racheld
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Posts posted by racheld
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I knew I'd seen those little pale corks of cheese somewhere---in one of Lucy's memorable blogs. She knows all the fun stuff.
Perhaps a lot of types and flavors are now being sold and presented in these tiny nibble-sizes, but these are the only ones I've ever seen. These may be totally different, but they look much the same:
http://forums.egullet.org/index.php?showtopic=64184&st=30:
PS: Had you tried the cheeses before, or are they ones you regularly enjoy? I just wondered if the essence of the blossoms somehow might transfer another taste to them, either enhancing or detracting a bit from their usual flavors.
(I really thought that when I thought the long purple ones were lavender, which is rather a strong adjunct to most foods, especially a delicate dairy one).
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Marcia Adams
Says the home-kitchen caterer who made about a hundred of the chocolate balloon tulipes from her TV show once. With little short matches. And I STILL like her.
She's probably the only cookbook writer who could publish her books-on-tape and get a good audience. If she read them.
And I never heard that about Southern cooking.
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SONNET FROM THE PORKUGUESE
Homage to Elizabeth Bacon Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the slab and slice and bite
My smoke can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Bacon and ideal Glaze.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most crispy shard, by noon and breakfast-time.
I love thee freely, as men strive for rind;
I love thee purely, as they tamp the blaze.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my cast iron, and with my Le Creuset.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost beef. I love thee with the breath,
Scents, tastes of all my life. And if God chews,
He shall but love thee better than the resth.
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Is this a creamy liver spread, a pate of sorts? Everyone keeps mentioning pudding and mush, so I'm envisioning a gooey-paste sort of concoction. What is the consistency---is it served as a clop from the spoon, in slices, poured over a biscuit?
The one I remember from very early childhood is a dish greatly looked forward to by my Aunt Lorayne-with-a-y. It was called "Liver HAISH" in her deep lady- baritone, pronounced at first like the Japanese "yes," but much more slowly and drawn out.
The dish started with a great quantity of chopped onion, gently fried in a big skillet whilst someone else went out to the hog-killin' site with a pan to retrieve the liver. Liver was washed, de-membraned, chopped into small pieces, and sort of stirred/smashed into the skillet until gray and soft. Big sprinklings of salt and a great shower from the McCormick pepper can, perhaps a curl or two of sage from the big bush.
Several boiled potatoes, divested of their jackets, then cut into infinitesimal cubes and stirred in to take up the flavors. Lid on for a few minutes, into the red FireKing bowl, and very hot to table.
But none for me. I wouldn't even sit in its vicinity as I ate some vegetables and a biscuit.
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Woooo, Kimber!!! What a LOVELY repast!!!
Chris gazed over my shoulder as he pointed out all the similar/exact serving pieces we share. What a lovely day!!
Just to see what the august JB did to pastitsio, I googled it, and you're the fourth entry---clicking took me straight back to your table.
We spent the day at DS#2 and DDIL's new home---our family, her parents, her sis and her family----with three little girls giggling and romping to keep us amused.
They called it a cookout, but the weather was a bit grumpy, so we ate indoors.
Burgers, grilled chicken breasts, and the most wonderful plain old Nathan's hot dogs. I'd grown so accustomed to having the dogs steam atop the sauerkraut before assembling the hot dogs, that I'd almost forgotten the charm of the little blistery dark-to-black sections which accent every bite of a real-toasted dog, whether from a grill or over a fire with a stick---they're a classic.
The usual accoutrements---potato salad, stuffed eggs, vegetable tray and chips and dips, as well as a bowl of blue slaw. Strawberry ice cream cake, fudge medallions, and a four-berry WW crumble which was just wonderful---the real taste of every berry in the purply syrup bubbled at the edges to make the best part of any cobbler---that thick, almost chewy cooked-onto-the-casserole part that's part candy, part pie.
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I have not words for this. Chris was passing beside me, and I said, "Look at this---can you imagine having created it---standing those ladyfingers JUST SO, placing it on your own cakeplate, and taking a picture so perfect?"
We agreed that this is one of the all-time Hall of Fame creations AND pictures ever posted.
