racheld

Lovely, Megan. The best way to see a city for the first time is on a rainy day. On to France!!

Unh-Hunh, that was us. I'm gonna take pictures on Thanksgiving and post them on the Dinner thread. The two gravy boats have definite gold flecks in them, but one is a little darker cause it has the giblets. And I got PM's back then from several people telling WHY they thought it was a joke/travesty/blasphemy, or they just didn't like eggs anyway. They turned out to be some of my best correspondents, and I made new friends. And now---the great homemade or "snock" it out of the can Cranberry Debate. I make one bowl, with orange juice and sugar, and supremed orange segments folded in after the cooking and cooling. Chris prefers the Ocean Spray, and will do the open-both-ends thing, slicing it neatly and putting out the fancy silver tomato slice thingie. I like to at least glop spoonsful of it into a nice glass compote, just for appearances. Every Thanksgiving, I am reminded of the infamous video taken in one of the first years of our marriage. We were at his parents' house, and I was bustling around the kitchen amongst about twenty other people who WEREN'T. I asked his Dad to find the can opener and open the two cans of cranberry sauce. When I looked for them later to put them into the bowl, they were nowhere to be found. But I did, later, when I went into the already-set dining room to light the candles. Neatly spaced on either side of the centerpiece sat a perfectly-opened can of Ocean Spray; they were both even FACING the same way. I can be heard on the soundtrack, in my most SUTHUN drawl, exaggerated greatly by the film, "What were ya gonna dooo, Sweeeetpeeea, just put a spoooooon innum?"

Later in life I learned that it's spelled "bourre" with a little doohickey over the e. This was after many years of hearing our bachelor neighbor who regularly hosted a loud, laughing crowd speak of what I thought of as his "boo-ray" parties. I thought it was two words: "Boo" for a bad hand and "RAY!!!" for aces.

Inclination of head, with gentle lowering of Jessica Rabbit eyelashes

OH, Ben!! If I still catered parties, I'd love to hire you to work for me!!! Please say you don't mean you'll NEVER work a kitchen again...you sound like a Chef's dream. And let us hear about your life as it goes on. Don't lose touch.

Chris' parents store things in top oven, bottom oven, dishwasher, and a discarded refrigerator in the next room. The fridge just sits there, like one of those stuffed-full display cabinets in a cutesy "shoppe," with cans of peas and corn lined up in all the door shelves, and cereals, flour, etc. crowded inside. The ovens, you can use, IF you find a place for the pots and pans. Dishwasher is off limits, no matter HOW many people you have single-handedly cooked dinner for. The hundred or so I-Can't-Believe and Country Crock tubs have been blessed by a Higher Power and their burial ground is therefore sacred. So-- in the square inch between the Sweet'n'Low box, the Sam's Creamer, three two-tier turntables of prescription bottles, the ever-full dish drainer and an immovable collection of possibly two dozen empty Maxwell House Instant jars (that we might need SOMEDAY), you can cook dinner. Just don't displace the flyswatter or the flashlight. And don't move the garbage can or two dog dishes from in front of the sink. The dog gets upset when his things are rearranged. Cooking there is like playing Twister in a Funhouse.

It's nice with the crush-and-juice method--especially through a small-holed chinois. About half a cup, reduced to two tablespoons, then proceed with vinaigrette, using a very light vinegar. Lordy, GG! That recipe you linked---you could whirl it a couple of minutes to the pink-cream stage, throw in a handful of poppyseeds, and take that salad to any Church Supper South of the M/D.

AWWWWWW, Hon!! Don't you give up---you've got the determination and the black skillet---that's 90% right there. I've been cheating lately by putting buttermilk POWDER into the brining water---without the milk, it seems to brown golden, and doesn't go too dark before the inside is done. Just happened to have some on hand one day when I was out of buttermilk, was going to add it to plain milk, then decided to see what it would do all alone. And just get right back on that horse soon as your sore fingers are up to it. I'm counting on you.

