racheld

Our oldest Granddaughter and her Mom lived with us for a couple of years during her toddlerhood. She loved the Chinese restaurant just around the block, and we went there for dinner quite often. I'd load up a baggie with her spoon, bib and sippy-cup, he'd pick her up, and we'd "walk out" the back gate and have our dinner. In fact, her first sentence I ever heard, at about 18 months, referred to her Grandfather and her wishes to go out that evening. We were sitting on the back patio; she was twirling a pretty red-and-white umbrella over her head, singing and dancing, and suddenly she pointed. "Ganner go gate. I eat noodles." I called him on his cell and told him we had dinner plans. THEN she discovered the ice cream machine. Chris is fond of Coke Floats, so his dessert was always a glass with a squirt of the soft-serve, topped by a foamy portion of Coke from the handy machine. He made her first one in a tiny ceramic condiment cup, a tablespoon of ice cream and a mere whisper of Coke. She spooned it up, was satisfied with her portion, and we went home. Things continued as usual: dinner, Coke Float, home, for several trips. Then one evening she was impatient for her treat. He got up for another item from the buffet, and she called out for all to hear: "Don't forget my Flote Lote, Ganner!" So Flote Lote it is, though she is old enough now to go and prepare her own, AND that of her tiny sister, who gets the wee cup and spoon. And we still suggest a trip to the restaurant with, "Wanna Go Gate?"

If your cocktails are as delicious as your prose, you are an excellent host. Exquisite imagery!!!

Me, TOO!!! Is there a one of us who hasn't stood there idiotically, head cocked, dismayed frown wrinkling our brows, both eyes on the drainhole, as SOMETHING we cooked or slaved for went gurgling down the sink? grimace pout

Still applies, at least in the grocery stores we frequent. Even SILLIER, our favorite Chinese restaurant lets all the younger members of the family who are old enough to set or bus a table help out on occasion. They cannot pick up cocktail or beer glasses or the empty beer or wine bottles when they clear the tables. They take all the plates and other litter, and another old-enough-to-qualify person makes a trip for the sinful stuff. I hadn't noticed this anywhere else, mainly because all the staff of other places is of actual working age. These are the children of the several owners, staying at the restaurant and doing their homework, etc., while Mom and Dad work. ETA "the" in front of empty. It read as though the kids weren't allowed to upend the bottles for a nip.

Cornbread Andie

Is that like a backwater? I used to live in one of those down South.

My only brushes with KD in quite a few years consist of proximity to a little yellow Tupperware bowl, brought to every family gathering by a dear SIL, whose daughters would eat nothing else from the laden table at their Grandparents' house, and a trip to a spice store with a friend. We were separately cruising the aisles, pushing our cute little spice-sized carts, and as I rounded a turn, I saw her in whispered conversation with the one clerk on duty. I just kept loading up on this and that from the wonderful-smelling shelves, and on another trip round the end, I saw her all the way over at the "Staff Only" door, just standing, waiting. I thought she might be waiting to use their restroom, or having the clerk look for some spice not on the shelves. Just then, the clerk emerged from the back room, handed her what looked like a big sun-yellow basketball. She hurriedly put it in the cart and covered it with her coat. She turned to me, said, "Don't you LOOK!!!" and we went to the cash register. She had just purchased a giant-size plastic bag (bigger than a gallon Zip-loc) of the KD powder---or its clone. She told me in the car that she uses it all the time, in casseroles and to flavor soups and sauces and baked pastas. I didn't even know you could BUY the stuff in bulk. You'd have had to empty twelve cases of the elbows to get that much powder. Live and learn.

I'm new to any libation thread, but just your title was captivating. It brought back a Summer day in the South, on which I catered one of many lunches for a nice Delta matron whose butler/gardener "Royal" made all the drinks for her social gatherings. I was busily doing something with chicken salad or aspic or one of those standard lady dishes so beloved of the bridge-and-garden-club set, when she drifted into the kitchen, equal eddies of chiffon and Shalimar floating in her wake. "Let Raw-yul make you something to drink while you're working," she graciously offered. I said some of that mint tea would be nice. She countered with, "But you MUST try one of his Jawun Collinses---they are just wonderful." And so he made and presented a beautiful concoction---a tumbler of crystal ice, a peachish-looking liquid with a great skewer of pineapple chunks crowned with a strawberry and a clump of mint sitting raffishly askew. I'm not a drinker AT ALL; I knew that I'd admire it and let it sit, and perhaps eat the fruit later. She was, after all, one of those too-solicitous hostesses, waving her dainty hands like swirling leaves about your person, so needy to ascertain every possibility for your comfort and enjoyment. Doubly admirable, I suppose, because I was, technically, the Hired Help, at least for a couple of hours. But I did have one sip through that straw, inhaling the mint and fruit essences as I tasted---it was julep meets mai tai, if such an unholy alliance ever came to be in the wee hours of a bartender's night. In our moments together in the kitchen, I asked Royal about the drink. He said it was "A Tom made with Bourbon." Then he added "Makes it brown, so she likes me to put some drops of food color in the lemonade beforehand." Every detail thought of, indeed. I now yield the floor to those who know whereof they speak.

