racheld

We hoped it would be you!!! (And the picture of all those gizmos and thingamabobs from Jane Jetson's kitchen confirmed it). Wow---a whole week of travels and cooking and dining and alchemy with those amazing tools. And a birthday, as well. Nice. You're a Tuesday's Child, and on the day you were born, we were on our Honeymoon. With all you've added to eG, I consider that a special gift. Could you work in a hand-written grocery list or recipe, please. And a shot of your hands at work. This is gonna be a great weeeeeeek!!

Thanks for all your time and work---it's been a fabulous week, especially our trips with you and your little M. She finds SUCH good groceries!!! And all the food prep and the finding---what a revelation about what CAN be done. Not to mention that caramel corn and ice cream!!! I envy you your bright little helper---I used to have one her age living here. She has always loved to help me cook; still does, but she visited last week and didn't need the little stepstool any more This was over too soon. Just amazing.

Whimpershot Wow, Daniel---you've certainly celebrated with a lot of wonderful dinners out. Not quite on the standard of your OWN kitchen, but no dishes to wash. Looks like it's been a great birthday. . .day. . .day.

Oh, My!!! You win. Blistered fingers for a week and Howdy Doody cheeks in the choir do not equal this. And I looked it up---despite what HAD to be a memory lapse, or a brain cramp, your memory served you well. Lappin Kulta is exactly right---it means "precious drink" in Finnish, I think. And there WERE more than four to the fireplace fiasco dinner---four were present at the first dinner I ever ate the stuff, and the heater at that one was a nice electric lampy thing that just glowed pleasantly over on the buffet, cozying up to the cheese and melting it into a nice tasty puddle. There were about a dozen at the BAD evening, laughing and talking and needing MORE cheese NOW, as I sizzled and scraped and re-skewered the darn thing repeatedly in the heat of that crowded, loud, unbearably hot roomful of hungry drinkers. Kind of funny now that you remind me of it. The deelybob looked kind of like if you took your desk fan, sliced the little cage-cover right down the middle, bottom to top, took out the fan, and slid the round side of half a cheese wheel into the handy-dandy pocket. Then there were little square holes in the half-moon cage, through which you inserted the short skewers, which kept the cheese from tumbling out or sliding out into the fire, like a drunk would slide feetfirst from a slopy chair into the floor, or a child at the end of a playground slide. The whole thing lay back into a flat holder, sitting with the cut side toward the heat. As it melted, you scraped downward into a tray or onto a plate, passing the plates back as they were re-cheesed. No numbering. I kept up pretty well with who was who, and after a while, I was ready to call it a day, and they had had enough wine that they could have been eating it off the spokes with a spoon for all they cared. But Grub is the hands-down champeen of THIS thread. Just two other thoughts: Don't they have lampshades in Switzerland? And Never, EVER, let Fresser find this thread.

Where was this thing years ago when I foolishly consented to do a "raclette dinner" for a long-time client? She had tried it several times, once in Europe and a couple of times at the ski place in CO that they go to after Christmas every year. The only one I was familiar with was the big heater gizmo which would hold a nice two lb. half-wheel or so, plenty for four for dinner with jacket potatoes, steamed asparagus, artichoke leaves, maybe Brussels sprouts or steamed broccoli---what I had eaten and had seen done in a couple of restaurants (and in Bon Appetit, so I thought I must be a PRO by then). Hah. She had had the thing ordered by the ski resort restaurant, delivered, and it was still in the box when I arrived about an hour and a half before the guests. What she had and what I thought I was going to cook with were Mars and Venus in comparison. The thing resembled half a tabletop fan, just the cage part, cut into a half-circle, and had its own skewers which matched to slot A and B, AFTER you inserted the half-round of cheese. You slid in the cheese, poked the skewers through the appropriate holes to ensnare it, and set the whole thing up ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE FIREPLACE. On the hearth. And cooked like Ma Ingalls, only wearing your Winter uniform of starched white shirt, navy vest, slacks and bow tie. It had a little fairy-sized garden hoe to scrape with, but required exposing your knuckles and any tender hand-skin to the heat of a December fireplace, over and over and over. And every time you scraped, the cheese receded and you had to remove those redhot skewers and reposition the whole thing in front of the flames. Those people ate for two hours, consuming the entire five-lb. block of Gruyere, probably ten pounds of cooked vegetables, and almost that much ruffly-thin pink ham. The wine went round and round, bottle after bottle, and I cannot remember what was for dessert. They probably all staggered out so carb-loaded that they went to sleep at the wheel. It took a dish brush and half an hour just to CLEAN the thing afterward. I was tempted to stick it in the dishwasher and head home. I went to church next morning looking as if my face had spent a long day at the beach with no PF15. And my hands peeled for a week. Never again. And never have had the slightest inclination to taste it again either. But your new toy would make killer fajitas. Yum.

