racheld

Anything from Fortnum & Mason, whether I could use, could identify, or had even HEARD of the contents. Just the BEING of it would be enough. When we were there a couple of years ago, my traveling companions wandered for a bit, shopped a bit, and then, after I had purchased everything I could think of, I found them in a heap like puppies, over behind some woolen yardgoods, all sleeping away in a corner. (It WAS the afternoon we landed, with jet lag, and all that). (And I DID repay the wait, somewhat---I held onto countless purses, bags, backpacks and souvenirs whilst the three of them hit the duty-free shops at Heathrow the morning we came home. And I DID taste about twenty scotches at 5:30 a.m., just to help him decide, you know). I just couldn't stop looking and reading ingredients, and marveling at the colors and the tastes and shapes of the lovely comestibles. I smiled at the charmingly-named Bramble Jelly and Weeping-Fig conserve and Gentleman's Savories. I bought so many jars and boxes the first day, I pitied the poor porters who had to lug my one bag to the bus each morning. And to put an even shinier finish on the Upper Crust: They send not baskets but HAMPERS.

Down to the last quart, REDUX: Last year, we had a bumper crop of grape tomatoes---the first we'd ever grown. As the Fall days drew in, and the nights threatened frost, we picked all the little green fellows---hundreds of them, and pickled them in my Dad's famous Icewater Dill brine. We had several quarts, and they are so pretty, with little garnishes of garlic cloves and red pepper flakes and a big ole bouquet from the very top of the grown-head-high dill plants. So these two Thanksgivings, we've had a little nest of them in one of the sections of the relish tray. Newcomers look, either take them for olives, or ask before trying one. They pop them into their mouths, crunch down on that dilly, salty, green-tomato flavor, and they're hooked. We opened the second quart of them this year, after the tray had been emptied twice. And one guest went back to the buffet during dessert, loading his beautifully-arranged 5-prissy-desserts-arranged-just-SO plate with the drippy little round globes. I swear, the briny juice ran right underneath the slice of sweet potato pie, but he scarfed up every crumb and glop on that plate. I've made green tomato pickles before, usually in slices (lime pickle recipe, crisp and sweetly spicy) or in halves (same dill recipe, just not so cute, with more of the greenacid trueness of the unripe tomato). But these little balls are so addictive, and so very near their extinction, I've hidden the jar far in the back of the top shelf, behind the strained-up cooking oil, congealed in its big green jar, and the bottles of fancy Chinese seasonings and sauces. I don't think I'll "put them out" on a tray again before next year's canning frenzy. I'll just leave them as a nice memory, lurking there in the darkness, awaiting a late-night crave which will make the unloading, loading, clinking of all the spare bottles and jars worthwhile, just for that one dripping, salty, satisfying, tongue-curling CHOMP.

That's how the Grandbabies learned----their Mama can hear that can opener from three rooms away, just like Kitty can. She and a can of Eagle brand and a spatula can spend an hour in bliss. I have to hide my face when she licks the lid.

The last time the Grandbabies were here, they "licked" the frosting bowl, with the six-year-old and her wooden spoon making neat scrapes so as to get the last little sweetness. 17-month-old sat in her highchair throne and was given my best new space-age-plastic spatula, a neat red one, with an artfully-spread thin layer of frosting covering every inch of the business end. She licked and slurped, getting the corners into her mouth, using her little pink tongue to its utmost. After assuring that no harm could come to her from the utensil, I scrubbed a few dishes, then turned to see that she was heartily chewing away on that lovely rubbery item, giving her little jaws quite a workout. And now, imprinted for all time in my spatula, are myriad little double fang-marks, from those two wee precious bottom teeth. (Prequel to this story is the tale of her sister's own flyswatter. I had a neat green plastic one, which our older Granddaughter craved mightily when she was about a year old. One day in the store, she reached out those baby arms and gave forth a stream of gibberish which firmly stated that she would have that nice hot-pink plastic one hanging there in the bunch on Aisle Four. She brought that thing home, with the absolute caveat to all in the household that it was HERS, would always be HERS, and thence was NEVER to be used for its intended purpose. She chewed it, she swung it, she danced with it, and then chewed it some more. Never since Nitti's Gat has a killing apparatus been so loved and pampered and drooled over. She loved that flyswatter with a devotion given to none of her dolls and toys and scarcely to any of the family. It slept beside her on her pillow for a while, enjoyed an occasional bubblebath, and once made its way to Sunday School under cover of a winter coat). That nice pink swatter is still hanging in the pantry, long forgotten by its mistress and cast aside like the Velveteen Rabbit, and is now keeping company with a nice red $5.95 non-meltable, heatproof, scratchproof, everything-but-toothproof spatula.