I remember a pack of frozen vegetables, the mixed carrots-peas-beans thing. It was served to Chris and me at the home of our neighbor, an older woman who lived alone---a medium-tall, spare woman whose home was one of a neat little row of "mill houses" in a little town in Alabama. We had rented the house next door, a "furnished" one, whose life-long occupant had gone into a nursing home, and whose belongings stayed behind in all their accustomed places. I still have a little picture of that sparse kitchen, with its three feet of counter and scrubbed wooden table, the surprisingly new refrigerator, and cabinets ranged with cookware, utensils, plates, cups, and the most exquisite clear glassware. We'd moved there, far away from our own home, to be near Chris' children, who had been moved away shortly after our marriage. "Miss Bobbie" had worked some thirty-plus years at the mills, turning out sheets and pillowcases and other such household goods. She loved to read and crochet and was friendly and welcoming to us, giving a cheery "Hello" as I hung the clothes to breeze-dry, or handing a tomato or two over the fence. The children would come to us in all their riotous energy every two weeks, and many times in between; the smalltown atmosphere was wonderful and they'd climb the backyard trees before breakfast as the scent of frying beignets wafted out into the air. I'd make a whole recipe, and we'd glaze-dip half, powdered-sugar-shake some, and one little bag held superfine sugar and cinnamon. The neighbor children would wander over, drawn by the twin sirens of hot sugar and new playmates. We put the big platters down out under the trees, and poured milk and juice in unending quantities, as the kids ran and played and came back for another snatched bite. Miss Bobbie would eat with us every now and then, as I'd call to her over the fence as I dished up supper, or made us salads or homemade soup for lunch. She invited us to dinner one night, and we dressed for the occasion and went over. She was an apologetic cook, one of the "it's not quite as good as I usually make it" camp, telling little foibles and mishaps that caused the dish to be less than its usual stellar self. I don't remember the meat or the salad, but she served two things that night which I requested the recipe for, and still make: Vegetable casserole and sweet potato souffle. The vegetables were thawed, cooked a bit, drained, patted with paper towels, and stirred into a light, cheese-laden white sauce, along with tiiiiiny chips of minced sweet onion, then baked with a good thick layer of butter-drenched Ritz crumbs. The vegetables were tender, the seasonings perfect, and had baked long enough to be "bubbly and golden brown," yet every now and then you'd get a hit of fresh, crisp onion not quite succumbed to the baking. It was delicious, the best (and only real) treatment of frozen Birdseye I've ever found. The sweet potatoes---ahhh---that dish will grace our Thanksgiving table again this year, with its crunchy, pecan-laden topping. So that's all I know about frozen mixed vegetables. I DO know, however, that Carrot Top frequents fast-food drive-thrus. My giggle-switch was again jostled into a bubbling, bouncing laugh which erupted as I thought of her dismay as a voice shouted from the back seat for all the world and the PA system to hear, "I wanna Dr. PECKER!!!"

I DO, TOO!!! I asked for hands AND writing, way back yonder, but that's one thing about getting old---nobody pays any attention to you. In my case, that's just as well. And I've never been any closer to Philadelphia than Titusville, but I've loved these tours you give every now and then.

Chris will smoke a turkey, completely carve it (breast lobes removed intact, then sliced ACROSS the grain), garnishing the platter with the removed, polished wishbone. Cornbread dressing, two kinds of gravy---with and without giblets, but both with chopped softboiled eggs, for extra richness, and because every cook in our family has, for about five generations. A big black skillet of oven-baked corn, tail-gate cut at our back door a couple of months ago, and waiting in the freezer. Sweet potatoes in some form. Green bean salad with roasted peppers, Vidalias and water chestnuts. Bread shaped like a turkey---shiny and beautiful. Lots of desserts, mostly Southen in origin---chess pie, blackberry pie, chocolate pie by my Mom's recipe, lemon pie filling served in a pretty dish with whipped cream and leaf-shaped shortbreads. Much more, I'm sure. Don't know yet how many will be here. Having mashed potatoes depends on if we have company that's actually FROM here. We never had them for Thanksgiving down South. But Northern folks expect them.

I just wanted to let everyone know that I just spoke to Rebecca, for maybe a minute---her voice is soft and she needs to rest and keep up her strength, but she was cheerful and so glad to hear from one of our eG Family. She's offline for a while, but will be back in all her witty, fortune-telling, coffee-brewing glory before long. rachel

Thank you for that glimpse into a culture and life unknown to me save through newsreels ---it seemed those days were lived in black and white, or in the jerky kaleidoscope of new-to-color television. Since, my only exposure has been through books, movies, restaurant fare, and a dear friend whose family was transported in one of the last boats to make it out of the harbor. From him, we learned of nuoc mam, nam pla, lichees, and of the astoundingly-brave young man who made his way to America and became a doctor, as did several of his siblings. After such a baptism into the world, neither fire nor knives could possibly hold any kitchen trepidation for you. This was a difficult sharing, I imagine, but the sounds and scents and child's fright come through in your words. I'm glad you're able to voice the times in such evocative terms, and glad you shared them with us.

Daddy was a hard-working man, and came home for a hot noon dinner every workday--peas and cornbread, fried chicken, baked ham, potatoes in some form, etc., etc. All the bowls of leftovers were put away AS IS, no covers, to await suppertime. I cannot believe y'all didn't know---all of you who are versed in every facet of food preparation, sanitation, serving---that the only way to put away leftovers is in the oven, with the PILOT LIGHT ON. That way they stay warm and ready for the next meal. rachel hand to Heaven, and still alive

Ling, how on earth did you commandeer Judiu's name and avatar? And WHEN are we getting a smoochy-face smile for Kiss-it-and-make it better? Feel BETTER, judiu!

