racheld

Ohhh, bliss!!! What Miss Maya really said about banana pudding was that she went out of town, then came back, knocked on her boyfriend's door, and caught him at the table with another woman, who had made him a banana pudding. Miss M. went home, whipped up one of her vastly superior models, with perfect bananas, cooked custard, and lovely crisp wafers, delivered it to the errant boyfriend, and told him to enjoy---it would be the last one that good that HE'D ever taste. You can just TELL that she's a whiz in the kitchen. DO try the recipe again. I haven't seen her actual recipe, but I never assemble the pudding until the custard is very cool. I've never cared for bananas heated in any way---their magic is changed in the heating, somehow. The puddings set out at church suppers with meringue atop---I pass by those for the cold versions.

Exactly. Though my Mom ever subscribed to the stovetop version, draining the spaghetti and putting it back into the pot, then throwing on the grated cheese, stick of butter, and a big glug of Pet milk. That sat for a few minutes, back on the same burner (now turned off but still hot) until everything was melty and gooey, then all was stirred gently into a creamy, messy dish that was a part of EVERY holiday. Easter ham and asparagus---that yellow mac and cheese just looks so PRETTY with the pink and green. Fourth of July---potato salad and a big crusty pan of bacon-topped baked beans---well, the children might want some mac and cheese. No matter that Christmas Dinner or Thanksgiving automatically called for dressing, sweet potatoes, and all manner of other starches, the spaghetti and cheese made an appearance, in the little hotel pan of countless holidays before, sitting on the stove as a part of an immense parade of rich Southern dishes that stretched all around the kitchen counter.

The rose hips thing made me remember one of Chris' trips to Europe. He was an avid home-brewer, so on a trip to Germany, he toured several small breweries. He asked if he could purchase some of the distinctive hops used in one beer that he particularly liked. They said that he would not be allowed to take them out of the country, but if he would buy a set of the lovely Pilsners in the gift shop, they would ship them, and when they arrived, he must be sure to save the packing material. So the glasses came, safe and sound, with about three pounds of dried hops surrounding them. He used some for a making of beer and we Ziplocked the rest and put them in the freezer. Where they immediately perfumed meat, ice cream, everything we had put up from the garden---the beans and peas and even bell peppers---all had that stinky-socks aroma of those Hops from Hell. It took DAYS of cleaning and deodorizing to get that freezer back in working order, and we had to discard a lot of the food.

Thank YOU. What a lovely thing to say. And Bless all Grandmas, Mammaws, Grans, Mee-Maws and all other gracious women who teach eager, bumbling, messy children to cook.

I'm making a big ole old-fashioned Banana Pudding right now. I just finished the (6-yolk, 3 pints, 1 cup, some vanilla) custard, strained it and set it to cool before the layering will begin tonight. It needs to sit overnight in the fridge for the flavors to mingle properly, and the cookies to soften into melty bites in the sauce. It's for a family reunion tomorrow, and I have the neatest tote-bowl---a gift from DS#1 and DDIL last year. It's like a really refined type of foam, smooth and pearly outside, and shaped like a big flat-bottomed melon. The lid lifts to reveal a 1-gallon stainless bowl inside, and it keeps hot or cold for about 8 hours. I'll layer the custard with sliced bananas, Nilla wafers, and whipped cream, just as I would in the Trifle Bowl. A row of wafers will stand like soldiers around the sides, and last layer will be piped swirls of whipped cream on top.

