racheld

Congratulations to all and well done. I'm so glad to put names and styles and publications together. I just know who writes well, whose work reads well, whose words leap off the page and give me a ping of delight or dismay or shock, whose view of life and food and living well or not entrances in the telling and resounds in the remembering. I know whose posts I dive into with anticipation, whose articles can be counted on to entertain and inform, whose turns of phrase and methods of expression are painted as vividly as neon, and whose ideas and remembrances linger to be gently resurrected again and again. I've read these threads avidly for almost a year now, and appreciate each and every person who speaks and illuminates and lets off steam and teaches and makes us laugh and wonder and learn. Thank you to all, and special congratulations to all the honorees. rachel

Feliz, ditto........ That breakfast is one for the ages...it's perfect. The rib suggestion was great; and for finger-smearing, lip-smacking, once-a-year binges, there's nothing like PORK. You don't have to have the whole pig. Just go get a nice hefty pork roast with a bone in, rub it with some salt and pepper and whatever suits your fancy, sock it in the oven about three hours before dinner, and relax. Your family will come home to luscious aromas, a rested and happy birthday boy, and a GREAT dinner, with the addition of all those wonderful gooey bakery treats. And no regrets tomorrow. Promise?

OOOH! This thread is getting WAY too graphic. The censors are gonna fall on us like a tonna bricks if this porn gets any more vivid. I'll have to go find my best funeral-home fan if this keeps up much longer. This will tone it down a bit. In the Deep South OLD social set, the tuna salad is made with boiled eggs, apples, sweet pickles and a dusting of powdered sugar in the mayo. It is served in tiny crusts-trimmed sandwiches, and daintly consumed by behatted ladies with their purses firmly over their arms. They wouldn't recognize a tuna melt if it came wrapped in organza. And no white shoes after Labor Day. That's better. It's much cooler in here now.

takomabaker: re: #3---I understand the garden tools and shoe wipes, etc., but how far is your bathroom from the kitchen? I wash my hands many times during the course of preparing a meal, and cannot fathom how washing off flour or butter or scrubbing after handling chicken would besmirch your kitchen sink. How's that worse than washing stuff down the disposal? Don't you always sanitize your sink while/after cooking anyway? That's a lotta steps to travel, when you could just wash your food-touched hands in the kitchen.

Tonight was mustard/soy braised chicken wings, falling from the bone as you lifted them; onion/yellow pepper/sesame fried rice; corn and vidalia salad with a vinegar/sugar dressing; sliced tomatoes. Dessert was a scoop of a new Edy's flavor: Double vanilla. Tastes just like the Southern boiled custard we used to make early Sunday mornings and chill for turning in the old crank ice cream freezer on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Stuff just stands there wilting in the heat? And no good old grillmarks on the food? You could do that with a flower frog and a match. Tain't fittin. Jis tain't fittin.

Ironin' Board Samwich. Those were the days. When my children were very young, I set aside a morning a week to do all the ironing. Just before doing the breakfast dishes, I would make four sandwiches, on white or wheat, using two cans of squeeze-drained water pack tuna, the finest minced sweet onion, and a tablespoon or so of mayonnaise. The spread was topped with a cheese slice (do not ask what kind) and the finished sandwich was placed on a lightly-Pammed square of foil, to be wrapped tightly and stuck in the fridge til time for lunch. Everybody played, watched cartoons, or ran around dancing like mad to the oldies station while I ironed away. Then at lunchtime, all clothes were removed from the room, the board was spread with a clean dishcloth, which was then topped with a double paper towel. One child took the sandwiches out of the fridge, one poured the milk, and one fetched the fruit or baby carrots or applesauce, whatever was the accompaniment that day. The sandwiches were lined up on the board, and we all counted to ten as the iron was placed down heavily on each sandwich in turn. There were two rounds of this, then the packets were flipped over, ditto on that side, and we sat down to lunch. In later years, when the boys were grown to big voracious teenagers, I would sometimes make a dozen or so of these, on hamburger buns, each one snugged into its little foil covering and put into the oven for fifteen minutes or so. We'd all grab an apple or a bowl of fruit salad, and sit down again, and I was the only one longing for those longago days of tiny hands helping make those quick, ironing-day lunches.