Spam is like eating a square weenie with allspice.

ANYTIME!!! Chris could be off laboring on a stubborn machine for 12 hours, call home and if I said, "We've got seven people coming to dinner---they want you to grill ribs," the first word he said would be "GREAT!" I'm so lucky.

Simply Beeyootiful!!! Of course, the GREENS would have stood alone at that meal. Just what we have come to expect from our Wunderkind. rachel PS---No eggses in the cheesecake, Preciousssss?

Sesame crackers and potted shrimp to begin, with a glass of Oliver rose. Last night's cold damp called for pot roast, started about noon and braised for a long gentle time in first-make-a-roux gravy, along with diced carrots, celery and onion. A few stirs during the afternoon, a small replenishment of the liquid as it thickened, and the lift of the lid at dinnertime revealed two large softly melting slabs of good brown beef, which separated into spoon-tender hunks at a touch. If we hadn't eaten it for supper, just the making of it, the aromas and the thought of something so good simmering on the stove--that would have been enough, somehow. It gave an extra holiday aura to the house, along with the Christmas music, the bringing-out of decorations, and the completion of the second tree--one to go. We served the stew over sticky rice in wide flat soupbowls, just-baked buttered biscuits alongside. Some new threeberry jam, celery sticks and chive/dill dip, and iced tea. A shotglass of eggnog and wee slice of Claxton's for him (this will go on, every night, til it's all gone). Cup of vanilla rooibos for me.

I knew Chris was an avid griller soon after we met, and when we drove to Memphis to purchase our wedding rings, he stopped on the way out of the mall to admire the nice rank of Webers lined up outside a store. We purchased one right then and there, and he referred to it as "the first piece of FURNITURE we purchased together." And when we moved up here, he came in late October, a couple of months before me, and went to buy a grill for our apartment. Somehow, the summer supply had gone, had been put away for the icy season, but a man at WalMart said he'd bought one of his own earlier, had only used it once, and he'd call ahead to his wife and let her know that a stranger was coming with MONEY to buy their grill. I've always wondered what the dear woman thought about some Southern weirdo coming in and buying their grill right off their patio. And now we have seven (sigh) in all sizes and types, all stages of use and decrepitude; all for one specific use or another. I recently bought several hundred pretty yellow bricks on sale, for a walk out to the back gate of the garden. THEN I saw him surreptitiously eyeing the book of build-your-own-pit plans at Home Depot.

Last night we had two racks of babybacks, to feed our grillsmoke withdrawal pangs. We grill all year long, and Chris thinks nothing of standing out in the driving snow, manning the Weber, cooking up Mahogany Chickens or racks of Country Ribs or marinated tenderloins (pork or beef). His only consideration is that the snow not actually fall upon the meat itself. I've been known to stand beside him in a blizzard, holding up a big old blue and white golf umbrella, whilst he brushes each piece of meat or vegetable with marinade or sauce. And these were perfect: the very essence of porky tenderness, not that first creamy tenderness of a piece of meat cooked just SO, nor the long-pitted drop-from-the-bone tenderness of a piece of Memphis-done perfection, but the middle-ground, a tender, softly-tearing mouthful of smoky, porky realness. My tongue could feel the little ragged edges as the meat ripped gently apart. We started with bowls of Navy-bean soup, cooked Saturday with beef stock and three beef shortribs from the freezer, the leftovers from an earlier grill-binge, which I simmered in the stock until they fell from the bone, then cut into bitesize pieces to add back to the long-simmered mixture of pink beans, onion, garlic and seasonings. Very warming and delicious on a snowy night. Usual side of crisp sweet onion, Duke's mayo, seasalt sandwiches on Wonder Bread. 40-weight iced tea. He had a slice of Claxton's; two mini-squares of Hershey's ultra-dark for me.

I'm not familiar with the product, but is it possible that she made the pudding with one of those instant/quick-cook BANANA-flavored mixes? They seem to go right down the assembly line beside the bottles of Cutex Nail Polish Remover, chatting and dipping into each others' ingredients. I've tasted that foul pudding a couple of times, made by well-meaning, kitchen-proud cooks whose dishes simply shine at Church Suppers and funeral feasts, but whose pantry arsenal leans toward the Lee and Stovetop persuasion. A mouthful of that stuff is like a day at Nails-R-Us.