I believe Racheld has Blue Plate on the top shelf of her refrigerator! MMM-HMMM I do!!! Just looked back in on this, and had a look at the label---made by Reilly Foods in New Orleans. If you got any more Southern, you'd need a snorkel to keep from drowning in the Gulf. I'd also forgotten to mention that I did learn, years ago, to make "dinner plate" mayo, with a fork. It was my own Mammaw's recipe, with an egg yolk, dry mustard, some white or tarragon vinegar, a dash of salt, beaten with plain old "Wesson Oil"---which is, of course, one word where I come from. "Wessinoahl"---the frying, mayo-making, poppyseed dressing whirling, be-all, end-all of the gourmet market of the 60's and 70's South. You just tilt that plate, throw in the egg and a little sift of the McCormick dry mustard (somehow that's been a standby in kitchens all across the South---kitchens which otherwise boasted no more daring a seasoning than ground cinnamon for the sweet tater pie---and grocery-store McCormick took over when the Watkins man retired from his weekly route). Dash of salt, slurp of vinegar---tarragon (tare'-gun) especially prized for its exotic nature all around. It's nice to have a friend to help; otherwise you have to prop the plate on a high-folded towel to have one hand free for pouring the oil, which is rightfully poured from the one-cup Pyrex with the red lettering, part of a three-piece set native to every Southern woman's dowry, along with three dozen embroidered pillowslips and the nesting bowls. Drip drip drip, then thread, then, as it thickens, more volume, more vigorous beating, clanging that fork onto the china like a roundup dinnerbell. And some kind of magic happens; it begins with the first stirring, using the unknown principles of cling and surface tension and centrifugal force or some such, and somehow, nothing escapes that plate; not a drop is lost. When it's at its perfect fluffiness, with all or most of the oil absorbed---don't be persnickety about getting in the last drop; whole makings have been lost trying to even up the damage done by over-oiling an already-perfect mixture. You just KNOW when. THEN. Lay the plate down flat and pick up that nice halved sweet onion you've got waiting. Hold it sorta diagonal up several inches from the plate of mayo, and scrape a sharp little knife across the cut surface, counting the drops as they fall from the edge. Exactly ten. No more, no less. Stir them in thoroughly, pinky-tip a teensy blob into your mouth, and check for seasoning. Perfect. Scrape it into a pretty little bowl and serve alongside some thick, perfect tomato slices, or a nice wedge of tangy aspic (especially a Bloody Mary one), or on a gelled Waldorf. Spread it onto crust-cut bread, lay on some watercress or thin pink curls of Co-Cola baked ham or smoked salmon and roll into little cigarettes. Make a still-warm 'mater sandwich with a big red round one, right off the vine. Set that bowl out on a lace tablecloth and call it good. My Mammaw's kitchen forks were like a four-fingered hand---the pinky-tine on one side beaten half-an-inch-shorter than the other three by constant banging against a plate, whipping up that Sunday mayonnaise.

Dear Lord, don't let Chris get in on this!! He can throw them back at you for hours---just pick a subject.

I have but two border-crossings and a trip to England as trunk-stickers. But we left the states with a five-pound bag of small Gala apples, munched them on the plane, had one or two on the tour bus, and when we returned, the Dallas airport confiscated the lone last apple in the carry-bag. Poor thing had come from Albertson's in the first place, and just wanted to go home. They DID, however, ask if we'd gone near sheep or cattle in England, and since we had toured a working sheep farm, they sent our shoes through the sheep-dip vat. Too bad they didn't bother to ascertain if those were the shoes we'd actually been wearing at the time.

I Know, as well. (And KA, I LOVE the little cooking reference, even though it's a bit fishy!)

It was good to see two good, solid, imaginative chefs in the finale, and the fact that they're obviously good people is a nice bonus. And Richard's a winner all the way---lovely family, new house, new car, new baby and a great talent, all prizes life has already dealt him. Season 1 was OK, Season 3 was sorta Who Cares?, but this year with the two good guys was sorta a redemption for Season 2, which whimpered out with the only choices being the lesser of two weasels. And THEN they missed. Toques doff to Stephanie!

Yep, Hon. I been doin' these since most of y'all were knee-high to a gherkin. And the farther South you go, the sweeter and crispier they are---the recipe I got first is nothing but slices, dry sugar and a handful of cloves. They end up very crisp, VERY sweet, and almost transparent.

This is what that "You GO, GIRL!" thing is all about. Believe me, with many of years of doing that in the Mississippi heat, I can say: GIRL!!! You WENT!!!!

Would we hope it was a white?

Poor Hung. Gone AND forgotten. In the previews, Richard is heard saying something like, "Why is Lisa still here?" and perhaps that's the Elephant-in-the-room that he mentions to make everyone gasp and his own face turn red and gloomy. Oh, please don't let that one bald statement pointing out the judges' ineptitude bias them against him for the finale. I love both of the top two, but the clinker in the barrel still seems to have a lot of rattle left in her. Television

Long time ago, somebody dubbed me "Goddess of Lily Gilding." I'm retiring. Think you can handle a crown with twelve pounds of sequins and a kindergarten's wortha glitter? Here ya go.

