racheld

This is just BEGGING to be a sig line!!! Please elaborate on the menu---how long DOES one nuke a goose?

I posed the question at the breakfast table, over lovely warm croissants and pineapple Danish freshmade by DD at her bakery just a couple of hours before. We all agreed: CAKE We discussed fillings and icings, frostings and dustings, mentioning that you can put lemon icebox pie filling as a between-the-layers goodie in a cake, but it's just THERE in a pie. Cheesecake is cake. Mousse cake is cake, as are moltens and bundts and pounds and stacks and cups and bars. And we'd all be much the poorer without Birthday Cake. Few pies have interesting names; with the two notable exceptions of Chess and French Silk, they're boringly named. They're mostly apple or pumpkin or cherry or chocolate (wouldn't THAT one be great as a cake filling---yum, chocolate pudding in between!), but cakes have WONDERFUL names---Hummingbird and Red Velvet and Better Than...as well as Caramelllll (Arrange your lips around that several times--just the word is delicious) and Orange Velvet and Carrot with Creamcheese and Pecan Frosting and Strawberry Mousse and Tunnel Of Fudge and Devil's Food and (equal billing) Angel Food. I just named a few of the thousands of stacked-high, rich-flavored, melt-on-the tongue, layered, rolled, barred, tiered, velvet-crumbed, vanilla-scented, chocolate musked, sweetly-waiting bits of the baker's REAL art. Pie: Roll out crust, pour in fruit, bake. Roll out crust, pour in custard, bake or not. Cake: Chemistry, flavor, MAGIC. Especially the slice of Lemon-Apricot we shared at The Red Squirrel in Cincinnati last weekend. Heaven. We vote cake.

It's almost noon here, so I suppose your day is winding down---hope you're all dressed up and OUT for a lovely dinner. I loved the pics of all the comings and goings, from your breakfast before work to your break in the garden, to all the crowds and festivities (bright, cheery orange everywhere!!--reminds me of my first kitchen. They asked what color; I said bright and cheerful, and it was ORANGE everywhere except the appliances and cabinets--think Brady Bunch). The strolling customers, the foodstalls (I'd choose that devil-may-care anvil waffle any day, much more interesting than those regimented perfectly-square ranks) and your stock of wares. I checked out all the titles, and have only one of the ones you were offering for sale---the Parker (Sunny & Spenser Jesse Stone ) What a fun day!! And I LOVE the fifth-story "elevator" contraption. I always picture that with a piano somehow, creaking its weighty way up to a loft). Looking forward to tomorrow's dinner party.

The spoon thing makes removal of that luscious soft greenness from the shell much easier. But the neatest way to remove the pit is to hold the half with the pit flat in one hand and give a careful little swing of your sharp knife down upon it, embedding the edge of the blade (NOT NOT NOT the point) into the pit with a little "smick." A gentle twist, a knock of the knife handle on the edge of the garbage can, and the pit is gone. (Forktines in palm---NOOOOOOOO) And Welcome, Mike. We've all lifted a potlid and been shocked by the contents' condition...perfectly innocent ingredients just mutiny sometimes, and who knows what they get up to in there in the dark. Your Mom's wit and wisdom is priceless---what a life lesson, as well as a kitchen mantra.

Now, see, I find this salad pretty and infinitely DIVE-able. You even put the anchovies all over to one side so I wouldn't have to touch 'em. And Kris, though I hold you and your cooking in high esteem, I'd have to wear my Wellies to even WADE in that one.

Poundings. Has that been mentioned yet? The tradition may have died out save in very small, secluded enclaves of the Hardest of Shell Baptists and a few Pentecostal congregations, but Pounding the Preacher was a very popular gathering until a few years ago. Packages of fresh-dressed game of all sorts, pork fresh from the hog-killin', buckets and tubs of home-grown tomatoes and potatoes and turnips, great croaker sacks of roasin' ears and flower-embossed slabs of just-churned butter to anoint them, bags and boxes and burlaps and pokes of everything from chitlings to pie. And due to quite a few kitchen-proud local cooks with their own famous recipes, the preacher's family might be eating pound CAKE for weeks thereafter. No self-respecting pastor was expected to do all the preaching, choir directing, visiting, comforting and soul-saving required without ample sustenance to start out with, and the new family in the parsonage walked in to stocked cupboards, pantry and refrigerator, as well as a well-stacked woodpile, brimming coalbin or topped-off butane tank. Newly-married couples were frightened out of their slumbers by honking horns, banging of pans, and raucous shouts from friends and neighbors bearing great stores of foodstuffs, household goods and tools to stock the workshed. I've attended quite a few of these little rural festivals, and the outpourings of generosity ranged from gallons of homemade pickles to a puppy for the kids.

It's good to see my little mint ears sprouting all under the big tree, though it will be such an overgrown tangle by August, I'll think it will creep in and strangle us in our beds. Juleps (now where DID I store those nice metal cups?) and tea and tabbouleh and Miz Paula's Watermelon salad---yum.