Okaaaaay. Am I the only Easy woman on this board? My Deep South raising probably has a lot to do with it, but I just don't seem to have my shields up as much as is evinced on this thread. (A Cloaking Device---now THAT would be handy). We have several friendly, favorite places around town where we have grown to know and like the staff--we remember each others' names and ask about the children, etc., and a friendly hand on the shoulder or forearm has never made me jump back, cringe or grimace. I literally HATE to cook fish, so Hubby has discovered a grubby, oil-cloth-tables place with Killer catfish, whose waitresses (yes they ARE SO) are kind and helpful and glad to see us. One in particular is memorable for the sheer number of shoulder-pats administered in one evening. We were seated at a longish 4-top with one narrow end against the wall, so that we were viewed and approached from the side. With every pass in our vicinity, she deftly refilled tea, whisked away plates, brought more fish, etc., and each visit was accompanied by a tiny pat on my left shoulder, and a word or two about being right back with that or could she get us anything else. Never ONCE did she introduce herself and proclaim that she would be our server, in a voice which presumed deep friendship and promised the naming of children in our honor. Nor did she ever ask if we were still working on that, or slap down a check with the entree. Her only vice/mistake/faux pas, according to this thread, was that she gently touched my shoulder with a kind word. I can live with that. I don't mind that. I even might LIKE that, but I certainly understand the reluctance and dislike of being touched or hugged by anyone not rightly entitled or invited to do so. The sweet young women at our favorite Chinese place, with their own cultural reticence and polite upbringings, sometimes touch a shoulder as they pour tea or set down a dish. I like them; we've known them for many years and exchange pleasantries on entering and leaving, and we are greeted at some time of the evening by each and every one of the staff as they pass by. And once, several years ago, they stoutly defended my territory on an occasion when my gorgeous younger sister had flown in for a visit. We drove up to the door, and I said to Hubby, "You two go on in, and I'll stay behind for a moment; let's see what they say." So he sashayed in with this beautiful, size 5 blonde on his arm. When I went in, Hubby and Sis were seated, and they related what had happened at the hostess counter. Our tight-lipped hostess looked them up and down, then asked, "Where is SHE???? Is SHE out of town????" I looked around the room to see all our usual servers standing, arms folded, glaring at Hubby and Sis. We all started to laugh, and I made sure to mention that this was my baby sister. Sis said she was sure glad to see me; she swore they would probably have spit in her dinner.

Everybody calm down, now. Within two weeks Ron Popeil will have a $9.95 plastic version blaring from every channel on TV, and if you order before midnight, he'll include six steak knives and a foggy watch.

Peach cobbler made not quite Southern style with a shot of Buttershot and a glug from the Barista Vanilla syrup bottle along with the sugar, vanilla and butter.

Ice Cream. I'm never cold, far from it, but I DO remain solid through tough times and the chills the world hands out. I'm completely calm and icy in any emergency, any need, any conflagration which sets most people a-jitter. But I tend to melt at the first touch of kindness, of warmth, of dear and amazing and memorable gestures and events. And I dissolve into moosh over happy moments, babies, sweet stories, heroes, sappy movies, country ballads, flag-wavings, patriotic music, heroes, Lassie rescues, memories of childhood, the memories of my elders, and heroes. Did I mention heroes? There seem to be so many about these days. But, like Ouiser, I ain't as sweet as I used to be.

Fresh-roasted warm Brazil nuts with cocktails. Sloppy Joes with Jack melted in, with crisp Vidalia slices. Baked beans with three-color peppers, leftover pulled pork, and brown-sugar sauce. Baby Yukon gold potato salad with mustardy mayo, boiled eggs and celery seeds. Dessert: Pineapple/banana/coconut salad with poof of sour cream. Encore Stairmaster before breakfast tomorrow. And if I DID make pictures, there's no way to make a Sloppy Joe photogenic. Is there?

tan, I glanced through these yesterday, and now your link won't let me past the "projects" page...how do I get back in? speak up!!!

