racheld

Chufi, It's 11.06 p.m. at your house (I looked it up just now), and while I have been lazing away the day on a little trip, you have been cooking and serving and seeing your dear Husband's face light up and glow with pride and joy that you two found each other in this big world, and that you care so much about giving him such a lovely holiday. (And impressing all the guests, as well---we all take great happiness in our mates' accomplishments). By now, I imagine the dinner is over, the last of the wine savored, each dish enjoyed and appreciated and complimented. Brandy and cigars, if that's the thing in your group, demitasse and simple conversation and great satisfaction with such a well-planned, excellently prepared, graciously-offered evening with friends and a birthday to celebrate. We're hoping you'll hurry and tell us all about it, post pictures and your charming prose, but please---GET SOME REST FIRST!!! And my very best to the Birthday Boy. rachel

This is SUCH fun!!! I've wondered forever how city folks do their grocery shopping. Seems to be no room for a Safeway. And trudging up and down the aisles with a basket on your arm (and the required inconvenience of shopping as often as that small amount would require from day to day)---I'm so at home behind a humongous grocery cart, loading in the goodies from football-field stores. How DO you do it? You're one of my favorite posters, and this is just an embarrassment of riches, all at once...Love this. Off to Cincinnati for the weekend...can't wait to catch up on Sunday!!!

Coffee people are some of the wittiest, funniest, most literary and well-read on eG, with natural gifts for turning phrases, making metaphors, singing out similes, and arranging words in charming patterns. This is getting to be my favorite thread of all time---must be all the caffeine in the air. alarm clock debris

The torch has been passed; the Old Guard has stepped back, to a well-earned life of ease and comfort. All is as it should be.

And I'm sure the little grater is properly appreciative to be away from those pesky rough hooligans. Nutmegs are the schoolyard bullies, the Lollipop Guild of the spice world. They sneak out past curfew, they gossip and lie, and they just can't. be. trusted. Quite a few spoilages, over-seasonings and boilovers in a quite normal kitchen can be traced to those lurky nutmegs. They sit there, giggling behind their hands, as we spill, drop, pour laboriously-made stock right down the drain, and have unspeakable encounters with blistering pothandles and mandolines. Keep that little grater safely away from those jinxes. And don't turn your back.

Andie, you are the Goddess of kitchen teachings. Rule on. There are several utensil drawers---one for whisks and spatulas and grabbers and bench scrapers. Another holds all the Chinese utensils, the strainers and wok brushes and those cute bamboo-and-chickenwire dippers, plus two egg turners, the Rolls Royce of a can opener (hand-held) and a baggie of assorted colors of twisties which came off everything from bread to the morning paper. They live where they live. I wash all dishes, including all the ones going into the dishwasher, with Dawn apple, a brush, and water too hot to touch, thus the heavy yellow gloves. I just cooked "for the public" for so long, scalding water and antibacterial EVERYTHING are just part of our kitchen. And I load the DW pretty much the same way every time. I'm known to be grumpily ungrateful (only when I'm alone, muttering to myself) for help that puts glasses in the bowl slots and vice versa, or unrinsed dishes ANYWHERE. The two battered-but-sterile flappy acrylic cutting "boards" are used several times a day, scrubbed between each use with above brush/soap/hot water, stood on edge on a towel, returned to their slip-in place behind several standing platters on a shelf. I have a lovely maple one, a Corning one like frosted glass, and several of the little wooden paddles-on-a-lanyard things lurking about, but the two old gray scarred ones are the ones which get the use. On the back of my huge old black six-burner is a silver-spray-painted door from an ancient parlor stove; the courtly shepherd has been proffering the same rose to the same farm beauty for probably a hundred years. It serves no purpose; it rocks a little on the knobby decoration on the bottom, it needs a good scrubbing right this minute, but there it is, greeting me each time I enter the kitchen. The paint was already in place when I found it years ago at a yard sale---rust seeps through, adding to the relief, and it's charmingly ugly. Though we use only the handy-dandy sleek white electric kettle, the teakettle of a decade sits serenely on the right-back burner. It's a pineapple, with a jaunty topknot of jagged green, a nifty handle should I ever need to lift the lid. It's bright and cheery, and I will not relegate it to a dark cupboard. Chris' Dad has done the cooking at their house for quite a few years, and has quite a few rituals---he makes the weekly pot of oatmeal on Monday morning, and carves out a block from the tupperware each morning to microwave. And speaking of...their microwave door MUST stand ajar, despite its being a little off-kilter and apt to swing out and grope at unwary passersby, especially those with hot pots and pans just removed from the stove. You may close the door and set the timer and heat in it, but if it's empty, the door is NOT to be shut. Every visit brings the same lecture, verbatim, that the thing that wears appliances out is the opening and shutting of the door, breaking of the latches, etc., and woe betide anyone who closes the door and walks away. Must work, though; the thing was a dinosaur the first time I ever went to visit, and we're approaching our 20th anniversary. It'll be peeping away bright and early tomorrow, heralding the perfect temp of the oatmeal clods. And everyone knows Ketchup and 57 go upside down in the fridge door.