Why, you're welcome, Hon!! And welcome to eG---you sure posted in the right place first.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Everyone is requesting lovely pictures and trips and markets and sites they'd like to see, and I have one request: I saw your journal (?) lying on the balcony table, and hope you will post a pic of your handwriting---a grocery list, a recipe, anything. We all so enjoyed Bleudavergne's minute-by-minute "to-do" list in her lovely script, and I'd love to see your own. My dear neighbor is a German lady who will be eighty in June. She is just a dear, and I get a lift of the heart whenever I see her lovely European writing on a note or card in the mailbox. I hope this is the happiest birthday you've ever had.

Oh, Big H!! If Alton B. had been blessed to have been born in the South, this is the show he'd be hosting!!! He couldn't have said it better. Or plainer. Or more interestingly.

Southern Born and Southern Raised---never had the taste for any kind of liquor, shine included, but my husband's dowry included the contents of a quite elegant bar, not the least of which were several TWO-liter soft-drink bottles of the good ole homemade stuff, gifts from friends along the Alabama backroads. Once when my SIL was visiting, a great group of us broke out the shine for all to have a taste. SIL drank most of her first glass, cut about half-and-half with Diet Sprite by one of the ever-willing volunteer bartenders in the group. She went back to the bar during the evening, replenished her drink on her own, then got up and "lightened" it a bit from time to time. UNTIL she was weaving in her chair, having poured shine from one bottle over her ice, then "cutting" the strength with a pour from a Sprite bottle containing even more of the hard stuff. Glad we noticed her condition before she Sprited herself unconscious.

Oh, Klary, you have RATS!!! My very favorite pets of all time. We had a small apartment when we first moved here, and Chris knew I missed all our Down-South menagerie. We were strolling Wal-Mart one day, went our separate ways, and he reappeared with a little Animal-Crackers box containing a little white girl rat. She was a little delight, named Penelope, but christened (the operative word) "PeePee" by DD#2 on whom she tinkled the first time she picked her up. We had a succession of seven PeePees over the years, getting a wee one when the elder seemed to be getting on in days. After we took in two unwanted, mistreated ferrets, the last PeePee was distressed anywhere in the house, so after she passed on, we haven't had another little girl rat, but you've inspired me to go get another one soon. PS I just noticed their names---what is it about their diminutive cuteness that inspires double naming?

What a lovely surprise!!! I've been out of the loop for several days, and what an unexpected delight to return to your BIRTHDAY blog!!! We have a lot to look forward to this week. And I LOVE that you started out with a trip to a market that has GREENS!!! Turniptops where I come from are just referred to as "greens" and the bunches you just picked or bought or are cooking are called a "mess." As in, "I just cooked a nice mess of greens---come have supper with us." Thanks for the week-long invitation!

I never self-quoted before, but I must draw attention to the Dinner Thread. The sweet thing has just made up some of the purtiest Cheese Biscuits this side of a Baptist All-Day Singin'--and about enough of them to serve a good sized choir and several Deacons. She's getting Southerner and Southerner by the day.

And all filed out, singing and blessed, for a big ole Sunday Dinner on the Ground.

This is PRICELESS!! What have we been missing? Where IS your GALLERY?? We all need to have that last line inscribed on a kitchen plaque. And sazji, the chard/lentil soup: Does the word horta come to mind?

Gorgeous food, splendiferous desserts!!! Just smear a little lipstick on it---Fresser will take it.

This says SO MUCH. And would fit so many occasions. Especially here. I know a sig line when I see one.

Welcome, Sisters!!! Pick up that black skillet and join right in. You're like my old friend whose needlepoint sampler reads: "I wasn't born in the South, but I got here as soon as I could." And Klary, our Amsterdam member of the perfect fried chicken above, has just posted her first shrimp etouffee on the Dinner thread---it looks so good, I offered to FedEx her a bag of grits for next time.

Dayum, FF!! I was just about to sign off, and then THIS!!! Droolings and coveting. I WILL not go to FF's webpage til I have finished the laundry...I will not go to....

Haven't seen the show. Haven't even finished the thread. Just have to give a shout-out to this perfect visual...this will be the watchword for all unwatchable TV forever.