Years ago, one of our distant relatives sent us one of those small cheese assortments every Christmas. It was usually perhaps six small wedges of different cheeses, a little round Edam or Gouda, and a maybe four-inch stick of sausage on each end, the whole nestled in a box of shredded yellow paper, with punctuations of those red-and-green-cellophaned strawberry candies. There were four of us, and we'd make a big production of dinner one night during the season, with lovely cracker assortments, crisp wedges of apple and pear, and bunches of juicy red and green grapes, crusty baguettes, a little dish of sweet butter, and a big ole crock of wonderful Mississippi State Cheddar, ordered in September for Christmas delivery. We'd set the table beautifully, with the cheeses all arranged on pretty trays with doilies or leaves from the magnolia tree. We'd pour apple juice into wineglasses, toast the holiday, and I'd cut each small cheese wedge into four slivers, making sure each person got a taste of each kind. Coins of sausage were sliced, the bread broken and buttered, crackers distributed, and servings of fruit and good dips into the cheddar crock were enjoyed. It was perhaps a silly thing, a frivolous dining experience, with sometimes hats and dressup costumes and fans and boas, with the boys seating us ladies in their best gentlemanly fashion. That relative is long-gone from us, but not from the memories. The children still mention those cheesenibble dinners as a memorable, pleasant part of their growing-up.

It's just like Shelby said to M'Lynn in Steel Magnolias---"I'd rather have thirty minutes of Wonderful than a lifetime of Nothin' Special." We'd all prefer iffy Interesting, with all those POSSIBLITIES for scrumptious or delicious or scrumdiddlyumptious, with just the MAYBE of pleasant surprise, over BLAH anything. Just speaking for myself, not Miles Standish.

I've never got the hang of measuring out rubbed sage, nor of getting the little wisps stirred into dressing properly. Besides, it's like a canful of sweaty dustbunnies.

Chris just bought his annual Claxton's fruitcake---got this one at Sam's and it's three of the little square logs...quite a haul, as one stick is his usual supply. He hasn't yet brought home his one quart of eggnog. He doles it out in nightly doses, a shotglass for dessert, sipped slowly like good Scotch. And since I can tolerate neither the clammy cake nor the nutmeggy nog, he enjoys them both all to himself. My favorite seasonal memory is a Hostess fruitcake, in the pretty round lace-embellished gold tin, a weighty prize to be opened and savored. The three-pounder was our usual holiday buy, and the lifting of the lid revealed a fancy doily, red ribbon atop a crinkle-cellophaned round cake. It had no soggy rum, no great clumps of neon fruit. The light, soft crumb of the cake was scented with vanilla, and lovely chunks of real pineapple and whole juicy cherries were suspended in that spongy, wonderful cake. Whole pecans, crisp and toasted, provided a salty crunch in contrast to the tender cake and moist fruit. The cake was doled out in small slices, as well, by my Mother's steady hand on the cakeknife, and despite frequent lid-liftings for a scented savor, never once did I contemplate swiping a slice. That was a SERIOUS cake, for special, for occasions, and we treated it with the respect it was due. I'd love to find one again. We live just a few blocks from the Wonder Bread bakery---and I wonder if they still make those delicious cakes. This weekend I'll crank up the fudge pot, getting the sugar and the chopped Caillebaut and the nuts and cherries all arrayed. The cocoa can will get a workout, as will the flat wooden paddles which are the only stirring tool used for the swirling, thickening mass. Lines of buttered pans, atop squat cans from the pantry, will cool and solidify, wafting their fragrances of chocolate and vanilla, peanut butter and caramel into the warm air of the downstairs rooms. Summer is not fudge time. Autumn and its chill snap, for mulled cider and jellymaking. Winter is for fudge, for banana bread and breakfast for dinner. The time of the sugaring is come, and Chocolate is King. Chris did bring in a pack of snowman Peeps, heretofore only an Easter taste. What will they think of next?