I think they were at Anne's house. Aunt Merilla was famous for her bottled goods. They HAD to be at Anne's house..cause Diana's Mama didn't forgive Anne for getting her dear daughter drunk until she cured the baby of croup. Hijack. But I'm sure those hardy PEI inhabitants deep-fried lots of stuff. In lard.

Our HERO and FOUNDER!!!! What a guy!!! I HATE purses. Haven't carried one since about 1986. I just stick a lipstick in my left pocket, a couple of cards and ID in the right (in a handy little plastic Ziploc), hang my reading glasses in the neck of my shirt, and I'm good to go. My best smuggle was a couple of years ago. We had stopped at a fastfood place for a bite of lunch, then headed off to the movie. We always hit the drink dispenser for a little topoff before leaving those places, and so we had two nice medium Dr. Peppers in the cupholder in the car. As we got out of the car to go buy our tickets, I said to heck with it...why buy their nine-dollar sugarwater when these perfectly good drinks will be melted and practically boiling when we come back to this hot car. So I stood between the car and a van and carefully inserted one drink into each side pocket. The chilly cups alongst my thighsides felt kind of nice on the trip to the door, as I walked casually past ticketstand, ticket ripper and concession. Then, came a wee problem. How to extract those two flimsy cups from my pants without catching the straws, popping off the tops, or anointing myself embarrassingly from hip to toe in sticky drink. I walked carefully into the ladies' room, past the big wall of mirrors, catching sight of my streetcar-wide hips and thinking that I could have taken my place in Marie Antoinette's entourage with those huge side-panniers I was sporting...all I needed was the big hair. I closed myself into a stall, reached to the right, painfully extracted one cup with my fingertips. Then, where to set it, cause I needed both hands. The little metal box on the wall had a slopy top, so I had to set it there, sort of back my bottom up to it and hold it in place whilst I tried to get that lefthand cup (now chillingly becoming painful) off my left hip. I reached gingerly into the pocket, and felt the "pop" of the lid as it disengaged from the cup. Now trying to play a bizarre game of Twister in a stall too small to turn around successfully, I managed to get top and straw out , stick the straw between my teeth, and waiting every moment for that chill flood of Pepper down my leg, I stood in a sidewise Mummenschantz posture, gently held the rim of the cup, and pulled upward in a careful manner befitting a member of the bomb squad in full padding. It slid free, I managed to snap lid on cup, rotate myself toward the butt-held drink, retrieve it, and exit the stall. To the fascinated stares of two elderly ladies who were obviously in great wonderment of how I managed to tend to the order of bathroom things whilst holding two full cups. Or what was in them. But Uncle Rack of Ribs takes the prize. Welcome, RACHEL!!!! edit spell