Florence King is the Queen of writing about G.R.I.T.S. and Belles and all manner of Southern Womanhood; Fannie Flagg is an absolute genius with a golden gift for dialogue and character and scene, as well. My own Mother was given a lifelong wedding gift by her favorite aunt, a thin, rangy woman with an ever-present Camel in her hand or between her lips. She called Mother in one day just before they were to get married, had her set up the ironing board, and handed her a set of khaki work clothes and several of my uncle's white shirts. Not until Mother had ironed them to Aunt's satisfaction did the lesson cease, and this was not a steam-iron affair---this was a glass Coke bottle with a sprinkler stopper, sprinkling JUST SO, then ironing with a curly-cord iron plugged into the outlet on the side of a ceiling light fixture. THEN, they went to the kitchen, where Mother cut up a chicken, did all the appropriate hand-scrubbing and sanitation necessary to a kitchen, then fried the chicken, made a smooth, lump-free gravy and a chocolate pie from scratch, using the crust Mother had made that morning and had chilling whilst she ironed. Aunt had felt sorry for Mother because she'd never been allowed in the kitchen except to do dishes---she was left-handed and made Mammaw nervous, cutting "backward like that." All that probably accounts for my having been allowed free run of kitchen, knives, stove, and pantry from a very young age. Maybe that's why I like to cook so much. And G-girls mostly say "Bee-hind." And sometimes, in exigent circumstances, they can be heard to mutter, "Dayum, Bobby Ray!"

Yep, just last night. A client of ours is a food distributor, and is always handing Chris something to try---yesterday's goodies included two 10-serving bags (frozen) of Tennessee Pride sausage gravy and a jar of neon pickle relish. I looked at it in the twilight-approaching room and took it to a lighter place to be sure. Sure enough, it's an "authentic" relish without which Chicago hot dogs would be incomplete, and one of the ingredients is proudly listed as "Blue #2." I was planning nice sandwiches of the luscious pink ham Chris baked on the new grill, in foil, for several hours, open for another hour or two, to a melty-tender pinkness. He asked, "How about biscuits on this cool evening?" and so I made five big ole cathead biscuits, brushed with melted butter before and after, for a lovely sheen. The bags of gravy were flattened, frozen pillows of gray with lots of sausage crumbs. I laid them on the cutting board and sliced each into four neat squares with the big cleaver, inserted them into quart freezer bags, for seven more breakfasts, and heated one as directed. The package requires 16 ounces of water added, so each little pack will take four (they say, but it was so thick and clotty that I added at least twice that as it heated---but Chris said it was delicious). The ham quickly sizzled up into soft, tender slabs, perfect for inserting into a golden, steamy biscuit. He had fig preserves in his "dessert" biscuit with a pat of soft butter; I had threads of honey on mine. More of that lovely cold mango and pineapple sticks to finish.

I wanna bring this thread back up especially for Chufi, over on the dinner thread. She's in Amsterdam, but her picture of a fried drumstick, properly marinated in buttermilk, Tabasco, etc., then cooked to the perfect golden-brown, perfect shattery crust, is worthy of any Below-the-MD-cook in possession of her Mammaw's black skillet and a leftover cotillion corsage. G.R.I.T.S. Girls are of a Southern State of MIND, not geography. They are be-mannered at birth, born to be gracious, social, tolerant of others' foibles, and just a tad bit short-tempered with foolishness and unkindness. They may be young or old, hair ranging from whalespout wisps to blue once-a-week helmets sprayed into submission at their Standing Appointment. They almost all own pearls, gloves, compacts, and several sturdy purses; hats are optional, though the G.R.I.T.S set probably own as many feathery sweeps and veiled toques as the Royal Families of Europe, and wear them with more panache, as well. They can take their French manicures straight home from the salon and plunge right into that bowl of buttermilk chicken, flour it up and fling it in that skillet beside the pot of collards as well as they can sashay their satin-clad selves into a country club, the opera house or the White House. Dirt under those fancy nails just means they've been in the tomato patch or the rosebed or the horsestall, but they clean up REALLY well. They have a zest for life, for literature, for Family and Friends; both are legion and necessary. Countless generations are remembered and celebrated; Grandma's necklace is a lovely accent to Granddaughter's wedding dress, and the tiniest new member of the clan is welcomed with her own add-a-pearl and a whispered word of womanly wisdom in her tiny ear. The littlest ones know to say, "Yes, Ma'am" and keep their skirts down and their knees together on their trikes...they aspire to be cheerleaders and doctors, mothers and teachers, writers and world-fixers, and usually achieve any and all of those, and much more. Martinis and Mystery, Gloves and Lawnmowers, Satin and Skillets---all are part of a G.R.I.T.S. Girl's makeup, along with good manners, kitchen knowledge, love of animals and the outdoors, luxurious perfume and scandalous underwear and perhaps a good knock of bourbon on occasion. It's a soothing, sizzling Sisterhood, and place is no deterrent to membership. It's all in the outlook.

I just happened upon three half-pound shiny black tins of Grace Rare Tea, from the Grace Tea Company: Darjeeling, Superb 6000; Owner's Blend (Rare Congou---I had no idea what this was; the name was enchanting---it's a lovely sippy tea, almost nutty) and Connoisseur (Master Blend), which, despite the luxuriously-elite name, is a nice morning cuppa, plain or with cream and sugar. They're all lovely, brewed in the sweet little clerical-collar insert to my ancient McCormick (free premium in the 40's) teapots. We're avid RoT people, and have almost every flavor on hand. Friends from England brought us a Royal Purple tin of delicious "Wimbledon" tea last Summer. Wish we could buy that blend here.