racheld

THIS. WAS. PHENOMENAL. HOGGGGG HEAVEN. HAPPY THANKSGIVING!! rachel

We're having nine at table, and this year, I want to plate the desserts, in small sampler-servings, so that everyone can try everything. On the large clear glass dessert plate will be a slice of sweet potato pie, (salute to our Southern roots), a thin wedge of Ultimate Flourless Chocolate Cake (inspiration by Daniel, and it turned out great), a ramekin of blackberry cobbler with a tiny scoop of double-vanilla ice cream, and in a cut-glass punchcup, a lemon curd-whipped cream parfait with a leaf-shaped tuile atop and a demitasse spoon alongside. One family of guests is from Hawaii, and she just called, saying she's delving into her Mother's recipe archives for a pineapple Evangeline recipe, which we'll look forward to trying. And I wish a sweet day to EVERYONE!!!

Our Thursday-to-Monday sojourn to Georgia yielded many Grandbaby hugs, games, pictures, too short a time with the three of our children who live there, plus five quarts of Duke's mayo. I don't remember ever seeing it in the grocery stores of all my many years in the South, as Blue Plate was good enough for anybody. We made a quick Saturday trip to Publix (a first for me---never saw one before, but #3 Son says they can't be beat for subs, not by Quizno's or Subway) for Boar's Head deli meat and rolls and other goodies for lunch fixin's. DD#2's fridge had stocked only a forlorn pint of some ersatz "spread" of the FF, SF, library paste variety, so I grabbed a quart of Duke's, having heard it praised in this thread last week. It made really good sandwiches, with a good lemony tang and a near-to-homemade consistency. And when we left for the hotel, I put it in the trunk, as I knew DD would never eat such calorie-laden condiments. And we ran back by the store on the way home, for a case of Pride of Illinois Corn, four sacks of green peanuts to boil and another four quarts of Duke's. We spent a lovely afternoon, just the two Granddaughters and me, and after everyone else returned from the shooting range, we all went out to a sticky, smoky, order-at-the-counter barbecue place. It seemed like just the right way to end a day spent in the company of family, Smith, Wesson, and Glock, so we all ordered plates of whatever struck our fancy on the little slidey-lettered menu board above the Coke machine. (Or what we could decipher---no cutesy names or spellings, just a couple of missing letters led us to puzzle for a moment over "beef r--s" or "sh---ded pork." We also ordered a rack of ribs---just-cut-'em-apart-and-bring-on-a-platter, a barbecued chicken, ditto, and a big pot of the beans. The plates came, those round wooden discs which have a steel plate snugged into the depression, the kind of tableware one hears hissing past in pretentious steak places and Don Pablo's, bearing ninety-dollar cuts of meat or several pounds of fajita meat and limp, fragrant peppers. Big fruit jars of 40-weight iced tea and frosty Co-Cola were thumped dripping onto the bare-plank table, as the scent of smoky-pitted meat made us ravenous for whatever would emerge from the next swing of that grimy kitchen door. The platters and bowls were ranged down the length of the table, and #5 Son asked, "Is there any mayo?" His Dad rose, left the room, and came back with the jar of cold Duke's in one hand, and a giant sized roll of paper towels in another. The Duke's was delicious spread on one half of the bun; it was a lovely adjunct to the heat of the vinegary sauce and the tangy crisp slaw, which, where we're from, is a requirement on any barbecue sandwich. It's the LAW.

Chris was craving hot dogs, so he had two beer brats with sauerkraut and minced sweet onion. I had one perfect, golden, cool juicy pear.

More than.

Those picture, those pictures!!! It WAS a comfort-food night, wasn't it? Our guys were very late getting back from a service call in Ohio and ate en route, so I had mashed potatoes. Rolling the big garbage can out to the curb got me soaked with that cold rain, so I came in, had a hot shower about 5, got into some warm dry cotton jammies, and stuck two potatoes in a pot. Drained them, dropped in a bit of butter, smashed them skins and all, added a little salt and a glug of whipping cream which was supposed to go into a zuccotto this weekend (But I'm going to GEORGIA to see some BABIES instead!!!). So I and a bowl of warm, buttery potato smushiness sat down at the TV, feet tucked up in the big rocker, Pride and Prejudice in the DVD slot, and just let it rain. Decaf Cinnamon Cap after in a big yellow cup.