Our own homemade salad dressings---bleu cheese, vinaigrettes of all flavors, sesame, poppyseed which begins with half a sweet onion and some vinegar and sugar, whirled for an impossibly long time in the blender to make Miss Eva's special recipe, coveted and handed around under every hair dryer south of Memphis. The humble thousand island (NO pickle relish!!), made with the indispensible vinegar/sugar/spices syrup, simmered up by the quart every couple of months, and doled out like caviar; dill ranch with fresh-snipped dill and coarse black pepper; coleslaw dressing with cider vinegar and celery seeds. French, also blender-made, with paprika and tomato, and honey from our own bees. Caesar, started with a fresh warm egg and lemon, anchovies gently smeared into the bottom of the bowl, great snowings from the Parmesan grater, big crunchy, garlicky croutons fresh from the toasting pan. Those bottles just lurk and mock on the shelves of the store. We haven't had a storebought dressing in years, and always order "on the side" when we have a salad course in a restaurant (except for a couple which make excellent dressings).

Marketing went beautifully. Fate handed out a big "HA!" to the enjoyable musings and event. Yesterday morning, as we were getting ready to head out for a day's wedding photograph session, I went up to give a bite of bacon and a wee section of pastry to our macaw, who occupies the sunny spaces of the upstairs kitchen all to himself. Pool of blood in the floor, leakage from the FREEZER side of the up fridge. It had to have been OFF/DEAD/Kaput when I put away the FOUR on-sale-today John Morrell hams--.79 per pound, butt portion. Two huge briskets in the freezer bottom were still icy-cold, but thawed clear through; all the other packages of meat were soft to the touch, but VERY cold. Thank goodness for the 6-degrees-but-sunny outside. We evicted all the gift wrap, sewing supplies, packages of pictures and spices and pastas from their big snap-top clear lugs in the cold storeroom downstairs, and put all the food, including the orange juice, outside on the shady patio. Produce all fit into the downstairs fridge, and tomorrow a.m. the new fridge arrives. Adieu and a gold watch to the brave old one, friend of a thousand pies and a ton of produce, countless bags and boxes of frozen vegetables and fruit, keeper of icee bags for sore knees, icy-pops for the grandchildren, ice cream for a midnight foray. Farewell, Old Companion of the dowdy outdated gold finish. Welcome gleaming new white marvel. I've got just the space for you, all swept and mopped, and lots of filling for your shiny insides. And we discovered the orange juice at breakfast this morning---on a patio table, a solid block in the handy Tropicana carton. It should make a nice slushee for tomorrow a.m. With my lovely creamy cup of cap. There.

I'm with snowangel on this one---a short stint in the microwave--2 minutes for one potato, say five for six, etc., gets them to a cooking temp in the oven much faster. Just sitting in the oven waiting to get hot from the outside in is much slower than a quick zap to get them at least fairly hot all through, then the oven does all the work, with a little head start. This and heating leftovers or bread are the only things we use the microwave for. I find this to be the best method, though I don't like them completely cooked by micro; the texture is different, and that lovely crisp skin just isn't. Syntax optional.

Porch!!

Were they battered (Austin-tatious fried chicken) or did they just go wild when they hit the oil and sizz all over the place? (Speaking from experience. There's a bit about honey-injected turkey in the "I Will Never Again... thread). Visions of chick-shaped shrimp chips growing and growing and....

I just can't remember what they called the sandwich...it's on the tip of my tongue, but I guess the old brain cells are backfiring today. ← Monte Cristo?

And Dear Ina.

This minute---second cup of doubleshot, double S&L, hot skim very foamy. Sun reaching through the haze of organza at my kitchen window, shadow-skeleton of the Summer-clad grapevine swinging in the remnants of last night's siren-shrieking, window-rattling, three-sets-of-wind-chimes-orchestrating winds which set records from here to Memphis. Last night was Spring-wind-too-warm, today is bright chill with clean-swept skies, lawn, thoughts. Last soul out the door for work, just me and the keyboard and the throaty chuckle of the Senseo, foaming out these few words and the rich, steamy day-in-a-cup that brings the world into focus. Today is marketing day, for fruit and fresh greens and tiny peas to go bouncing into the pan. Rosy radishes, I think, and some bitter endive to support these huge peasant-bread croutons crisped long and slow in last night's oven cooling after the casserole. Navel oranges hefty with juice, tiny burgundy grapes for the weekend chicken salad, some long whips of scallion, a pearly handprint of fresh ginger for the lo mein. The foraging will consume my morning, the gathering-in, the setting-by. But for now, a bit of sunshine and a hot, foaming sweet cup. And maybe a Fortune-tip out by the lavender bed. Edited for apostrophe--I've always thought that should be one of the Muses

Thank you for posting that link. It was a lovely tribute.