Only in aspic. I also forgot the calling part....Chris always calls from some aisle or another---he wonders if we ever tried___________brand or _______. Or is there maybe anything else, etc. And he always lists whatever twofers the store is running, just in case we need some, or could put a case in the storeroom. Or, favorite line, "How ya doin' for ice cream?" Okay, I'll stop. Jason, your way with phonetics is right up there with your cookin'. Didn't I see you at CBGB?

Chris will go after anything, anytime, anywhere. He will take a lot of time, however, as he will read the labels, compare ingredients, compare prices, be sure you're getting exactly what you ordered. Unless you need it NOW---he'll be back in a flash. If I give him a brand name, size, flavor, etc., he brings exactly that. Along with several other items, mostly produce, that he thinks I might like. If there's a party or guests coming, he'll pick up a nice cheese or two, some special breads, a couple of bottles of wine, a new and different liquor, and whatever flowers suit his fancy at the time. He NEVER comes home with just the list. He's tireless; he always says, "I'll be HAPPY to." If that sweet man got home and I said I forgot to ask for the dried hummingbird tongues, he'd just say let him get all the bags out of the car and he'll run off to the hummingbird store and get some. We've been together twenty years, and every Sunday morning, he goes out the back gate and returns with a paper, pastries, and a rose.

Our late Sunday breakfast was enhanced by hot-from-the-oven yeasty cloverleaf rolls, straight from my DD's bakery. She took the earlyearly shift today, and was home in time to sit down with us to the last few slices of the grill-baked ham, seared with brown spots all over its juicy pinkness; eggs fried golden-runny in the ham fat; grapes and blueberries tumbled over fresh cottage cheese; peach jam; and a bowl of very lumpy, very thick Cream of Wheat for her, as she came in out of a very cold snowy day. She likes it made by dumping the measured amount of mix into the boiling water, and no stirring for a few minutes. Makes chewy lumps; butter and sugar atop. Earl Grey in the teapot; Kona in the press.

I don't drink alcohol...never have. Just can't find anything I can sneak past my tastebuds. Besides, two sips of celebratory champagne and I can't find the kitchen. However, I do have a well-honed sense of silly, and all the above register high on the "Hunh?" scale. Like the law in some benighted state that says if two trains come to a crossing, neither may move til the other has gone. But I do love all your recountings and head-shaking amazement at the idiocy. We just have to remember that all laws are passed by committee. And Grub, your tale of Nordic idiosyncrasy is priceless!!! I especially like the toasts. We have an esoteric one of our own, coined when we lived in our first apartment amongst lively flocks of Canada geese. They were loud and had the most raucous parties on the lake, on the lawn, on our patios, etc. A guest would start at the onslaught of sound, and we'd just say "That's just the geese cavorting." That got morphed into, "That's goose cavorts" and we decided it would make a lovely toast. Many a guest or fellow diner/partygoer has joined right in, thinking we're using some exotic language. We raise our glasses and exclaim, "Goose Cavorts!!" Everyone bows to our vast worldliness and chimes in. Do try it sometime.

Uh Hunh to all the uses above. Crispy crunchy iceberg. After you've had all the GREENness and oakleafs and reds and mescluns with their tiny personalities and their wee cutenesses and popularity, after bales of romaine and bushels of arugula and raddichio, acres of endive and cress and frisee, there comes a time in the tide of things in which only iceberg will do. It's a good old sweatshirt of a vegetable, a trusty friend and colleague, a lean-on-me food that can provide the L for BLT, shred into a perfect nest for keeping teensy tea sandwiches fresh and moist, top a taco or a sub or a burger with less than elan, but more than ennui. It shreds or chops or leaves or cups with ease, making the transition from filler to cushion to neat package; wedges of it take their place on tables with the most exquisite cuts of meat; it floats forth on pristine crystal plates in some of the most privileged homes, some of the most treasured restaurants, and nestles between layers of ersatz beef and secret sauce with perfect ease and equal aplomb. And a pile of finely-shredded, lightly-salted iceberg is my favorite accompaniment to a juicy grilled cheeseburger with all the fixin's. I eat it with my fingers, and don't even PRETEND it's fries. It has its own credentials.