We raised mallards once. On the lawn. My Dad had ordered a hundred babies from one of those mail-you-poultry places when my children were very young, and as soon as he could tell drake from hen, he brought us two boys and four girls. They were great pets, waddling around all the acreage, wading in the little stream formed by forty years of erosion outside the pumphouse. They were beautiful creatures, those beautiful green heads gleaming in the sunlight, quite companionable and conversational, gathering at the porch steps several times a day and awaiting a treat. I'd always cook extra pancakes at breakfast, cut them into neat bites, then go out and sit on the steps, holding out bite after bite on a fork, as each one came up and took a dainty selection. They didn't push, they didn't squawk or flap, and except for their naturally-untidy bathroom habits, they seemed to be the perfect pets; even the dozen or so seasoned old bird dogs would just open a lazy eye at the little flock, sigh gently, and go back to sleep. They nested that first Summer, and came parading around from the outbuildings, leading a line of tiny yellow puffs on stick legs, all cheep and down, following trustingly along right up to those big-jawed hounds. Then those sweet, poufy babies grew up to be big old quacky squawky ducks, eating their weight in cracked corn, stealing the Jim Dandy right out of the mouths of the dogs, leaving their gooey calling cards from pillar to post, and right up on the porch. So we decided, since Daddy's flock of 94 had not fared too well in the wild environs of the lake, falling prey to turtles and foxes and other wildlife, we'd just make the sacrifice and give him all of ours. We loaded them into cages and boxes and a few went into the far back seat of the three-seater station wagon. Away we went for the twenty-mile journey, our progress heralded by mutters and quacks, and our trek through the towns between a cause of much pointing and hilarity. Especially the ones being chauffeured in style. Two of them were vainly trying to flap-balance atop the back seat, and one hen fell astraddle for a while, her wildly flapping wings and can't-get-a-grip slick duckfeet giving her the look of a ride-em-cowboy rodeo star. Another brown little beauty had made her way into the far back window, and sat cuddled like on a nest, greeting passersby like one of those little flocky-skinned noddy dogs. They'd been in a couple of our farm ponds, but when they saw that lake, they'd gone to Heaven. They all took off, skimming the fields like dive-bombers, hitting that water with the force of a bellyflop diver. And they were home. For years after, I'd go out and visit "my" birds carrying a big bag of stale bread loaves---making a detour past the camphouse kitchen for a glass plate and a fork. A step to the end of the dock, a few quick clinks of fork to plate, and a great flurry of waterfowl would come from all bends and curves of the shoreline, making their way to the familiar call. I could always tell which ones had been ours---they'd swim up to my feet , then walk right up onto my lap, accepting their bites from the fork, just like when they were babies. Except for a Banty rooster we raised in the house, on hardwood floors, when I was a teenager, this is my only experience raising fowl. And I think you COULD probably herd turkeys, but it takes a mighty long stick.

I cannot fathom taking rosewater between your lips, not since the Avon lady quite forcefully flavored every item in our small first house with several mighty squirts from the bottle of Rose Somethingorother. It was in the curtains, the sofa cushions, the very air we breathed, for DAYS. I fancied that I could taste it in the flour, sugar, coffee--all the cannistered items in the kitchen. And another neighbor gave everyone in our Sunday School class homemade hand softener---rose water and glycerin...peeew. And that Water for Chocolate movie---where the dishes were so beautifully presented, and the family sat around eating rose petals and walking through fire---I'll opt for the asbestos slippers, thanks. End rant. Back to your regularly scheduled program.

