racheld

My Stars!! I've not seen such a furor since Miz Prysock made her Piminna Cheese with Miracle Whip!!! And tried to foist it off on the WMU convention. It's turning into another egg debate: Gulliver's Big Endians and Little Endians had not such fervid defense and detractions. You were either raised with it or you weren't. What Mama cooked and the way she cooked it is absolutely sacred in some camps, and profane in others...depending on Mama's skills and the area of the country she cooked in. And, as I'm speaking from my own roots, now transferred to another section of the country, it's just the way we always had it, and what we were used to. Like I'd never been NEAR a pumpkin pie until we moved to the Heartland. Pumpkins were for carving into grimacing smiles and lighting up for Halloween, with a telltale blackened area under the replaced lid. They were bought at Safeway or the local Ace Hardware, for standing sentinel outside on the porch for a month or so during the Fall, part of an artfully-arranged tableau with prissy cornshocks and a lamely-added haybale. In a few instances, pumpkins were cooked with into a savory roasted dish. Papa, the Patriarch of the family I married into, liked his pumpkin well-cooked, stirred up with some salt and pepper, and served in a big soup bowl with cornbread. But eggs in the gravy---that's part of a long history of Thanksgiving gravy where I'm from---softly boiled fresh eggs, chopped and slid into the steamy gravy pan. Turkey or chicken stock, made with a mirepoix of onion and celery and perhaps a bit of carrot for color, gently simmered with a bouquet garni of fresh thyme, several of the golden leaves of the celery, a tiny curl of sage, all tied up into a little muslin bag and lowered into the barely-shimmering liquid. A few chicken livers, sizzled briefly in butter in a little skillet, chopped and added to HALF of the broth at the last moment, made a too-rich sauce, thickened with a little cornstarch-in-cold-water. And for the die-hard giblet gravy fans, the gizzard was simmered into submission, sliced into leathery rounds, and put into the mix as well. And now we have two camps in the family, my husband and children, all of whom were fond of their Grandmother's browny-gray liver-rich gravy, and me and whatever guests we might be having---I do like to give them the option of the less-livery choice. But eggs, always. They are not rubbery, they are not gross, they are fresh and soft and, added warm at the last minute, give a golden richness to either gravy boat. They're just what is expected, and what we like, and we'd never insist that anyone else do gravy that way. It's like the old Ann Landers dilemma: She got more letters over how to hang the toilet paper than from any other subject. We hang ours to roll from the front, cause it's HOW WE LIKE IT. edited to fix an infinitive or a past perfect---whatever. How can you be past something that never was?

I'm just getting back into the swing of things after traveling one week and cooking all the next---will reply about the boiled eggs later tonight. Plus, I've called in the Big Guns over on the Southern thread---to see if any of them serve their gravy avec oeufs---it's just what Mammaw always did, and then Mother, so that's how we're all used to it. I'm the one who started the two-gravy thing...I don't like entrails in mine. Now we're off to see the Wizard---Harry's on at 12:00!!! rachel

I can't think where to put this without creating another thread so: They're giving me heck over on the "Thanksgiving 2005---the day after" thread for mentioning boiled eggs in the giblet gravy. Please tell me I'm not the only one...Everybody I know down South puts eggs in there---makes it rich and a pretty golden color. Help!!!

We had nine at table(s) last evening, sitting down at just about candlelight time. Our group consisted of us two, our one daughter who lives here, and two other couples, each of which have a daughter of their own. We gathered in the living room for hot or cold cider, glasses of mead or beer, with pimiento-cheese-stuffed celery, cucumber cups with shrimp mousse, and a crab-artichoke spread with crackers. Then we came downstairs, where there were six at the dining table, and three at the breakfast table a few feet away. All the girls, who are grown-up young women, took a moment to get acquainted, as we six at the big table chattered away. Then we began hearing lively discussions, whoops of laughter, good-natured arguing, and thorough discussions of each and every character, creature, and moment in the history of Harry Potter, from lightning-bolt to the last page of HBP. What a nice group. Dinner was to be a plated salad course of mache topped with hearts-of-palm, baby artichoke hearts, tomato, brined mushrooms and avocado chunks, in a tart vinaigrette. One guest brought a huge platter of layered butter lettuce, cilantro, shredded chicken, crispy Chinese noodles, with a lovely sesame dressing to be added. So she dressed it, we put all the cold dishes on the buffet---the corn relish and the spiced pickled beets and the Waldorf, and just handed out plates and everyone helped themselves to all the salads and sat down. Then it was easy to just take the rolls out of the oven, set out all the hot dishes---Sliced smoked turkey, Southern cornbread dressing, two gravies (one strained, then chopped sauteed livers and boiled eggs added; the other, just the boiled eggs in the unstrained, with all that lovely mirepoix of celery and onion floating in the golden brew). Miss Paula Deen's Pineapple Casserole, a platter of steamed broccoli and cauliflower, tossed with lemon butter and topped with roasted red pepper strips; mashed potatoes with runnels of melted butter all atop, rolls, two kinds of cranberry sauce: homemade with orange peel, and a clunked-out can of Ocean Spray, without which, etc.... And after the table was cleared, we plated dessert: Slivers of: Sweet potato pie with a dollop of whipped cream Ultimate flourless chocolate cake, cooked in a pie crust, edges trimmed Blackberry deepdish pie, with crispy lattice topped with golden crystal sugar Guest's addition of a cherry-topped cream cheese pie Punchcups with lemon curd, whipped cream and a leaf-shaped tuile Today, Chris took the day off, ran errands, went to the shooting range, shopped at camera shops, whilst DD and I had a little serving of whatever leftovers we wanted to microwave, whilst we watched last night's Survivor. Dinner was a 360---Burgers on the grill, with a nice slice of sweet onion and heavy on the dill pickles. But no one was tired of the dessert . edited because I left out the word "cheese" from Pimiento Cheese" The whole South's gonna disown me.

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.