed-changing day and just LIVING in this chair for the past hours---no chocolate smells coming from here today, no Sir. I'm using my Mother's never-fail recipe, the old marshmallow cream thing, made with Hershey's Extra-Dark chunks, Pet milk, sugar, butter and a jar of the cream. It takes eight minutes to cook after it boils, and is always super-creamy after it solidifies. We make it in several flavors: Chocolate, peanut butter, dark, Espresso and Latte. Toasted pecans, macadamias, peanuts, what-you-will on top. Or feathered strings of ganache. We always pour it into the Pam-sprayed pan as soon as the gloss begins to change. It's just something you know to look for, and it seldom fails to pour properly. I would NEVER be able to do actual CHOCOLATE, however. The idea of tempering and pouring and all the attendant chemistry of the process---that's an art that I don't possess. Mother always "dropped" hers like pralines. They would begin to change midway through the dropping cycle, and the first would be smooth, rounded patties, worthy of being cellophaned by Miss Martha herself; the next group would be firming up on the spoon, still with rounded sides, but maybe a little roughness to the tops where one spoon scraped them off the other. The pieces I liked best were the rough, pebbly ones, the last ones of the making, with tiny cracks and smidgets of scrapings giving them a personality and character both different and better. The last scritches out of the pan, licked warm off the spoon, are the best of all. Tomorrow, maybe. I'll make the ambrosia cake tomorrow, as well. It needs a two-day chill for all the flavors to cozy up to each other. It's an orange velvet layer, with sour cream frosting and coconut that's been soaked in sweetened milk and a few drops of coconut extract, then squeezed dry before applying. And Thanksgiving is the TIME for memories. I'm glad everyone can share, especially the kitchen ones. Moire non, r