I'd also forgotten about the Ranch Style beans, which I didn't start stocking the larder with til we moved WAY north of my Southern roots. We'd found the black beans in Kroger or Safeway down South, and since they were the first black beans I didn't have to soak and cook myself, several cans stood ready in the pantry for all sorts of salads and dips and tortilla rollups. And the black-eyed peas, with some onion and pepper and leftover rice, become a passable Hoppin' John on any day of the year. Showboat Pork and Beans! (Since I haven't found them here in a market for years, perhaps the pink heart should be just a little PINING thought, faded to an ashes-of-roses shade of itself, a wistful pink, fraught with longing). The big ole cans, tall sentinels of the shelves, always stood like stalwart soldiers up the flight of stairs which comprised our first pantry. Care had to be taken when taking up or bringing down items from the attic, lest one stumble upon errant cans of corn or beans. Showboat beans are the tenderest, most flavorful beans, able to stand upon their own merits, with none of the lingering tin-fat taste of the other brands, with their obligatory floating clot of congealed grease. With beginnings of sauteed onions and peppers, the addition of a good smoky barbecue sauce and a good clump of brown sugar, the bacon-topped pan of bubbling baked Showboats is a worthy addition to any suppertable, picnic or otherwise. And, until I followed the link above, it didn't occur to me to include Wolf chili---recommended a couple of years ago by a childhood friend who now lives in Arkansas, and whose e-mails I look forward to each morning. A steaming bowl with little "oystey-crackers" is a delight on a snowy evening.

I forgot to add the ONE can of Campbell's Tomato Soup which is always on hand for making Miss Effie's Shrimp Mousse. And Geisha crushed pineapple, for five-cup salad. And the bag of itty-bitty marshmallows for same. A big ole can of V-8 for Marys-in-a-minute. A box of Uncle Ben's, for pilaf only. Can't substitute it for the 20-lb bag of Calrose which is almost a daily staple. A dozen little tuna-size cans of Swanson Chicken, for a quick curried chicken salad for lunch with crackers.

PIMIENTO CHEESE STUFFED CELERY black olives stuffed green olives Baby carrots pickled by Justin Wilson's Copper Penny recipe Tiny dill-brined green grape tomatoes from the Summer garden cauliflower, ditto red grape tomatoes Green onions watermelon rind pickles tender yellow celery center stalks with leaves This is in addition to the tray of sliced tomatoes, from the several boxes in the storeroom. I've been unwrapping them all every few days to check for ripeness. Hope to have some for the Christmas table, as well.

Chris grabbed a pack of English muffins at Sam's yesterday, asking, "These ARE what you make Eggs Benedict with, aren't they?" hint hint. So as he slept in this morning, I cooked a pot of thick grits with butter and crumbled Queso Fresca and a few grinds of the peppermill. I skillet-fried two split muffins in butter with another similar skillet as a top weight, making them crisp and buttery-brown. These then went top-up into the top skillet to keep warm whilst I gently seared four slices of ham steak, cut to sort of fit the muffins. It went atop the muffins so they could to soak up its salty, rich hammy juices. This is not your usual dainty epicure's Benedict---it's a hearty, thick-hammed, crisp-muffined, runny-yolked marvel, a sort of BUBBA Benedict, and I wish you all could have sat down with us. I had earlier made a double-recipe of Julia's Hollandaise (the one that she stresses is MUCH easier made by hand than in a blender, with all that pesky blade-cleaning and pouring, etc.). Being the old Southern cook that I am, and having made the sauce "by heart" since I got the book back in the 70's, I took liberties and added in an extra tablespoon of lemon juice, and a bit of that old Delta standby, "Kye-YINN" pepper. Four Jumbo eggs went into the ham fat, were carefully turned for just an instant on the second side, then gently slid onto the glistening warm ham slices. We'd been sipping Strawberry/Banana smoothies from frosted goblets, then sat down to the lovely warm eggs and ham and muffins, with a gravy-boat of Julia's delightful sauce, to be ladled on and made even more delightfully golden by yolkrun and ham-nearness. We chatted and ate and sipped, befitting a lovely sunny morning, as Aaron Neville sang softly in the background. Lovely weekend breakfast.

Martha White SR flour and meal, Aunt Jemima cornmeal mix (has some flour and bp already in it), Durkee's Sauce, Blue Plate mayo, Contadina sauce and paste, Luck's beans and greens, Dromedary dates, Luzianne tea, Eight O'Clock coffee, Godchaux sugar, Crisco, Hershey's everything, Pride of Illinois white cream-style corn, Ro-tel tomatoes with peppers, Trappey's yams (really just super-sweet, super-rich sweet taters), and in the freezer, Rich's roll dough and a pack of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. Just in case. Edited because the dear people of Illinois would have shuddered at my typo.

My name is Rachel and I'm a dish junkie.