Thank you for the good wishes---our own desserts yesterday, at the home of DS#2 and DDIL, were a Schwan's strawberry ice cream cake, (brought by her Mom), fudge medallions (made by our hostess), and a four-berry crumble with topping made of oatmeal, Splenda, and several crumbled WW muffins from the freezer---made by Caro, and served with FF whipped cream---warm and richly delicious, with a lovely thick purply sauce tasting of each and every berry.
We had a sample of them all, on a pretty little plate, in a housefull of laughing little girls, proud young parents, and two sets of happy grandparents. The aura and the together of it made our day wonderful.
But that Charlotte!!! Perfect.
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Our official dessert here in British Columbia, Canada would have to be the sugar/calorie-bomb known as the Nanaimo Bar. I can't even remember the last time I had one.
OHHHHHH, My!!!!! That Grand Marnier one sounds BEYOND fabulous.
There's a redneck version, so far from this except for a slight resemblance---say if you put the two pictures side-by-side, they might look like the Charles Atlas before and after, or those ads for cellulite removal creams, or maybe one of the age-the-child pictures of Pebbles Flintstone, as she'd look today.
THAT one, called "Mountain Mama," or in some less-than-exalted circles, "Four Layer Delaaaat"---starts out with the best of intentions---a butter/flour/toasted pecans shortbread crust which IS delightful, indeed. It could grace the grandest torte or the most celebrated cheesecake.
Were it not for the abuse heaped upon it in the form of a package of cream cheese, mixed with a cup of powdered sugar and half a tub of Kool Whip.
Next layer is a package of instant chocolate pudding, the three-cup size, spread on top. No additions, no garnishments, just plain old Jello Instant.
Of course, you can't have a half-tub of Kool Whip languishing about in the fridge---without that tub to add to the storage cabinet, where would you store that leftover sauerkraut and weenies til time to make a pot of soup? So use it up, spread it on, swirl it around.
Chill till party time (or til the funeral's over and it's time to set out lunch). Cut into squares. This results in clips and clops of color and fluff and ooze that truly WILL delight the heart of the sugar-deprived (or depraved---I forget which).
There also come into being colors of no earthly hue---vast streaks of the Purple Dye #81, used with a dash of magenta, some La Brea Black, puce, and a squirt from the neon sage, to make the chocolate look CHOCOLATE. Serves twelve. And every single piece will be different in shape, texture, configuration, taste and color.
It's been a standby of every celebratory function in the Delta since its creation sometime in the Seventies, I think. Tiffs have broken out in committee meetings, just on who was to make the Mountain Mama, and who, the Wilted Leddis Sallid for the next Quarterly Luncheon.
And then, of course, there are the feuds over Sawdust Salad . . .
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I love mine. It's the sense-memories, I think, of waking in childhood with that cheery little burble sending the scent of morning through the house. My parents never used anything else; in fact, our last gift to them before my Mother passed away was a new Presto, shining magically from the wrappings, its slender spout emerging ready to report for duty. And on every one of Daddy's visits, I emerged each morning to the early pot he'd plugged in and was enjoying in my easy chair, under the big lamp, riding the range with Louis L'Amour or conquering the seas with Admiral Hornblower.
And though I'm the only regular-morning drinker here, we're probably on our third or fourth pot, always shiny, always sharp-spouted in a graceful arc mirroring the stream into the cup. Of course, we ALL have to confess a cheery little daisy-strewn Farberware, in college dorms or first apartments, with its greige plastic body and spout like a baby's pouty underlip.
And there's a big old silver one knocking around here, in a closet or box somewhere, that was elegant enough for the Duke's breakfast---beautiful Grecian spout, tall graceful curves tapering to the little skylight at the top, and a swag of olive branches garnishing its waist.
I like to fill the pot at night, filling just to an inch under the inside spout opening, clicking the long pipe into the basket, then fitting it into the recess with one twist. A crisp, fragrant SCOOOOOP of the copper 1/3 cup into the big glass cannister, a fingertip over the pipehole to prevent errant crumbs, guard in, lid on, and ready for morning.
I sometimes find myself wishing it WERE morning, for some odd reason. Just to smell it and await that first steamy stream---the tired of night and the caffeine prevent, but sometimes I'm tempted to plug it in RIGHT THEN.
