racheld

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...

Thx, MXH---I'm gonna learn how to do that blue-link thing someday.

OHHHHHH NOOOOOOO!!!! CAVEAT!!!!!! CAVEAT!!!!! Do not, whatever you do, inject with ANYTHING sweet. If I knew how to give you that little clicketyclick blue line, I'd refer you to a post in "I will never again..." but it's #983, from March 17, with details of our fiasco with honey/butter injections into a turkey. The story is not a pretty one. Mt. Etna and Vesuvius combined could not equal the eruption of boiling oil and the damage done to that innocent turkey.

NutMeg, that was a wonderful remembrance. It told a complete story in just a few words, of the sweet memories and the holidays you shared. My children's most vivid memory of my Grandmother---Mammaw---was that she always had a tiny treat for each of them stashed in the drawers of her ancient Singer sewing machine. Each of the children had a drawer, and each visit to her tiny pink house brought forth a little something to find---one Hershey's kiss or a handful of jellybeans, nested in a matchbox in some leftover Easter grass; a tiny handsewn bag of marbles or jacks or raisins or one perfect golden plum, resting on little shreds of fabric in the tilt-out bobbin drawer. Our family lines are connected most strongly through the dinnertable, I think, those gathering times when we all sat in a circle over a meal of soup or stew or a big chicken dinner; the togetherness and the warmth of the bonds elevates Stovetop and Chef Boyardee to grand cuisine in our memories of home. We're all members here because of our interest and our connections with food in any of its incarnations; we cook and savor and buy and experiment and find delight in the simple and the intricate. And we're somehow imprinted with those longago memories, those times of familyness and warmth of the kitchen and dining room, and even the TV trays arrayed around a favorite evening's entertainment. Our families are gone from us too soon, and we carry on the memory-making in our own kitchens and around our own tables, passing on the recipes, improving or just enjoying, tasting home in every spoonful.

Tonight's quick dinner followed a leaf-raking day---nine of those huge bags rest out back against the house, safely dry beneath the eaves til pickup day. A little bit of Boursin/chive/sour cream spread on crisp wheat crackers whilst the corn fritters sizzled in the hot oil. Then, in with a dozen nice breaded butterflied shrimp for Chris, to go with "blue slaw"---paper-thin shreds of purple cabbage dressed with a red wine vinegar/celery seed drizzle with seasalt and a couple of tablespoons of smooshed roasted yellow pepper whisked in. Tiny pink pearly potatoes, softly cooked, tossed with butter, salt, pepper and parsley. Chris had a couple of mini-M&M bars for dessert. I'm gonna have one of those beautiful heavy coffee bowls filled with a doubleshot and steamed skim, as we sit down with CSI at nine. Absolutely perfect carbonara!!! And the homey chub/salad with a chicken dinner on this November night would have been perfect already, and then you added the dish of collards!!!

Yep. And the dishbrush. And nailbrush, which is used after every meat-handling and always before cutting veg to be served raw. Super-hot water from water heater, set VERY HIGH. Heavy-duty rubber gloves for washing the big stuff, because I use no cold water in the dishpan, ever. And spraydown with extra-strength Lysol, super-sani DW cycle after chicken-soaking, washing, etc. And that's the Stepford news for today--film at eleven.

Another double espresso to recover from my swoon...I KNEW that was some tasty stuff...and I LOVE details...all the ingredients and where you shopped for the meat and the little shop which has JUST the best sauces. This thread is amazing and delightful. And about those woven packets.....

OKAY, Spaghetttti, we've salivated over the pictures long enough---what's in all those gorgeous side trays? Rice toppings? Photography says the dishes are all wonderful. Details, please. And is that leaf-weaving a taught-in-the-kitchen art? Just lovely.

Yep, you've got yourself one all right. Huzzah and welcome to the club!! Before long you'll be swapping stories with the pros, exhibiting scars and cuts and scabs and gouges that would slay the faint of heart and make proud the aproned old guard. You'll proudly proffer an almost-healed cut, relate the circumstances of your acquisition, and another cook will squint through the smoke, roll up a sleeve, and trump your cut with a burn shaped like an oven-grate. You'll counter with the belly-burn you got leaning too far over the burners to stir the stock, and the chef will grin an evil grin, baring his shin, barked to the bone on a lug of lambchops placed in his path. You'll count battlescars like badges, wearing them proudly, showing them off like pictures of grandkids. You've entered a long and proud tradition, an elite cadre of the kitchen-wise, the stoveproud, the knowledgeable and careful and cool. Cooking is art, it's war, it's life. Wear those scars proudly; you're in the club.