I just floated on the flow of your words---I thought of TB's "A Day In the Life..." and as then, thought "I'm glad it's not me." I've just seen TC, in which Tom C was "expediter, " and then did a total immersion in a TIVO-ed HK marathon, in which Ramsay, and then each of the chefs, did all the yelling and hurry-up and pick-it-up and where's-my-risotto? and you-lazy-cow. So my customer-only experience is coloring my idea that that was drama for TV. I've certainly never heard any such noise from the kitchen in any restaurant I've ever been in. Is there that much yelling, and even more interesting---does a line of chefs/cooks totally remember six orders shouted out at once, including salads and desserts? And over and over again in a night's work? That's just beyond imaginable to me, to work in a hot, quick environment with the pressure that it must entail. I can, and have, cooked for 300, but at HOME, at my own pace during a day's work---not bumping elbows and frying pans and sharp blades with frenzied companions intent on immolating and chopping everything in sight. My mind boggles. And my admiration rises.

WhaddI say? Somebody refresh my senile brain---only thing I remember mentioning about M&C at all is the cup-of-sugar pan inflicted on guests by Aunt Polly. (I wish that little green Urp-smiley would print on here).

Good Morning, Ron, and I wish you DID like coffee. I just finished an entire percolator---needed badly since my elderly bones are chasing after a nine-month-old today. The flavor and the burble and the scent filling the morning rooms---that's a lovely part of my day, and I wish everybody shared the experience. The weather has been too much with us for an outdoor cup lately, but I'd love a stroll iin your cup-garden. Still have my own little set of picks and brushes from college around here somewhere---we used to go to the Chuckalissa dig often, and there's nothing like a shine and a flash and a maybe to set your heart racing, and then there's the curve of the bowl, and a tiny glyph of birdwing---a better jolt than java. Major envy of your constant access to the past's mysteries.

I like little Shane, Barbie, Adam and Romance Guy. Food looked fairly solid, save for the pink pork. But then, Rory had her proudest moment with stripes on a cantaloupe. I can't fathom tuning in to catch RomuLisa doing her best impression of those snobby dress-shop ladies who think their stores are too good for the likes of you. It would feel like inviting the school bully into your home by choice. Does she not have a great fall on the train, due to shoes or sway? There's a great slosh of orange, and then feet in the air.

I'm so glad it's YOU!!! We've been without internet since all those bad storms on Friday, so I've a bit to catch up with. I read the first post, then sort of unfocused my eyes (sat down without my glasses anyway), and just scrolled down the rainbow to Post #4. Beautiful. Have to stop there to get dinner on the table, but I'll anticipate the treat in store for later this evening.

I just want to know what it all IS---I want it to be grapes in a port sauce, honey (lavender---do I see blossoms?), and poached quince would be nice, but it's not quite the right color. Candied orange in syrup, maybe? I won't begin to try to name the cheeses.

Wooo, Randi!!! Were you invited to the home of one of the older people you cook for? Sounds like the taste expressed by a lot of them.

The grits pot. any plate or bowl from which they were consumed or served, the spoon or paddle with which they were stirred, and I believe Lewis Grizzard was the one who said that in every garbage can in the South, there resides at least one fork with its tines permanently obscured by the concrete of dried grits. Moses and the Hebrews could have left Egypt ten years earlier if they'd had grits to add to those bricks. The problem is, you want to serve them piping hot, so you plop them into the serving bowl and stick the cooking pot under cold running water, but there's always an unsoaked bit on the rim, and the lid---ohhh, the lid, if any has adhered. You'd just as well get out the blasting caps. PS I don't know what a badger is. I even googled it, saying "kitchen badger" to narrow the field. I found only many, many child-size play kitchens, and a You-Tube of a tall guy in a furry suit. I turned it off before he could start yiffing and scritching. Details, please?

You can just keep smug remarks like that to yourself At least until we have some.

To parrot the late, great Richie Valens: OHHHHH, Donna!