And morning is the best time---someone usually plugs it in before I wake, but I enjoy coming to the kitchen in the lone quiet, reaching for the black cord, setting it just SO into the notch, and hearing that faithful SHUUUUUSSSSHHH begin. The scent and the comforting, easy morning sound as I take down the little pink glass bowl of Sweet&Low, reach in for the little bright red milk jug, set out skyblue cup and a spoon. Easy gestures, slow morning wakenings, percolator music---what's not to love?
(I must, however, in pursuit of all honesty, confess to an absolute addiction for the truck-stop machines that dispense cappuccino, the French Vanilla kind, with a big cold dispenser of real cream, ditto French Vanilla. It's absolutely the best coffee I've ever tasted anywhere---amazing in that hustlebustle of nationwide commerce crossing through every day. It's unbelievably good, with the flavors of vanilla and whatever spice makes it French, as mere undernotes to the coffee-est of coffee).
Edited cause I can NEVER get those P's and C's right. I oughta just drink latte.
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OOOOOOO, Donna!
Pomidori Torta Rustica!! Memories. . .
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Brooks,
This is almost "Miss Mimi's" vegetable pie, which held thin-sliced yellow squash and zucchini (both sauteed until nearly tender in a bit of oil or butter, before layering with the tomatoes, basil, cheese, etc.).
I remember a day that I was visiitng with my parents in my Mom's last days, and Miss Mimi came in the door with an enormous basket over her arm. It was big enough to hold two 10" pieplates, the whole thing wide as a donkey-pannier. The pies were absolutely wonderful, with that creamy golden topping over the sweet, tender vegetables.
My two sons who still lived near my parents both came to dinner, as they did every night I was there, and we ate in the dining room to befit such an elegant repast. My sons, both of whom do the cooking for their families, have made the recipe over and over, as have I. It goes over so well at Deer Camp, they make four at a time.
I thought OP might be requesting one of the truly sweet pies---those aren't in my repertoire, cause sugary tomatoes don't sound very tasty. (Now a sweet green tomato pickle is another story).
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OH, Ivy,
I'm SO glad it's your young, strong, talented energy in that kitchen, instead of mine. It really takes dedication to your craft, and it's evident that you take it seriously.
Quite a memorable read, both for the wordsmithing and for the word-pictures of a life not my own. This is WAY more than cooking.
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BK is scary. Like clowns.
And SOOOO nauseating are the Hardee boys---any age---who scarf down those enormous, too-tall-for-the-mouth drippy burgers.
And I just CRINGE when a salad place/grocery store/any dining establishment commercial uses fresh produce either immersed in water or with great splashes of water descending on it, or someone giving it a fling so the water showers everywhere. Wet lettuce---ewww.
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All far-thinking Southern cooks keep a can of Whack-It biscuits just for such emergencies. Picks up every shard. (After you've manually and carefully removed all the big ole chunks, of course). Just make sure to put them into an empty coffeecan. Or an empty tin can zipped into a ziploc works, too, so no unsuspecting animal will get them later.
Of course, that's the only reason I have Pillsburys in MY fridge.
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This is just pricelessly perfect, in every detail. Unforgettable.
It was sharing in its best, purest, most beautiful form. And thank you for sharing it with us.
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Yours all sound remarkable, legislated or no.
I'll throw in a bid for Mississippi: Nanner Puddin'
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Thank you for the BRIGHT of this---it was lovely.
May there always be sunshine on your strudel.
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And do we think that Carver really ate menudo?
The curious want to know.....
No idea. But I think he really, REALLY liked cinnamon rolls. He describes them with the ardor of a lover describing the curve of his lady's thigh, with the tastes and mouthfeel and sweet redolence of spice jumping off the page. Great golden panfuls, hot from the oven.
Making them muffins in the movie just negated all those warm, yeasty, squashy sweet mouthfuls of sorrow's anodyne.
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Bromo Seltzer for the merely agued, Hair of the Dog for the late-night lamented, and Prairie Oysters (not to be confused with either the oceanic or the altitudinous kinds) for the truly tied-one-on-with-rope. I suppose the gulped egg would satisfy the "ate" part of the question.
