racheld

My Mammaw's Three-Layer Pineapple Cake with Seven Minute Icing. Fudge Brownie Pie with toasted pecans Key Lime Mousse in sherbet glasses, whipped cream swirl/candied lime slice Ambrosia (supremed oranges and tangelos, fresh pineapple, halved grapes and coconut, with perhaps a tiny glug of Sauternes), served in Mammaw's cut-glass bowl. A guest is bringing the same kind of cherry-topped cheesecake as last year---she makes the most exquisite flaky piecrust, and is putting it in a 9 x 13 this year. And Daughter will make her famous "turkey" bread at her bakery.

Oh, RP!! This sounds lovely!!! My first idea on beginning the first post was that you're gonna hand everybody aboard the boat like Cap'n Steubing, take them out to the fishing grounds/oyster beds/lobster traps, let them catch their own dinner, then take them back to that seabreeze porch for a couple of good beverages whilst you whip up their own harvest into an unforgettable seafood feast, to be consumed within sight and surfsound of the water. And then, my TOO-Southern mind got hold of that ramekin, and Mediterranean or no, a puddle of butter in the bottom, a slice of the cooked-and-dried potato---even a sliced of BAKED, which would simplify things. An ovenful of potatoes baking just to yield those little crusty slices---seems like a worthwhile process. You could even lay a tiny leaf into the butter first, to sizzle a pretty garnish right into the little beauty. All the flavorful, golden fluffy mass piled atop, to bake and brown the crust, then turned out on a white plate, with the buttery juices flowing down---I'm tasting it now. And I'll never forget your all-nighter on the boat and that ambrosial breakfast at dawn. Nothin' sucks to be you, Hon.

I'm always asking for pictures of hands, and these are the zenith!! No matter who follows, these will remain the absolute. Thank you again. rachel

Bella Divina, Thank you, Thank you!! This was a wonderful week, and your teleporter took me to unknown climes and gracious moments. This was just lovely. I especially love the thought of just zipping off to Chianti for a sunny afternoon.

No, no, no, My Dear---you just make a pot of tea and calm yourself. Tune in to Miss Lucy's Cajun Kitchen on RFD TV. Watch her put smiles on the faces of stockholders in Kraft Philadelphia Brand, Campbell's Cream of, and entire herds of butter-making cows. Sit and watch and do nothing. THEN, we'll talk.

Here!!! Here!!! I volunteer to be one of the two folks!!!! You are Daughter's Kitchen Idol.

Styrofoam egg cartons can be washed, top-rack on a short or gentle cycle. Remove them before the heat/dry cycle comes on, give them a shake over the sink, and dry upside down on a towel. Then you can put the whites back together and carry them safely, to be filled on arrival, plastic bag, ditto. Sometimes whites get a little moisture in the yolk-holes, so check before filling and pat with a bit of paper towel. Do not try this with the cartons made of that cardboard stuff they used to make Easter Bunnies out of.

C sapidus has been making mole-magic lately.

Rocking in the Canyon, barefoot and loud---that's the way to charge into Autumn! When our tomatoes were reddening on the vine, yours were a hopeful gleam in a gardener's eye. Now our plants are down, composted, stakes and cages set away to await another Spring, and the last hundred or so from the harvest are upstairs in a guest bedroom, wrapped in newspaper and nestled in low-cut boxbottoms. The Battenburg is covered with a doubled painter's dropcloth to guard against leakage, the window is open a couple of inches to usher in the cooling, preserving air, and the cat is in a Royal Snit at the closing of the door upon her favourite poufy chair. Now you're still harvesting tomatoes AND a plushess of basil. Our leggy greenery grew almost head-high, throwing up long, flowery stems redolent of pesto and grass. It grew thinner with the pluckings, yellowed to a jaundice, and withered, despite glorious sunshine and careful waterings. So the four plants from the big green pot were yanked out and cast onto the leafpile. And the last of the crop is in a baggie in the fridge, fit only for whirring with garlic and oil, for anointment of a seasonally-hot pasta. The days of cold Caprese have faltered to a close and the warmth of pesto will have to suffice. But until then, my kitchen-proud heart will gleam over the dish of tomatoes set on the Thanksgiving table.