You've got a lot of good reading ahead---like 520 or so more pages---it's bigger than War and Peace!!! And a lot more appetizing.

Megggggggggan's HOME!!!!! Wanna see an old lady do a happydance?

One week of acquaintance, via the eG blog, and I'll always remember the kind, gentle tenor of those words, the colors of the vistas which greeted him at dawn and dusk, that enchanted adobe with its murals, swoopy doorways, warm hues, and kitchen spider, and all the other enchantments of his home among the hills. We bantered a bit, and his wit and intelligence made our conversations most enjoyable, especially over his microwave roux, and you know, he was on to something. I would imagine it's become a time-saver in the repertoire of many a gumbo-maker. This is so sad---I'm just glad his blog was THEN, so he became much more than a name on an avatar, and we got to know him before his too-soon departure. Rest in those rosy mountains, Bill. We're among the many who will miss you.

Thanks for a wonderful tour, and for the glimpse of your lovely family. I'll probably see more of Chicago from time to time, as we live fairly close, but I'll return time and again to that sweet, sauce-smeared face with the three shining teeth in that heart-taking smile. Wish I lived close enough to baby-sit.

Rodents, tisanes, packin’ heat and samovars---quite a scavenger hunt of subjects for one thread to encompass, though quite divergent ideas have steered many a topic off on tangents far removed from the original thought. Guinea pigs and mice are lovely traveling companions---no need to stash their aquarium in a box, though our rats, PeePee I through VII did live quite long happy lives ensconced in a nice glass-walled home, living in aspen shavings, napping in a little silver-lined bag redolent of coffee beans, making little sojourns across the counter to the big wicker stand atop the throne in the guest bath. A handy Kleenex box served as day-residence at the “Lake House.” When we traveled, the aquarium went into the back seat; the world in that shavings-lined home was business as usual. Food and treats went in, Peepee went out for a glimpse of the world flashing by. Only once did she escape, during a midnight drive through Virginia; a little white phantom appeared in the darkness between Chris’ feet in the front seat, and we put her gently back into her house. Only later did we realize how long she had been at large; she had nibbled great notches in the spine of my much-coveted Martha Stewart Wedding book. Glue---it’s a GOOOOOD thing. When we stopped for the night, she went into a pretty birdcage, covered by a lovely silk scarf---I swept grandly into hotels which bowed me welcome, and which would have put me unceremoniously on the street had they known my cargo. A bite of muffin, a segment of breakfast orange---those served to nourish her, along with her accustomed rat kibble. One evening, we stopped for dinner at one of those buffet/salad bar places, and I saved her a scrap or two from my plate. I had just stashed two green beans in a paper napkin, and was licking the dressing from a cherry tomato, when I looked up into the faces of an elderly couple, staring in horrified fascination at this weird woman taking licked food home in a ratty-bag. Tisanes---I’m for ‘em. Samovars---got one. And Chris PACKS.

A friend of mine once went to a garde manger class in Memphis because this was the picture on the brochure. She managed OK sticking the pineapple in the cavity to plump it out, but totally lost it when the teacher said, "Now replace the feathers. . ."

I unhesitatingly share my honorary Goddess of Lily Gilding title (conferred some time back, regarding using up some five pounds of cream cheese, if I recall). Pizza fried in butter. I might oughta just abdicate in your favor.

Handwriting I wish every blogger would do this. There's just something so personal about the hold of the pen, the forming of the letters, the flow of the script. Thanks.

I remember that shaky little fellow, along with the suave Louie Nye, whose cigarette languidly threaded smoke up for one eyesting as he did his best Leisuresuit Larry, and Tom Poston's thin-line-between-innocent-and-truly-vacant. I think Don already had his tweed suit even then, wispy threads gleaming a dandelion aureole in the harsh TV lights as he struggled to keep body and soul together for his four seconds of fame. Much fidgeting, a mastery of the deer vs. headlights look, quick widening of eyes already the size of golfballs, and a purse-string fishpooch of mouth as he bleated out a shocked, quick, "Nooh!' We were all on the innocent side then. And how did I miss this wonderful thread? (Great memories of my Mammaw's chickenyard---such reminiscences of unfortunate chickens). And then there was the little banty rooster we raised in the house on hardwood floors. I loved this---there's just something funny in almost everything chickens do. And are. And you certainly nailed their cockeyed scheme of things.

Ambrosia---the fruit salad, not the Olympus snack Kielbasa Angelica Frangelico Paminna Cheese Tangerine