Oh, Lori!!! This has been wonderful. Your life and days are so filled with youth and activity and an energy reserved for the real DO-ers of the world. Your family is always happy to be doing whatever you're doing, they are learning AT HOME all the values and standards and recipes and formulas, from Love Thy Neighbour to white sauce to E=mc squared. What a great foundation for them to stand on and walk out into the world---and from some of your teaching and example, they may FLY!! All the pictures, from simple family dinner to seedspitting, from your TV show to the misty view across the valley---they convey a home and family atmosphere that is growing so rare, therefore more precious. I was so fortunate to have been home with my children when they were home from school, and our church and family were always the given, the solid, the place to stand against the world, or the soft place to fall when the world WAS too much with us. I see all that, from your Bible study to the wall-exhibits to the simple fact of your church clothes under an apron, hurrying to get a good Sunday dinner on the table for three generations...that was so often a part of our weekend, and all the kids still remember and speak of those times with happiness and good memories. And your husband, too, races great distances to "Do Battle With The Forces Of Economy"---Chris' title for his getting out every day and hopping in that little gold car and going off for many miles in every direction, to keep our family safe and comfortable in our home. And the ORANGE BOWL!!! My big ole yellow one is even older than your own, I wager. It's lived in about ten houses in its long life, and has carried more potato salad to church suppers and potlucks than I can remember. It's served in almost as many capacities as yours has, from its shiny days way back in my catering business--I remember one memorable evening that several of my staff were delayed by snow, and I was TOO rushed too prink all that chicken salad into the tiny shells, so we just put the shells in a pretty napkin-lined basket and turned Ole Yeller upside down with a "WHOMP" that made a pretty dome-shaped mold on the big round platter. A few grapes, some parsley sprigs---who knew that beautiful dish came out of a homely plastic carrier? Now she's a permanent dishpan, living always in the left sink, filled with WAY hot water and apple Dawn to brush-wash all the dishes before they go into the dishwasher. And I think the lid is in the pantry somewhere still--I've even pressed it into use as a quick cutting board on occasion. Anyway, I thank you for this glimpse of my own almost-past, with its occasional groups of kids in my kitchen for cooking classes--one memorable day when a seven-year-old asked, after making several dishes, "Miss Rachel, why don't we just whip up a trifle before Mom comes to pick us up?" (And somehow, we did). The family rush on Sunday mornings, the home-to-get-Dinner-on-the-table, the shopping for bargains and enjoying the hectic and fulfilling life of a home-Mom. It's a great gift, to you as a Mother, and by you to those children and to the World they will grow up to contribute to. Thanks for all the above, the memories and the new ideas and just for sharing your precious time and family with us. You are my Hero this week.

All this discussion of tomato sizes reminded me: the vines over the end of the garden are a-knobbin'!!!

It's killin' me RIGHT NOW, with an undertongue tingle reserved for that first whiff of mustard out of the jar, or that tantalizing thought of biting into the first fresh dill pickle of the Summer. You sure you don't have some Southern kinfolks in your Family Tree? A NY girl who can make slaw like that!!! GRITS for sure! PS keep a lookout for Daniel---he'll be cruising your neighborhood in dark glasses and a low-slung hat, hoping for another smoker to appear.

Hostess Orange Cupcakes. Frozen. That cold, chewy bite of brownie-textured cake with the firm frosting, and the cream almost as solid as fudge. The orangey-sweet goodness of the chewing and tasting, the savoring of the texture, the COLD firm candiness of it all. There's a pack in my freezer right now. I just had a lime yogurt and a handful of colored goldfish, so maybe dessert. . .

We've got one---it's my watering can, and everytime I go out to see to things, it's been used to soak woodchips, as well. I have to get the soggy mess out in order to water the small pots, so I just leave the stuff in a little wet pile on the concrete in the sun, awaiting another day. Chris is doing a smoked butt today, just for us; our group will be here Tuesday evening for ribs and a walk over to the park for fireworks. Smells great from HERE!!!