My Dad was an airplane mechanic and became a Master Carpenter, as well. His war service was all spent in Albuquerque, at the flight training grounds, and since one mechanic was required to go up with each flight, he spent quite a few hours in the air. I don't know if it was that someone had to be aboard who could make an adjustment or fix a gauge, etc. in an emergency, or whether, like the legend of the parachute packers, you had to take the same risks as the guys you were keeping the planes safe for. My Mother was left-handed, and my Mammaw just could not tolerate seeing her use a knife "backward," so there was NO cooking training going on. Mother was allowed to do all other domestic chores, including washing all the dishes, but cooking was not among her talents when they got married. She was legendary for well-browned undercooked chicken (which she hated anyway, and ate only the liver) and for shoeleather meats and breads. So Daddy, having been raised by a mother with cooking skills similar to Mother's, was already a good baker and fryer and vegetable cook, though everything was cooked in the good old Southern "cooked down low" manner as to greens and green beans, peas, butterbeans, etc. All vegetables were tender and seasoned to perfection, with a good chunk of pork or bacon, cut into fan slices held together by the tough, flexible rind. And Daddy DID love to cook. He fed whole Fire Departments and Police departments and the Sheriff's entire staff in our area. He could put on a fishfry or a barbecue or a Brunswick stew supper that drew crowds for miles. He and several friends established a (pardon the vulgar-sounding name) "Nut and Gut Club" which referred to their propensity for hilarity and for consuming gargantuan meals of game, beef, barbecue, fish, froglegs, and their most famous: Duck suppers. They would pool their bounty of mallards from the freezer each Winter, and have a couple of "feeds" to which every male in the community was invited, including some wee ones in diapers. Men in that part of the country had no qualms about grabbing up a just-walking little boy and sticking him in the pickup on the way to a duckblind. They still do, and the number of carseats in Broncos and Rams now almost equal the number of firearms in the rack--and some of those carseats now carry tiny girls in State or Ole Miss sweatshirts, joining in merrily in their Daddy's Bubba-type activities. And so these preposterone-laden events included any guy who liked a rousing, food-and-joke filled evening. Daddy built a huge reception hall out on the river, just for gatherings of this type, and entertained every dignitary, Congressman, Senator and interesting visitor our state had to offer, plus quite a few who traveled from "far off," the most incongruous one to me being Liberace, in town to visit a friend of ours whose antiques were world-famous. (The Bedazzling One wore jeans). And Daddy had a courtly, gentlemanly manner which translated well to any kind of mixed gathering, or ladies' groups or church functions. We always said he'd come home after a day of hot, hard work, get all showered and dressed, and go to a dogfight if they were serving cake after. Over the years, he acquired cooking implements and stoves and warming ovens and bread proofers and every pot and pan known to man. He LOVED to feed people, and would just get the urge, go buy forty pounds of chicken thighs, make a cauldron of dumplings, and carry Tupperwares to everybody he could think of. And he wasn't above calling them to come get some, if time was limited and supper was ready...there would be a steady stream of cars in the drive and rings of the doorbell til the last scrape of the pot disappeared into the Winter night, held safe and warm in cold hands on the way home. We closed out the family home on Thanksgiving weekend the year after my Mother's death; the sheer number of items stocking that kitchen was mind-numbing; the nesting pots and their lids, the skillets of all sizes and shapes, the ladles hanging like stalactites in graduated sizes from soup-kitchen to boardinghouse to doll-stew; the knives and spoons and cannisters and ranks of vinegar bottles and dishes which could have served hundreds. The three freezers were transported "as is," one to each household, with their cargo of hard-won game, greens, cut corn, homemade soups and sauces and stews. After packing and splitting all the household into three rented trucks, we finally gave up, laid out dozens and hundreds of items on the bare dining room and sunroom floors, and called the neighbors in. They chose and loaded and carried, murmuring their appreciation and their memories of which dish had brought what wonderful dinner to their house, and when. Daddy's been gone for more than a year, now, and the cooking memories are the ones which linger strongest. Those gnarled old hands, scarred and battered and calloused from decades of hard work, chopped and stirred and folded and layered and seasoned with a magic not found in restaurants or clubs or diners or famous kitchens. There was nothing better in his life, no enjoyment, no reward, to his notion, than "flinging a good meal amongst 'em." And the "em's" still mention his generosity and kindness. What a lovely legacy.

I'm talking. Well, asking---are the dishes under the "s'mores" chocolate as well? Everything is Gorgeous!!! Thanks for the link. Nuff said.

Tonight we had Boursin on wheat crackers and Oliver Winery Camelot mead whilst the panko-coated butterflied shrimp were frying. Vidalia/homemade dill pickle tartar sauce; baby Yukon golds with seasalt and a dot of butter; Cold asparagus, boiled egg quarters, tomato quarters, dressed with a dribble of lemony mustard/mayo. Nectarine crescents simmered in vanilla sugar and buttershot, served warm with a tiny scoop of vanilla yogurt and a gloop of whipped cream. Tomorrow's breakfast: Stairmaster.

My Dear late first Mother-in-Law, bless her dear Angel heart, would never cook during a thunderstorm. She would even turn off the oven after a cake had ALREADY started to rise--because, as everyone knows, "heat draws lightning." Though how the storm could differentiate between 350 degrees isolated inside a house from the 100+ temperatures that raged outside from May til October, I have no idea.