Ditto on the oyster, even where I'm from, where the luscious little morsels are searched out on chickens, ducks and pheasants, and slurped greedily down, including the microfinitesimal pair on a too-slow quail. I DO wonder about the save-and-cook method, though. No braise or saute could prepare this wonderful tidbit nearly as well as leaving it in its little nest to cook cuddled into the bone, and certainly no knife in the most impressive arsenal could remove one nearly so well or completely as a seeking tongue.

Chris and I stiffed the waitress on our very first lunch out with the children (restaurant "stiffed" here, you naughty people). We had both been lifelong church-goers, and went to church in his hometown with his four children soon after I had met them. We ate at one of those family-buffet places, had a great time, and as we approached the door, the youngest went charging out toward the parking lot. We all flew after him, the chase spurring him on to greater speed and louder laughter, with Chris loping along with his tie and coattails flapping, the three other kids in shrieking pursuit, and me, in a black sheath dress and impossibly high heels, tottering along in the wake of this rapscallion crew, definitely NOT laughing as the little boy I had hardly met ran pellmell for the curb. We must have provided a hearty laugh for those INSIDE as well, as several faces had appeared at the windows by the time the escapee was back in custody and we had stopped to catch our breaths. Admonishments and gasps of relief, buckling into carseats, with my mind rattling away in thoughts of this must be how they stuff a clown-car, all of us talking at once, and we just drove away. Only later did he realize his mistake, and called the restaurant to confess and promise to come in later. And he did, before the day was out, so all was well. Being in church for a couple of hours doesn't necessarily mean we'll skip out on the check or the tip. (I DID, however, hear my own dearest MIL whisper to the person next to her at dinner, "Seven dollars IS ten per cent of seventy, isn't it?") I conveniently "forgot" my purse and had to linger. Haven't carried a purse in YEARS.

Were it not for the fancy-painted bottle, I'd have thought you played fairy-cook in my kitchen---little arm-prinkles and Twilight Zone music here---I have that BOOK, the napkins to match that tablecloth, those CURTAINS (do they have a little scallopy edge and more pattern at the bottom?) AND a set of those green plates!!! Where ARE you, anyway---mine all probably came from MY store---Goodwill, and I gathered them up over several years. Odd to look at my stuff on someone elses' screen. LOVELY dinner, by the way, so homey and comfort-foody. And everyone---you're picking just the right things to cook; just lovely. One last thing: Daniel, if this were golf, you'd have a handicap of 100. You have to commute to your FRIDGE and FREEZER???!!!

I've just now devoured this thread, from beginning to end, and this is just amazing. All the different combinations, the colours, the slices which fall perfectly from the knife---I'd be SURE to put in something which was just a little stronger than the other bits and it would fight the blade and give me raggedy presentation. I've longed to make one of these since I saw Julia Child demonstrate "turning the case" on her longago PBS series. She stuck those big hands into that hunk of pastry like a laundress turning a skirt to iron, maneuvered it a bit like a stubborn puppet, and it turned into a neatly-formed pillowcase fitted into the pan, a perfectly-behaved outer shell for a lovely terrine. I could not fathom at the time why she didn't use perfectly good air time to demonstrate a new sauce, a saute' or a braise---that too-much demonstration which would not fit into a viewer's home kitchen seemed a bit of frivolity, just at that moment. I did not reckon on the power of the appetites to come to the fore in just a few short food-years, nor those lurking in front of other screens in other places, hungry for the creating as much as for the eating. I read too many historical novels, in which the housemistress always had a decorated pye ready for even the finickiest, most jaded of guests, who were always informed that it was from her own hand. Those pheasant molds and faded loaf-pans and lids shaped like graceful rabbits, all the arsenal of terrine-making---they're part of the special cookware, drawn down like a pudding-mold or an ice-cream shell, just for haughty occasions, and bespeaking great care and honor done a guest. These are all just perfect, and shine like jewels on the plate. It's nice to see that some jewels can be had by anyone with the time and will, and soon that's gonna be me.