It couldn't be worse than what I have inflicted upon the dear readers this week---I do heartily and abjectly apologize. (I'm still nudged occasionally in an unpleasant stomach spot by THE post from Katherine, way back in the "Worst Meal..." thread, and would not have thrust this latest atrocity upon all this innocent crowd had I thought properly beforehand). I do say I'm Sorry, in every language including Sanscrit and Ancient Sumerian. It should rightfully have gone in the WM thread anyway, as it WAS really bad. My descriptions were WAY too graphic and the "EDIT" button's gone. My most humble apologies. I grovel. I cringe. Kind of reminds me now of our shrinking from DD#2, when she's in full spiel of telling each and every bit of gore from a horror movie. I swear the quote in her yearbook should have been "But I HAVE to tell ya!!!," shouted after a hapless victim retreating with hands over ears. I didn't have to. For some forgotten reason, unknown save that my mind and fingers get away from my good sense, it just came out. Must have been some sort of wacky catharsis; if so, I owe everybody beaucoup for that moment on the couch. And there it lies. RIP and forgive me.

Potato salad. Baked beans with brown sugar, caramelized onions and peppers, barbecue sauce, baked under a lattice of bacon. Battered fries, crispy and salty and hot. And slaw. Grandma's vinegary marinated slaw with minced red bell pepper, lifted dripping with a slotted spoon. Mustardy mayonnaise slaw with celery seeds. Plain, if you have to, right out of the deli container. Blue slaw with dill pickles. Always slaw. But not as a side. ONNNNNNNN. It's the LAW.

I'll see you one poker game--all nighter, if you will, and raise you a Grandma weekend with a seven-year-old whirlwind. Please post the recipe. I need the energy. Besides, she loves to cook.

I always did think those two characters were named backward---Grendel conjures heroic shoulders, brave character, kind eyes, chivalry---Grennnnnndel---a name to savor. Beowulf sounds like a hairy monster which can't sneak up, cause it smells bad. Harry Potter and company sitting down to an empty table which magically fills with crystal flagons of Pumpkin Juice and all manner of delights after the welcome and announcements. Not to mention Buckbeak's diet of floppy ferrets. (Sorry, SLK!) All that magical Chocolat. The charming picnics of Heckle and Jeckle, with a real picnic basket spilling forth a ham, a bottle of wine, and fruit. Always. I could not GET my Mom to pack that when we went on a picnic. We always had sandwiches and fried chicken. Woody Woodpecker's Trees? Little Endians, Big Endians: Eggs. Jim Hawkins: Hardtack, salt beef, fish. Elmer Fudd: Wishful Wabbit.

Pictures, PLEASE!!! Just one. I've made 'em, and it takes a WHILE. And the catty-cornered ones, where the layer is up and down---don't try this at home---it's like trying to cantilever a wet bear. I don't get the little catalog from that chocolate Moose place anymore, and haven't had a look at a Dobosh in YEARS. C'mon---just a little peek? Or a taste--Uncle Sam optional.

Now I KNOW you're a GRITS Girl!!! That's an OLD Southern standby for strawberries and other dippin'-fruit!! I love the class pictures. Brings back lots of memories--substitute bright orange Brady Bunch countertops and it's home.

How on earth did I miss this sentence??!! My nominee for sig-line of 2006.

And where does one find that lovely concoction? Maybe in the pantry with all that foie gras and duck confit you guys always seem to have on hand?

Arsenal? That's nuclear!!

I still vote cake, as do Chris and DD. But she, who bakes, decorates, designs, stacks, architects, frosts, ganaches, buttercreams, fills, enrobes and tiers cakes, requested and got a Birthday Banana Pudding. Three layers in a big clear bowl, with whipped cream all between and lots of bananas, with Nilla wafers marching around the sides like soldiers. And rosettes of whipped cream on top, a candle in the big middle one. It's an old family thing. But that burnt sugar cake last weekend A piefiend converter, it was.

We've been out and about all day, and what a treat to come home to!!! It was HOT out there amongst the grownups, and just coming into this cool house, dialing up this thread, iced tea at hand---bliss multiplied. And today's may be my favorite pictures of all the magnificence portrayed on eG. Just seeing the new generation of weeGulleteers at work, those earnest faces just soaking in the experience---art on all its levels. I was a Cub Scout Den Mom for seven years, long after my own sons were past the age, and that experience allows me to say that you are to be admired, sympathized with, pitied, and envied to the highest degree---what a wonderful legacy you will bequeath on all this whole generation. You'll never know the extent of your influence on these young lives, and I'm so glad so much of your teaching is right there in the kitchen!! My battered old hat is off permanently, flourished toward PA.