Small sub sandwiches---several meats and cheeses, black olives and pepperoncini for Hubby; cucumber, several color peppers, lettuce, tomato and avocado for me, all wrapped and snugged down into a small carry-cooler with a bag of grapes, one of macadamias, toasted pecans, almonds and walnuts, one of six Lindts in the blue wrapper, a bottle of water, and two Diet Peppers, with ice packs, a bagged wet washcloth, two nice napkins, and a handful of paper towels. We sat on the lawn and ate our dinner during Symphony on the Prairie, along with several thousand assorted revelers, picnickers, wine-toasters, quilt-sitting families and wandering folk, all enjoying the music in the soft Summer air. Candles twinkled, little braziers sent sparks aloft, wee ones wore glowing halos of blue and neon orange and purple, and the backdrop of the stage faded from crimson to blue to lavender with the mood of the music. We left the chocolates for another time, and succumbed to the aromas of fresh-popped kettle corn and the tongue-aching scent of its browning sugar anointment, being stirred in an immense cauldron by a formally-dressed, smiling young man who dodged the escaping kernels with deft aplomb. We ate alternate bites of warm corn and cold grapes, whilst the brasses played and little girls danced in the aisles, each rivaling the conductor with the perfectly-timed whips of their lightsticks. Hubby disappeared toward the concessions and returned with a scoop of Ritter's vanilla and two spoons, which we shared during the last number, then sat hypnotized, amazed and delighted as the fireworks filled the sky.

And since all our children are now out of college, I could send you an occasional care package. We're known for our super brownies and KILLER cookies. just a thought.

I have no answers, but I do envy your sojourn into those halls of tradition and honor. Best wishes for a wonderful term. rachel

Leftover smoked pork loin skillet-smothered to creamy fall-apartness in a slightly-sweet barbecue sauce, on skillet-toasted buns; tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden, with salted dill mayonnaise; Zatarain's red beans and rice, just because. Friday Sci-Fi TV lineup. Hubby made us each three S'mores for dessert.

I've been sitting reading Nigella's How to Eat during Friday night TV. Lots of roasts and lamb and several nice porky entries, with bitter salads, many rhubarb variations, jellies and tarts and puddings and baked chicken with as many sauces as there are herbs. Wonderful fish dishes, crepes with salmon, glorious spreads of bagels and cheeses and lox and olives and tomatoes. And lots of "green only" salads with the tomatoes left to their own devices, whole, with a knife for slicing when needed. Roasted root vegetables, tossed simply with a little oil and salt, and served room temperature if you wish. And one of her recipes for Sticky Chocolate Pudding is almost exactly that of the "Dirty Cake" recipe which all of us young housewives in the US South used to make all the time, with its layer stirred together in the bottom of a pan, then sugar and cocoa sifted over, hot water poured on, then the whole thing baked, with the layer rising magically through the water to form a lovely shiny cake floating on a rich creamy chocolate sauce, perfect with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream. It's probably the easiest dessert there is, and can be doubled and baked in a VERY large cake pan to serve all those guests. Any kind of poached fruit, with wine or plain vanilla poaching liquid, served with cream poured over. I used to cater Queen's Birthday celebration every year for a lovely young couple stationed here at our Army post; they invited all the officers and their wives, and we always had lovely sandwiches and quiches and tarts and sausage rolls. She always included a huge sponge cake with the Union Jack arranged in berries on top, with slashes of whipped cream. How I miss those dear friends!! I wish the Queen could know what a great impression they made during their time here, and what excellent ambassadors they were.

Mrs. Kowalski, our neighbor way down South, taught me to make "varnishes" when I was a young wife and mother. That is just the way she said it, and the way we wrote it in my little recipe notebook. The dough is very similar to a gnocchi recipe I have, with a well-dried, peeled-after-boiling potato mashed into the dough. A finger-dip into warm water around one half of the circle glued the edges together for her busy, crimping fingers. (I do admit that now I have one of those handy little white plastic thingies that crimp the edges when you press the handles together). We did several fillings: potato with chives or green onions straight from the garden. Lots of crisp-fried paper-thin onion mixed into thick mashed potatoes. Several kinds of cheese grated into the potatoes, and my favorite: shredded cabbage, essentially stir-fried (before we ever stir-fried anything else in our house)with a little garlic, with crushed caraway and coarse pepper and the odd addition of a dash or two of soy sauce, straight from the La Choy bottle. She said that one day she ran out of salt while mixing a batch and supplemented with the salty soy. And it was delicious; I just happened to see this thread tonight, after we had our own cabbage dish prepared this way, but with bow-tie pasta stirred in just before serving. We had it with a sweet Southern chicken salad stuffed into juicy fresh tomatoes.

Just lovely!!! It was every color and flavor there is. Perfect. rachel

I'd missed this thread as well, but since I have no lovely pics to post---oh, well. I'm so glad to see it return. This is sometimes better'n looking at flowers. As mentioned earlier, I'm officially christening this the C.U.P. thread--Cruel and Unusual Punishment. Especially for us late-night readers, with only a few stray crumbs left in the Oreo bag, or maybe one errant Hershey's Kiss under a sofa cushion. However, this time, there ARE the last few slices of that scrumptious Lemon Sponge Cake with Mascarpone Lemon Mousse in the upstairs fridge..... No harm, no foul this time, but I'm WARNIN' Y'all!!! rachel