Hey, I thought this was a one-page thing when I tuned in. I went back to the beginning and thoroughly enjoyed all the morning rituals, the dog-walkings and the grindings, the fortune-telling in the garden and the heart-drawings in the crema---what a bunch of sweeties!!! No dog here, not in several years, but we do have two Grand-dogs who visit from time to time, and in residence we have a very loud, very omnivorous macaw, who starts his day gently asking, "Cookie?" and goes on from there with every food word he can think of. He also enjoys a wee sip from the side of my cup, getting a bit of foam on the outside of his wickedly sharp black beak, shaking his head and lifting a foot to nudge away the dregs. And our Grand-parrot, who spends a few days with us when his own parents are away, is a fiend for a saucer of sugar-sweet latte...we have pictures of him sitting on the arm of my chair, dipping his golden bill into the saucer. And our succession of white rats, the only pets for quite a few years when we lived in an apartment, each got a thimbleful of coffee in a drink-cap. They'd lap up the coffee, then spend the rest of the day gnawing the plastic into a tiny gnarled lump. The coffee-counter in the downstairs kitchen has, from left-to-right, an incognito Brand X little drip maker, free with an order from my favorite catalog. It's used only when someone wants a no-frill cup. Next is the pretty white kettle, which brings water to a boil in a minute or so, for Chris' morning cup of Earl Grey, and for the presspot or Melitta drip, both stored in the cabinet above. Far right is the Senseo machine, Christmas gift last year, and source of my favorite brew---two shots in hot milk, two S&L, occasional sprinkle of cinnamon or shot from one of the syrup bottles lined up like soldiers. First cup is early, house silent; huff of furnace, chime of clock, gentle clatter from ice machine my only companions. Quiet, mail on the bright screen, sips of energy and absorbing peace before all the hustle of the day. The guys come in, get work orders, go away and return. And nobody likes coffee but me and the birds.

Rebecca, that was just lovely!!! Dreamy and luscious and sweet, like those first few sips before the octane kicks in. What a wonderful thread. It was the key one on the libations topic, else I probably would have never seen it at all, since I seldom enter the realm of rums and scotches, malts and chais. It also brought a lovely memory, of a young woman so fish-out-of-water in our small Southern town---she had grown up in Memphis, and had gone to Turin to live with a nice young Italian man, a scientist of great wisdom and research, and they had enjoyed a long and wonderful sojourn amongst the peaceful environs and antiquities. She came back to visit her parents, who had retired to our hot sleepy little spot, and brought with her one of the tiny bottom-to-top pots, which miraculously defy gravity and pour forth that scrumptious elixir, the very essence of the coffeebean. We were of an age, she and I, and she came over several afternoons after my work, enjoying the garden and my library, and the slow pace of our lives. She drank in my books of paintings and sculpture and borrowed several to take home for the drab, Wheel-of-Fortune evenings with her parents. We made puttanesca, we drained the wine bottles, she regaled the children with tales of the wonderful place she had chosen to live. And we ground and brewed and drank that wonderful thick sweet coffee until we were all on a caffeine high that would last til Tuesday. It was what coffee was meant to be, the taste and the aroma and the presence...and the memory is lovely, as well. And you have rekindled it as I sit sipping my cup of doubleshot with the "coffeenilla" so beloved of our seven-year-old Granddaughter. And your walk in the garden---I wander past the shrubbery, letting my fingers brush through the lavender, for a breath of that spicy fragrance. How nice to get to know you---the tea table has a great rival in the getting-acquainted genre---long distance coffee time can be fulfilling, as well. rachel

We had somebody's leftovers again...it's becoming a habit. DS#2 just returned from visiting DS#1 down South for Thanksgiving, during which they sallied forth into the woods with all manner of firearms and bright vestage, seeing a few deer, getting off nary a shot. (Yessssss!!! from their don't-kill-Bambi Mom). So DS#1 gifted him with several tenderloins, a few roasts, and some other body parts from his well-stocked freezer. He had flour-and-Ritz-crumbs fried some well-pounded little steaks of some sort, and brought six lovely browned pieces to us via baggie yesterday a.m. I made a pan of plain brown gravy with the leftover drippings from the fried pork chops of Tuesday evening, slid three of the little steaks into the pan, called Chris to dinner, flipped the steaks for a moment in the steamy pan, then served them forth. They seemed to just relax and lie limply in the languid heat, sagging into a tenderness not to be arrived at by hours of braising. He ate all three with evident delight, along with saffron rice with raisins and almonds, creamed spinach with queso fresca and fresh Parm, and a little salad of romaine and grape tomatoes. My dinner was curry turkey salad made with the last of the bird, a Fuji apple, lots of crisp celery and a scoop of the Duke's mayo brought back from our foray into Georgia last weekend, along with some of the yummy sides. He cut two little square slabs from the freshly-opened one-per-season Claxton's fruitcake, and I had one well-chilled Hostess orange cupcake. The entire cake was creamy, very fresh, very orangey, and possibly the best one of my life. Not that I'm an expert, mind you, but it was GOOD.