Did they make these FOR a potluck and bring home leftovers? Did people come to THEIR potluck and leave the awful dishes behind? Did everybody go to a potluck and lose the raffle and have to take home the untouched disasters? And if you can stand it, PLEASE elaborate on that V-8 recipe---visions of a 9x13 pan filled straight from the can and slid into the freezer til solid. (On second thought, a good fork-fluffing and it might not make a bad granita, maybe with a bit of that syrupy frozen vodka in my freezer). Our family is filled with good cooks---the only notable uneatables come from my sister-in-law-in-law---Chris' brother's wife. Her contributions to family-together meals at his parents' house consist of Suddenly Salad (nothin' bettern dried veggies from a box, just add mayo) or a two-cup casserole holding a half-inch of baked creamcheese; the last is an appetizer--she just has to root around in his parents' cupboards for some saltines to go with. We've been to her house to dinner only once, and it was memorable, though perhaps fifteen years in the past. It was lasagna, constructed nicely with browned ground beef, a jar of ragu, noodles cooked surprisingly well, all layered with a dozen or so eggs beaten with a carton of cottage cheese and a good half-can of McCormick dried parsley. The dish was topped with grated mozzarella and run under the broiler to melt and brown. That was the entire extent of the cooking process. No baking, no 350 til brown and bubbly, no torch, no nothing. She cut into the dish with an egg-turner, and the noodles, meat and sauce slid wildly on its way to the plate, with great drips of white-flecked yellow egg falling from each slice in that slow ballet achieved only by uncooked egg or fake Karo- blood on CSI. This resulted in each plate's receiving a puddle of pinkish-marbled yellow goo, punctuated by the slithery wide grayness of floppy noodles. Beside it on the plate was ladled a matching puddle, this one in the coordinated gray of full-strength mushroom soup, flecked heavily with leaves and bits of almost-unidentifiable "chopped" broccoli, thawed under hot water until the block disintegrated. What remained of the florets were mush, and the stem bits and leaves were tough little pings of surprise which caught in your throat. If you were lucky. Most of them caught between your teeth, and resulted in a mass attack of hide-behind-the-napkin as we tried to extricate the sharp little shards. Everybody at the table seemed to have an Elvis-face on, as they endeavored to tongue that stubborn bit of foliage out from behind an eyetooth, with the accompanying little clicks and smacks. And the salad was an under-the-hairdryer special, learnt at her clogging class: Taco salad. Not the generally-approved taco salad with its hearty meats and cheeses and seasonings heaped upon crisp lettuce and tomatoes and chips. This one was a wooden bowl of chopped iceberg and tomato, to be dressed at table. The vegetables were hidden under a sprinkle of Kraft something, topped by a snack-sized bag of the original Fritos, the little crispy extruded ribbons. A flourish of the Kraft French bottle, a little "smock" as the top was unsealed, and the entire contents poured over, the salad tossed with "You have to dress this at the last minute---otherwise it gets soggy." So now we had THREE puddles, all running together like the confluence of the Pantanal, mixing and oozing and racing for the bread. OKAY. The above was catty and mean, and I should be ashamed. I'm usually called on to do all the cooking at his folks' house when we go visit, and some days there are twenty or so for a meal. Above SIL arrives at dinnertime, rested and beautiful, whilst we're scurrying around in the Alabama heat getting everything done. And she calls my cooking FooFoo. On every visit. FooFoo being nice rare steaks, in a fresh marinade, not shoeleather doused in A-1 BEFORE grilling. Poached asparagus with lemony mayo vs. dumping a can of Green Giant and calling it a day. Tiramisu and Ambrosia cake and lovely fruit muffins and banana bread made at home and transported 700 miles cause his Mom and Dad like 'em. Chicken salad not featuring Heinz relish and Miracle Whip, and the chicken fresh-cooked, not from a can. But last time we were there, I think I received the greatest compliment of my life: During cleanup, I heard her all the way into the kitchen from her perch on the living-room sofa, "I always say Rachel cooks too FooFoo for me, but this time there watten a thing Foo Foo on that table!" I'll take that.

OKAY---all the blue above is ME---my first try at the multiple thingie---at least I got in all the pics. I'll do better next time. Perhaps.

Hope it's not too late to say goodbye and thanks, though I haven't caught up on all the pages yet---BUSY Summer. I always enjoy your posts, and look forward to an interesting afternoon of your writing and pictures. THANKS!!!

I don't even LIKE seafood, and I've never found a bottle of wine that could beat the taste of good old iced tea, but this could convert an unbeliever in a heartbeat. What a glorious description---no only did you gild the lily, but the sunset, the sea breeze, the scent of forever faraway. What a lovely way to spend the night, and then that fabulous breakfast!! What do you do in your grownup life? Is there one? Never mind---this is quite enough.