PS. Also in that dim memory is a bag of Fritos---the original stiff, salty ribbon ones---a jar of Cheez Whiz, and a jar of orange marmalade. Dip into one, then into the other. Munch. They were my own private jars. Nobody else would touch 'em.

I've never tasted a green mango, the thought of fermented shrimp makes me HURT, and PMS is a blessedly-dim memory, but for some arcane reason, possibly related to your delightful description, SO IS MINE.

Where you from, Hon? Our DEEP-South family always had a pan of macaroni and cheese (Heavy almost-orange Hoop cheese, grated over hot macaroni, with a stick of butter and some Pet milk poured in, top replaced, then stirred into a creamy, cheese-stringing mass sprinkled with several grinds from the peppermill). Even better baked a while as the turkey rests. And Baked Beans!!! My Mother had two of the little steam-table pans, and they were the only utilitarian items allowed on her sumptuous buffet---one held the above cheese and macaroni, and the other, a pan of Showboat beans, begun by sauteing a couple of big chopped onions and a chopped bell pepper or two, then some barbecue sauce and a big handful of brown sugar stirred in. Two tall cans of Showboats drained, the pesky little tallowy bit of keep-it-legal "pork" fished out, and the whole pan stirred for a moment, poured into the baking pan, and topped with enough bacon to completely cloak the top. As it baked, the slices shrank and crisped, with little sags becoming sauce-saturated and redly transparent. There were enough carbs on that table to fuel an NFL franchise. Plenty of salads, green vegetables for nibbling, and ambrosia with forty RDA's of Vitamin C, but the carbs carried the day.

Best to your mom---wish I had her address---two loaves of zucchini bread just sitting right here.

I'll see your pianist and raise you a Gospel Group, with guitars, microphones, matching outfits, upraised hands, and great fervor, singing LOUDLY for the four hours of a 50th Anniversary reception that I catered some fifteen years ago. They took the requisite fifteen minute bandbreak each hour, but the ringing never left my ears, not even after the guests had departed and I was lugging dishes to the wagon. And I mostly like hymns---I'm Baptist, for Heaven's sake!! But that music, for that occasion. . .

Not from personal experience, but the Old Southern Wives' Tale, told to chill the hearts of maidens everywhere, was a concoction past believing, but I had it on VERY good authority from a couple of aunts whose verity was a solid as their own sturdy personages. It was the redneck version of the above pak chan. I will not elaborate on the recipe. Nanny Tea.

Now, that's just charming---pretty and neat, and all you need on one tray. It looks delicious, there will be only two plates to wash, and someone else cooked!!! What more could a girl want?

I have now corrected my little misspell of those too-dainty little sweets; it occurred to me over my Waldorf salad while we were out at lunch that I had mixed two courses in a very un-delectable melange. I also thank all the powers-that-be and the eyes-that-have seen for refraining from pointing out my error---that is the sign of a gracious and forgiving friend, if as yet unmet. I can only use the excuse of my years and fraying brain. I think of Dick Cavett when I am tempted to chime in with a correction of another's spelling or grammar, and I hold my sassy tongue. On one of his talk shows of the Seventies, two guests were having a discussion, and when the first one said "tabula rosa" I saw Cavett wince---probably on LIVE TV. When the second guest carried on his train of thought, repeating the erroneous pronunciation, the IQ-Proud host could restrain himself no longer, and corrected them both. His fear that others would think he shared their ignorant faux pas got the better of his manners, and I never thought the same of him since. Y'all are made of better stuff.

All this brain-delving and senility sensation has been worth it---just for that dinner alone, Paul. But we'll all have a little cranium-tickle going on til someone unearths the elusive nom. My favourite has always been at the end, anyway. Mignardises

Could you be thinking of releve?

I came in at 94%, and they STILL said they belonged elsewhere. Besides, I would no more address one person as "Y'all" than I'd fly. And one joke fell plumb flat: What are a Good Ole Boy's last words? "Hey, Y'all!! Wa chis!!" Oh, Lordy. They're gonna revoke my little pushpin.

I''ve LOVED these!!! All that meter and rhyme---it's just been a funfest. And one for MEEEEEEEEEEE!!! That's a first. Nothing rhymes with my name, I'm afraid. I am honored and humbled. Thank you.