A thinner ingredient is much easier stirred into a thicker one...for example, start with the mustard, and whisk vinegar and oil into IT, rather than plopping a clump of mustard into a liquid and hoping to stir all the little floaty bits in smoothly. And wash all pork before cooking---not for sanitation, but somehow the bones make tiny sharp shards when cut with the bonesaw. Beef bones just do not seem to shatter into the almost-microscopic bits that pork bones do. Try washing a porkchop in a small bowl of water, remove it, then feel in the bottom of the bowl...like bits of shattered glass. Our Home-Ec teacher, lo these many years ago, taught us to cut the sealer paper neatly in half in the top of the baking-powder can, and remove half. Makes a quick and easy built-in leveler for your measuring spoon. And I can still see her now, child of the War Years, stacking all the wrappers from the butter or oleo, greasy side to greasy side, then saving them to grease cake or muffin pans, or to rub the outside of a scrubbed potato for baking.

I LOVE this!!! I MISS my big garden down South---we had about a three-acre home vegetable/watermelon/cantaloupe garden, and I'd love to do that again. Cardoons!!! I discovered them in a seed catalog, and raised several crops. We loved them. All our plants are gone now, save for a pot of indestructible parsley by the back door. It should make several giant salads before a killing frost. And re: the Glorified Rice recipe...that WAS 4 Tablespoons sugar? I hope, I hope.

One cousin in our family was known as No-SugaRita--a takeoff on her real name, since from the moment her son was born, she uttered those words at least forty times at every family gathering. We'd start for the kitchen to get a drink of water. She'd call out, "No Sugar for Andy!!!" We'd serve dinner---she'd inspect each dish, muttering in his direction---"No Sugar!" I'm reminded of her when my elderly neighbor walks by with her dog, for Rita had the same habit of digging into a pocket and handing out a "treat"--a cheerio or a single raisin, when Andy just couldn't stand it any longer. The kid got to be ten years old, and was still accepting that wee nibble whilst his own cousins were enjoying marshmallow treats or cookies or candy. And it's so hard to gear a holiday around one deprived soul, hiding all the trappings out of sight of all the participants, just because of one fanatical Mom. However, Sugar was perfectly OK for cousin, her husband and her much-older-than-Andy daughter. They dug into cake and pie and all sorts of holiday treats, fending off the frustrated little boy, aggravating the heck out of all of us bystanders, and doling out his portion, one raisin at a time. I'll bet he has splendid teeth---and a psychiatrist on retainer.

SHUT UP!!!! I hope this chair dries by morning. We've had some hilarious family times, but one of the above posts reminded me: Our local second grade always "published" a cookbook at Thanksgiving. The recipes were composed and written down by the children, sent to the little local weekly paper, and were a highlight of Thanksgiving week for all subscribers. 1000 degree ovens, five minute or 12-hour cooking times, 50 lb. turkeys---they all made an appearance at one time or another, most coming year after year from the local KROGRE store. Our very favorite, which entered our family's store of cooking language, still used every time we bake anything, was: "Poot it in the aven."

Somewhere in some thread, I'm sure I've mentioned the poor waitress whose first day on the job was surely her last. We were in one of those country chain places for breakfast, and she just couldn't stop telling us how overworked she was, and how they had given her THREE tables, and nobody could keep up with THAT and she thought she'd just ask for one of the other girls to take at least one of them, etc., etc. She brought the iced tea, and we asked for lemon. She returned with two wedges lying directly on the round corkboard tray, lifted them deftly between thumb and forefinger, and set them on the bare table, balanced neatly on their little curved sides. Napkins, silverware, a refill---she had to be practically paged to bring the most rudimentary items. Then noticing that the whipped cream was missing from the top of his cherry pancakes, Hubby asked for the cream. She returned quickly, carefully carrying a little bowl between her hands. Said bowl had obviously just been retrieved from the ultra-hot drying rack of dishwasher because she stopped, cream didn't. It went airborne in an arc which landed perfectly on Hubby's crotch. The SPLOOT of that landing and the resounding laughter from several surrounding tables lingers in my mind still. And I made him tip her double for the memory.

Except for "Where did the camera come from?" there's no way to tell what century, what era, what AGE in the history of mankind this story was told. You've taken the flesh into your hands, dealt with it like generations and multitudes before you, and have taken your place in the long line of food-preparers, gleaners, hunters and gatherers. No plated confection (though yours are beautiful), no pot with preciously-gained foodstuffs (though yours are constructed and architectured with skill), no dish of nectar or lark's tongues or ortolan puree could rival this primal, perfect picture. I'm impressed. Again. Well done, Kiddo.

Thanks for all the replies---the YESSES and also the answers from folks with the giblets to stand up for their own tastes and raisings. Framed constructively, even blech and gack can be words of encouragement. A plethora of Heroes, a veritable plethora.