We made a pan of "Redneckacciatore" for dinner---browned drumsticks and thighs, simmered under layers of fresh tomato slices, sweet onion and roasted peppers, with crushed garlic, a whisper of sugar, last-minute handfuls of basil and a big snowing of fresh-grated Parm, thin spaghetti stirred in, the whole thing covered to mingle whilst we had nibbles and strawberry daiquiris. The smell in the house was fantastic, and we sped through the pre-dinner plate of smoked Gouda and a little dish of chive Boursin with sesame crackers. Salad was cucumber sticks and a cold dish of baby green beans, Vidalia crescents, two colors of roasted peppers in a sweet vinaigrette with brown mustard seeds. Anybody's choice of leftover Halloween candy for dessert. Though there IS a carton of Edy's double vanilla should a midnight craving arise. We have nine flats of newspaper-wrapped tomatoes in the storeroom, in all states of green-to-ripeness...hope to have some for Christmas.

Friends invited us to their favorite Greek restaurant, which has sublime food, lovely salads and wonderful olives and the best breads and cheeses; their galactoboureka would make angels weep (and any diner who waits too late to order the last slice). But the MUSIC!!! The entertainment is just too loud for conversation. It's quite a large set of rooms, and the soft background music is comfortably-tuned for the best atmosphere. Except that every twenty minutes or so, some sadist cranked up the sound system, playing the SAME blasting music for the bellydancer's entrance. Crescendo of pipes and cymbals, dancing and flirting, all the way around the immense space, with several stops and starts of the track, deafening diners and waiters alike. They approached, gestured with water pitcher, wine carafe, coffeepot---we nodded or smiled and shook our heads. An understanding grimace or shy shrug conveyed the staff's dislike of the din as well. That was all the communication available until the scarf-laden young woman shook her way around the circuit and back into the nether regions to await another blast of introductory music. We've decided to give it one more chance. We hesitated to say anything, but that constant surge of sound, coupled with the too-close, eye-contact, look-at-me performance, seeming to require audience participation or approval or applause (and perhaps a tip with each circuit?) was discomfiting and caused us both to shrink from the unwanted attention and advances. We love dinner theater, and there's an opera restaurant with delightful entertainment, the talented waitstaff bursting into duets and arias right in the aisles, and even a mystery one we've been to a few times, but the loud music and the forced closequarter attentions whilst the earnest little dancer shares her art with the several tables around us, then having to shout at our own dining companions past the canned music---it's just not fun.

curlyfi (if I may be so familiar on first posting) What a super evening!!! Fun parents visiting, good friends who find you worth the climb, wonderful food and wine, and a superb quick-e thank you in the bargain. What a lovely life you lead. And it does add to the charm that the good stuff comes in magnums.

I wanted to guess it was Tofurkey--something I've heard of but never have seen. Just as it looks in life, walking around on the Tofurkey farm.

If the crepes in Heaven are better than those, then Escoffier and Careme have banded together, set aside their differences, and opened a little restaurant with comfortable chairs, cheerful waitstaff, soothing decor, and Daniel's recipe.