And I would imagine Tennessee Williams to be a Bromo man, as well. After all, Blanche D. swore to "get hold of a Bromo" as she rubbed her aching head.
I hate to be the first to answer this---two sips into a cocktail and I can't find the kitchen to finish dinner. Better drinkers than I will answer more accurately, I think.
Hemingway struck me as a raw-beef man on any occasion, and he would have eaten barely-flamed red meat in great, grease-lipped bites, breathing quick loud breaths through his nose as he chewed. Men like Papa don't have time to trim the fat---they down it all, with sluices of golden yolk mingling in the pool of red, and soft tortillas dived through warm, lard-slick frijoles.
Fitzgerald seemed a more effete sort, with collar stays and galluses hoisting his pin-stripes; his breakfasts were the gin rickey sort, or Sazerac-fueled bacon-and-eggs on the terrace, silver domes ashine, with an ever-full ashtray testament to the puffs between bites. Fruit group was covered by a Salty Dog or two, and vegetable, the parsley left to wither on the plate.
And Miss Parker---ahhh, Miss Parker---now HER, I could have breakfast with. I picture all the Algonquin outings beginning with the first perks of the coffeepot, and ending with nightcaps seasoned with a whiff of cigar.
But she ate, I think; that wit and acid tongue and reputed soft heart were driven by more than martinis. And anyone still in a cocktail suit at six a.m., with a little feathered whimsy over one eye---that woman could order anything from Eggs Sardou to a lumberjack's breakfast, and eat either or both with a bright-eyed, lusty joy belying her reputation. Or she could slump into despair, regarding world and friend alike with a sabre-tongued sentence through clenched teeth, frowning up in disdain or nausea at others' breakfasts. What I'd give to have been listening from a quiet corner.
She strikes me as the Prairie Oyster sort---yolk only, heavy on the Worcestershire---tossed off like a horse-opera cowpoke in a swing-door saloon. Not even a grimace to spare in that crowded, lonely life.
Edited to corral a wandering italic arm.
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RRRRRRRRRRRRREDDDDDDDDDD!!
I love the GLOW of this place, with the reds and golds and the gilded lady with the Louis Treize wig. Being able to turn a simple grocery-shopping trip into a cavalcade of the centuries by merely strolling a side-way, a street, an avenue frozen in time--that would be something wonderful to wake up to every day.
And I'd stroll all the way there for a crunch of that wispy-wafered pastry with its inscriptions as important as any coin---every drifting crumb would be delicious.
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Ahhh, Foodie, Dear,
Another of your wise and wonderful recipes---I LOVE Mrs. Beeton. I especially love the recipes which begin: First draw your rabbit. . .
Teacakes
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I'm having a delightful time, wandering a new city and being conducted to such lovely establishments.
I've lived all this time without having sampled Figfop Puttabong---it's such a captivating name I googled it. We were given a gift certificate to Teavana for Christmas, and they list it!!! I'm going to order some right now.
Serendipity---ain't it great?
I guess it's a good thing all those pastries aren't available at the touch of a keyboard.
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Oh, yes. Good lyrics, rhyme, catchy rhythm. Nice guitar accompaniment.
Wonderful choreography.
And I smiled at the baby all the way through---what a pleasant little fellow.
Do you go about in disguise? Do you eat up your dinners as eagerly and happily as that sparkly baby?
We don't get to Chicago often, but I'd read you every day.
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Wonderful to see your new kitchen, all arranged, drawers filled, light streaming in. I look with envy at ANY house with a tower---but the entire place---I'd feel like a princess every day. I'd also stand at those windows with my coffee, mesmerized to see the fog lift/sun rise/rain fall as the day begins.
How many stairs? Elevator now? Hauling in groceries for two up several flights, but for 24!!! Looking forward to the birthday pictures---what day exactly is it?
And will you think nostalgically (but not wistfully) of your rope-and-basket?
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More anon.
AWWWWW
We're looking forward to it!!!
Confidence Biscuits
in Pastry & Baking
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Might? MIGHT!!!??? Do I hear you utter a word of possibility? That one is defintely a DEFINITE!!