Blanche D: Welcome. Neat post---clever name.

A couple of months before our wedding, my Mom had an all-day meeting in Memphis. Daddy always did all the Memphis driving, so he drove them, then made a quick trip over the bridge to West Memphis to pick up several cases of champagne for us (taxes or prices, etc...I forget what). He found a store, went in and bought the champagne, loaded the cases into the trunk, and started back for the meeting center. I also can't remember if an Arkansas or a Tennessee policeman stopped him, but he was pulled over, made to open the trunk, and was soundly lectured about evading tax or licensing or some such. He explained that it was not for resale, but for a wedding, but got no bending until he mentioned someone the trooper knew. After that it was all Good Ole Boys just passing the time of day. I think our wedding guests drank five cases...I'm glad they didn't make him pour it out.

Welcome, Chankonabe!! Great first post. Or any post, for that matter. You sure did come outa the gate running.

That's pretty. Charge extra.

There's a lexicon?

Smuggity can ruin even foie gras.

I just started this thread, and it's FASCINATING!!! Oops...I see that word in the last post. Well, it IZZZZZZ! You gotta get a blog.

Turkey Fried Chicken Chris lifted the lid on a pot the other night and happily exclaimed, "Chicken Frickashay!!" And jkonick: What WAS she ordering?

There's a memorable scene in the wonderful movie Desert Bloom in which the mom in her just-home-from-work Fifties outfit "cooks" dinner. In the space of a two-minute scene, she clatters two small thin saucepans onto the stove, opens a can of tuna and a can of CofM, pours a swish of Minute Rice into the one with the water, dumps the tuna and soup into the other, stirring it once with a nails-on-the-blackboard skritch of a fork, and calls out, "Dinner's ready!" Her three girls sit down to their spoonfuls and a slice of white bread, whilst Mom scoops a puddly serving onto each of two cheap flappy paper plates, throws a piece of waxed paper over each, and toddles off to keep "Daddy" company at his gas station next door. And in a poignant later scene, when eldest daughter runs away from home, she fills her suitcase with mushroom soup because it's all she knows.

Chris' twin Alabama aunts introduced us to the custom of "eggs in the pot" about fifteen years ago. These were lightly boiled eggs, roughly chopped, stirred in gently after the pot was taken from the burner. Aunt B made LIGHT, melty ribbons of dumplings, mingling with the vegetables and taken-from-the-bone chicken, with the egg bits and a few grinds of pepper stirred in last...she held that "early pepper" made the broth gray. And the eggs never developed that overcooked rubbery consistency, because of the delicate way they were handled. Her sister, the other Aunt B, made dumplings of rolled-out Pillsbury biscuits, handmade dough strips, and in later years, the under-the-hairdryer recipe for using tortilla strips, which, depending on the weather, the temperature of the pot, or general principles, would turn out light and as tasty as they could be, considering their original intentions and consistency, or they would drift to pieces in the pot, dissolving into a chicken-and-egg-dotted ultra-thick soup which still tasted okay if you could get past the gluey clumps. I dare to post this despite the uproar that my mentioning eggs in giblet gravy precipitated. I stand ready for the onslaught.

I just say to all of Y'all: Bravo. Bravo!!!!! BRAVISSIMO!!!!!

I unearthed two bags of frozen muscadines in the after-holidays cleanout of all food storage places. They were round little rusty marbles, rattling into the pan. I cooked them off and ran them through the chinois for enough juice to yield six little jewelly jars of golden-clear jelly. Its truly musky sweetness is the perfect topping for a big old cathead biscuit, halved and covered with a clump of butter, to melt and puddle and run down the sides onto the plate. And I carefully re-froze a nice freezer-box of the little still-plump skins, awaiting a trip to find a bottle of muscat wine. Some cold night before Spring, everyone will come into the warm house to the aroma of crisping crust and browning sugar and the soft smell of hot, ripe, sweet muscadines, bubbling under their golden lattice, bringing the flavor of Summer to a snowy night.