Me, too--though mine is the 1984 edition, a hardback version, with an ingenue-ish Martha smiling shyly from between wings of a blonde cascade, her poufy yellow dress setting off the table of nibbles. I catered many a party with these tasty bites, wagging the book to clients in my portfolio, duplicating thousands of the little phyllo triangles, great forests of the in-a-vase puff pastry straws, tea tables that would have astounded lords and ladies, and we did enough blinis, brochettes and thimble-muffins to feed a small country. We marbled eggs, we cut cucumber cups, we strung tortellini on skewers. Any and all of the dishes, we tried 'em...except I don't remember doing the quail. So many people had their OWN quail and doves in the freezer, from that great September season every year when every man and boy is blasting away in the fields. I love the presentation, the one-thing-on-a-tray simplicity, the flower garnish, the studied symmetry of the goodies. Some of the best items to sit for a couple of hours at room temp are the straws, cheese straws; little squares of quiche baked in sheet pans; muffins with turkey; biscuits with ham; tiny brioche with a nice slice of sharp cheese and chutney; fruit trays, antipasto trays, dishes of marinated olives, cornichons, mushrooms, roasted peppers; Parmesan crackers, a nice cheese tray with crackers, grapes and apples, with a little knife for self-service. Strawberries with a side dish of powdered sugar or an old Southern standby: a mixture of a block of cream cheese beaten with a jar of marshmallow cream. It's oddly delicious, and all those preservatives would probably keep it all afternoon. Proscuitto-wrapped fig quarters and melon hunks hold up great, and bacon-wrapped ANYTHING baked on a toothpick seems to be a big hit, especially dates, pitted olives and chicken livers. Homemade melbas are lovely with any spread--I learned the trick from a neighbor whose father was a chef---toast bread on both sides, cut off the crusts, THEN slice it again with a very sharp knife; toast the two fresh sides. It's crisp and delicious, and NOTHING like that brick-in-a-box stuff.

These Halloween menus and pictures are AWESOME! And I love the new voices in the crowd. The mole---the quesadillas--the chop---the chicken---not to mention that Gucci risotto---Wow. Just wow. And it's so wonderfully refreshing amongst all our confits and grillings and garnishings, just to hear of a duck leg munched at midnight, by the light of the little fridge glow. As it was meant to be. And the pictures!!! I've just gotta remember to get the camera out BEFORE dishing up dinner. The Halloween door! Priceless. We did not carve our pumpkins this year, as it promises to be a no-freeze-til-Thanksgiving season. Perhaps they'll just stand on the porch in their pristine orange glory, ushering in the holidays as the leaves fade. I DO see great ranks of pumpkin bread going into Christmas bags and baskets. We spent a couple of hours handing out candy bags to pirates and fairies and ballerinas, several football players, enough SCREAM goblins to populate Elm Street, and many assorted Whatzits, with a memorable barely-walking Raggedy Ann, a wee pink-faced green dragon, and one half-red/half-white winged creature with shiny horns beneath her halo. I took it as a hopeful omen that there was not a recognizable Brittney in the mix, and no one this year seemed to have sent away for her Baby Slut Starter Kit; just nice kids enjoying a silly evening with good neighbors and pleasant weather. Lovely evening on the porch, whilst dinner finished up in the oven. One surprise guest at table, as a friend called for tech support whilst we were outside, accepted the invitation, and paraded downstairs to dinner with the rest of us. We had a nice Autumn-y meal of Chicken Divan, Southern cooked-low-with-ham snap beans with tiny potatoes on top, a romaine salad with tart vinaigrette, mandarins and sunflower seeds; thick-sliced tomatoes with basil and crumbled queso fresca, baked sweet potato slices glazed with butter, sugar and a glug of Buttershot, and good ole homemade biscuits. Dessert was whatever piece of candy struck your fancy amongst all the bits scattered down the table. You hafta eat Halloween candy for dessert---it's the LAW!!! I finished the late evening washing dishes and putting the kitchen to rights, as I listened to another chapter of my latest Patricia Cornwell on CD. Today I sit with my latte, in a peaceful room with leaf-printed cloths, a big white pumpkin on a pedestal, and a compote of hedge-oranges perfuming the air. Plenty of leftovers, a cloudy day with wind rustling the fallen leaves, and a new November to come. As my dear great-Grandma, who spent every moment of her life with a Garrett can in her apron pocket and a little brush-stick poised inside her lower lip, used to say, "Gooder'n snuff and Better'n taters."

I'm a bit intrigued at the disparity in pricing---is it the number in service? And I seem to have missed the number of guests. Are both quotes for similar menu and number of staff? For buffet/bar service, or is one for a seated dinner? Sympathy to you and Don on the illness during your party. Those are no fun anytime. Our most unforgettable catering event was the evening we finished up the client's kitchen and cleanup, all staff had departed, and I went walking toward the bathroom down a long dark hall. Walked straight through the open basement door and woke up at the bottom of the stairs, all guests and the EMT squad gazing down at my disheveled posture.

My guess would be that's port on the left and vermouth on the right.