And I thought I was the only renegade who added bok choy to tortellini in brodo---sacrilege! That one looks Absobloomin' lovely!! All today's dinners are beautiful. And the photography is getting SO pro. Our dinner was a quick, pickup one, after Chris had a huge lunch at Shapiro's today. He brought a loaf of their glorious seedy rye, and we each had a had buttered slice alongside some warmed leftover BBQ chicken and some celery stuffed with pineapple-mascarpone. Kettlecorn and an icy diet Pepper for dessert with LOST.

Every time I enter this thread and have to scroll (a Freudian moment, I think---I just typed "scrool"--which is exactly what it is---a combination of scroll and drool) down past that enormous forest of chocolate---there's a tug at my tastebuds and at my wandering feet...it's hypnotic. Just to step up and wander into that sweet, rich darkness---the siren call is not to be resisted. Never has a food picture so beckoned; the moist velvet crumb and the satin frosting and the great height of that cakecliff; too much temptation altogether. And I don't think I've ever even LIKED devil'sfood. But I'll keep coming back, looking my eyes full, until this entertaining season recedes into the dim past.

What a stunning debut!!! Happy first post, and Welcome!!! Though I think the crab would rather be elsewhere.

Now that just takes the cruller!! How long does beatification take, anyway?

And that Dayne dinner was gorgeous!!! What a sweetie!!

Despite having smelled the pot of pinto beans with ham cooking all day, we still seem to have consumed other people's dinners. DS#2 brought us two bowls this morning, stashing them in the upstairs fridge as he went out to continue setting up the photo equipment in the reclaimed studio. One translucent square box with a red lid promised great bites of summer stashed within: several cups of hardwon, triple-washed, cooked-down-low turnip greens picked at the up-the-street neighbors' house on Saturday. The elderly couple, from whom we bought a nice garden tiller in the Spring, plant great rows of greens and kneehigh onions and tomatoes which reach the eaves. They just seem to have a bit of trouble in all the gathering that a crop of this size requires, so DS stops by from time to time, to kick a bit of dirt, to admire the produce, pass the time of day, then to gather in all the ripened bounty, setting it away in their refrigerator. The past two times, he has accepted the gift of a "picking" of the tender bitter greens; he gathers some, then protests, as more and more are pressed upon him by the kind gardeners. This time, with frost bearing down soon, he helped to clear most of the acreage, readying it for tilling. And the greens are wonderful, rich and smooth, with the flavors of ham and bacon and the tart punctuation of a dash of peppersauce, bottled from our own garden's yield of tiny wasptail peppers in several colors. He also brought a bowl of gumbo, which he "built" (my late Dad's term for constructing any kind of stew, soup, or other dish which requires several steps and lots of ingredients) during the football game yesterday. Lifting the lid filled the kitchen with the oceany iodine scent of scallops and crab and shrimp. Thick coins of andouille and chunks of chicken, okra and a few kernels of corn added to the colors. So I made a chunky pan of cornbread and cut crescents of sweet onion. I set the table with plates and more bowls than we needed, for the dinner seemed to consist of hearty bites suspended in rich liquids, all needing corralling into the deepness of bowls. So Chris and Daughter each had a bowl of gumbo, with a scoop of fluffy rice centered in all the pinks and golds and browns; I had a wide soup plate of the beans, brown and flecked with pink ham and dots of cilantro, with a glug each of Worchestershire and Tabasco stirred in before the rice. Then they reached for fresh bowls, making their own beans to order, mincing the crisp onion, stirring in Sambal or sriracha, spooning in rice or bits of cornbread. Chris also made himself a tiny bowl of the greens and potlikker, with a piece of cornbread crumbled in to soak up the juices. I opted for my greens dry, just a tiny drip hitting the plate as I lifted a forkful. We drank glasses of ice-filled sweet tea, pausing to catch our breaths between bites of the peppery food, talking softly of the inconsequences of our day, sharing the old tastes, the old recipes which have nourished our family for generations. Then we each had a couple of bites of the slice of pecan pie brought home by DD from her bakery, for a tryout to see if we really want to make Mother's recipe at home again this year, or just order the pies. The meal was unplanned, but just perfect for this chilly night. And the pie was wonderful, but it IS going to be Thanksgiving, and I have all those nice pecans in the freezer...