Cheers, Y'all!!!

Welcome, amylou!!! You're gonna fit right in!!! Snow Petrified snowballs!!

AHHHH. Lumproot!!! They just keep coming back and coming back. They spread UNDER the other stuff in the garden, and when you start to till for the new crop, there they are. Sweet and crispy, an old Southern staple in three-bean salad.

Welcome, BigHoss!!! We come through that way on the way from visiting family now and then, and have loaded up on BBQ several times. But it seems that every deedab time we've traveled in the past couple of years, it must have been on Sunday, because not one of the several we've tried was open. SLOOOOOWWW cooking, that's the trick. We'll drive up to a place we've been referred to by friends or online, or Roadfood, and one look at the roof---no smoke---and we're gone. Same for smokestacks with little peedidly wisps of white going skyward---one sniff of the outside air, and you KNOW. Good first post...it said a lot. PS...and best to Little Falsey

Oh, Dear Lord. I forgot the kittens. They did not survive their first night of life, and all three are out in the garage freezer in a little satin box. From 2001.

As I live and breathe!!! That's what was in mine back in '86!!! My late FIL, and indeed every person of male persuasion in the whole family was or is an AVID hunter. He had shot the bobcat out at the deer camp, and brought it home, where he stashed it in MY freezer. And we had LOTS of freezers...we lived on a farm, and the family "compound" consisted of a several acre lawn with four houses of us, five generations right there in one yard. We had freezers for fruit, and freezers for game; several held the bounty of the huge vegetable gardens, and others were for miscellaneous stuff. Everybody's little top one on the fridge was usually full of butter, margarine, maybe pizza boxes, etc. There were upright ones and downright ones, chests you could store an ox in, and a couple of smaller ones just for ice. The ancient one out in my utility shed had seen better days, and wore battle scars all over its passe' white surface. Even the catch in the hinges which was supposed to hold the lid up was broken, resulting in our all learning a weird little dance of lift, stick-your-head-under-and-hold-up-the-lid-while-you-look-inside, grab whatever you were looking for and try to lower the lid with one or both hands full of frozen chunks of something. This more often than not led to the dropping of frozen items onto your feet or shattering them on the concrete, and almost always to the slamming of the lid with a resounding whoomp! and a bruise to some portion of your anatomy. On the day in question, I hurried home from work in order to get started on a Shrimp Creole dish for a friend's unexpected houseguests. (Did I mention that you had to sort of kick the front of the freezer in order to jiggle the wiring or the lightbulb or whatever controlled its sporadic light supply? It would obligingly come on for a while, or stay on past your closing the lid, just to be contrary. We checked it once, sort of snuck up on it by opening the lid a hairline, way less than it took to trigger the old black button in the recess, and sure enough, light as day in there). So I knew just where to locate the packages of shrimp, ran in the door, lifted the lid, leaned WAY over to position my head JUST SO to hold the top up, rested the lid on my skull, and kicked the side of the still-dark freezer. And as the light gleamed on, I found myself face-to-face with a freezer full of bobcat, all brindly fur and shining eyes, lying there all snarly-fanged, just inches from my face. I don't know which happened first. I jumped back and up enough to free the lid, which thumped down upon one of my uplifted hands, whumping it underneath its fall. I think it even bounced once or twice. And I don't remember if it hurt. I just remember my heart racing, and the folks running over from the lawn and field nearby. And we all laughed a long time. It got told and re-told at church and all around the community. And a taxidermist DID stuff it, with a dangly dead squirrel in its mouth, and hokey red paint on its front teeth. They even offered it to Chris as part of my "dowry" when we got married.

Were it twenty years ago, I'd win.

Word Birth!!! Word Birth!!! Blandulize Lexikeepers take note.