Oh, JOY!!!! Jubilation T. Cornpone and other alleluias. Another PORCH to enjoy all winter!!! I was dreading the withdrawal when Susan has to go in SOMETIME despite her Florida climate. And now YOURS!! My day is complete. And the food is scrumptious, as well. I just love the world's having an eternal Summer SOMEWHERE.

I'd go out and MAKE a stump to process the stuff if I could duplicate the recipe for duck "gumbo" which a Mississippi Delta neighbor made. She was from New Iberia, and the rest of her family down there were in the Tabasco industry. My Dad was an avid duckhunter, and we always had several dozen little Mallard carcasses lying stacked like bricks in one of our vast freezers. He gave her a few of the ducks, and she invited us for gumbo. We sat down to a beautifully-set table, with no food in sight save an immense bowl of fluffy Uncle Ben's and a basket of warm bread. We were instructed to spoon some rice into our soup plates, and then she headed for the kitchen. She returned with a big white tureen, removed the lid, and a cloud of steam and an unforgettable fragrance wafted into the room. We were expecting the usual crab and shrimp and okra concoction, but were surprised to see a dark liquid swirling inside the bowl. She dipped the ladle, and portioned out a stream of deep brown broth into each bowl, followed by a deep scoop into the tureen which brought forth great chunks of the dark rich meat. Little bits of onion floated in the broth, and golden flecks of fat glistened on the quivering surface of the mixture. We dipped our spoons, sipped from the side in our best manner, then cut gently through the pieces to take bites of the melty-tender meat. The grains of rice swirled and danced in the bowl, accompanying each mouthful in a perfect balance of flavor---salty, rich broth and bland rice and the wonderfully-seasoned duck. I do believe the entire conversation that evening revolved around that dish. We discussed the weather and the hardships of awaiting those ducks, the shooting and the retrieve, the relative fatness re last year's crop. She related the steps in cooking the dish; the poaching at just a bubble, the adding of onion and salt and pepper, the boning process as the stock awaited its additions, the patience needed for the browning of the roux, the final flourish of file' powder. I had never before heard of file' and her wonderfully-cadenced voice etched "fee'-lay" forever into my eager brain. She told of its origins, its ancient heritage as an herb and a seasoning, the just-right moment to add and the disasters to be expected from a too-quick or too-generous hand. Her directions for making "coo-bee-yone" were exact and easy, though I did not recognize the word later upon seeing it in a cookbook. Then light dawned, and I realized that I had been taught one of the first great lessons in my own long kitchen journey. We slurped and chewed and learned the history and the reasons and the methods and a lot of family lore and circumstance. And circumstance, it seems, brought the dish into being, as so many dishes fashioned out of to-hand ingredients have come to be a part of our own cooking history. It was rich and unctuous and tasted of salt and the wild and the woods. The evening was filled with good talk and good food and an indelible memory. I was perhaps thirteen, and we had the dish at home forever after, on cold evenings when a bowl of hot broth and hard-won meat were amply welcome. And I'd welcome the chance to duplicate that lovely dish; all the duck presses and deglazings and copper pans in Antoine's could not surpass that special mixture of a new dish added to our own family history and legend. I'll order the GOOD file' from the stump-man, should he still be in business; I'll get Son #2 to bring back some ducks from the freezers of the hunters down South when he goes for Thanksgiving, and some night in December, when the Heartland snow is falling, we'll sit down to a New Iberia/Mississippi Delta feast, and I'll tell the gumbo story. It's worth telling.

Cheese plate with thin slivers of Edam and smoked Gouda, with some thin crisp crackers. Soy/garlic-rubbed roast chicken; rice and the pan juices; baby green peas with butter; tomatoes and cucumber sticks from the garden. Decaf caramel latte for dessert. Every bit of the leftover chicken, plus every teeny bit of the sauce is in a flat container in the fridge, awaiting tomorrow's lunch of chicken soup. I'll simmer the chicken tomorrow a.m. with sliced onion and celery, then throw in some extra wide noodles at the end. It will be awaiting us as we come in from the chill after planting two dozen hostas in the back garden. Vanilla-scented poached purple plums are chilling for lunch dessert.

Thank you---I enjoyed every shake, every shake of Mrs. Dash, every calorie-packin' muscle-bulkin' moment. rachel