Dammit, Maggie!!! 3:30 a.m. is no time to be reading stuff like that, with the whole household sound asleep!! I've been in here by myself hee-hawing like an idiot, and have had to get up twice and go get some paper towels to wipe these tears off my face. And I just got through the first installment. That was some kind of fun. Reminded me of a Barry Hannah story about the old man whose son had got above hisself and built a big mansion, and Grandpa was bored. So he cut both ends out of a mailbox and nailed it in his bedroom window. He would pay the kids a quarter apiece to carry the poor old chickens up the stairs to his room, where he would stick a chicken in the mailbox and Goooosh it out the other end with a toilet plunger. I think they took bets on where the chicken would land, and if it would live through the drop. Turkeys don't take directions well. And I hope this chair dries by morning.

This is absolute genius!!! Kind of like natto-art. And I want one of those little flipper/sporks!!! Or spatuloons.

Those forks are a hoot---can't you see archaeologists of the future trying to make some sense of that utensil? It's hard enough with some of the old silver, which had REAL, albeit stilted and pretentious, uses. I just acquired a set of the three-tine forks, knives with the wide old French blades, and a set of salad/dessert forks to match (not short tines, just narrower, 3/4 versions of the dinner forks)---very old-fashioned, and I'm looking forward to setting the Thanksgiving table with them. I did enjoy clicking on the wind chimes, though---DD got the silver teapot one for her BD last month, though it did not have all the gewgaws in the second tier, just the beautiful pot and about nine well-flattened pieces of silver tableware. It plays a pretty tune outside the upstairs DR windows. And gleams in the sunlight. I'm a no-switcher, mostly, odd for a GRITS girl, but my immersion into BritLit for all my reading life has swayed all my habits, I suppose. And I'm not above tucking a nice linen napkin into my neckline to preserve the pristine habiliment of my shelf. No pea mishaps for me. Or worse.

Yummy details. Colorful and beautiful and tongue-aching and WOW details. The sambal (until eG I thought Sambal was The stuff, like Worcestershire, like French's mustard---I had no idea it was a generic, which is too tame and too common a term for the sublime combination of heat and tart and dense and downright DELICIOUS that all the permutations of SAMBAL can be) was just gorgeous, and I can think of forty-eleven things in my pantry, freezers and fridge that would be mightily improved and greatly elevated by just SITTING beside that sambal. The one which first got my taste attention is Sambal Oelek, a little plastic jar of the freshest-pepper taste, the best of all peppers distilled into one bright red sauce, with a lovely bite in the mouth, then a WHACK to the tonsils and sinuses as it clears the way for more of that good stuff. I mentioned to one of our favorite waiters at our Chinese restaurant that I liked it, and he seemed impressed that I even knew the word. He's from Malaysia, and told me of many lovely combinations which they make at home. But I wanna know about YOURS....please. The combo in the molcajete (sorry I know only the Mexican term for that wonderful mortar/pestle kitchen tool which has such a long and glorious history) looked scrumptious---was it a seasoning, a sauce---what? And the green sambal. Words aren't enough now. Though I rattle off more than most. Don't have any more. But we did have "beer can" chicken minus the beer---Chris found a pretty chrome-looking two chicken rack today, with two can-holders; it's a heavy little dude, and we sat two plump chickens on it for a sojourn through the Weber...the sauce DID slide right down off the skin in several places. Gravity just ain't the same when you're lying down as it is when you're standing up. It was VERY tasty and tender, with a kidney bean/Vidalia salad and some delish bread made by DD this a.m. He lifted off the grill lid, and there sat those two nice browny-maroon chickens, upright and back to back, like they were having a tiff, or even about to take twenty paces and fire at will. Next time, we'll let 'em face each other and maybe chat to pass the time. The pretty silvery rack turned a dingy brown from all the smoke, though. I put it into a white garbage baggie with a cup of water so it will scrub clean easily tomorrow. We're lazy on Saturdays. DANIEL, Son, you never cease to amaze. I gotta get another look and look and look at those pictures...can't take it all in. More tomorrow. And now I AM speechless.

May I mention that in your modern picture of the street portrayed in the 1930's photograph, perhaps your lady of the gossamer rosy hair may still be in residence? Look there, in the building on the right----up about three windows, one in from the left, just next to the half-drawn shade. There's a definite presence there, a hint of pink, just at sweater height...