racheld

This is getting better with each installment. Kudos to Caitie for that gorgeous cake and all that ingenuity of garnish. Just to remind you---there's only one night left after tonight to go sit and contemplate the ocean. This won't be complete unless there's at least one midnight fanny-print in that sand when you depart for home.

Tapenade and creme fraiche on cracked-wheat crackers; lobster/sour cream/roasted red pepper spread on sesame crackers. Pan-sizzled ribeyes. Salad and bread in one: We each had a sandwich of tomatoes warm from the garden, with Blue Plate mayo and seasalt on Wonder Bread. A couple of VERY dark chocolate malted milk balls from a local chocolatier. Delicious.

These are all far too tongue-tingling to linger over...I'm craving anything lemon at this moment. One of our favorites is a lemon/cheesecake bar over a shortbread/macadamia crust, and we make them by the panful. On her first Thanksgiving, when she was ten months old, our Granddaughter kept reaching for the bowl of lemon crescents meant for the iced tea. She had never tasted it before, I suppose, and we were reluctant to let her have such a taste shock after such a good dinner. She took the little half moon into her tiny hands, took a big slurp, and crammed the entire thing into her wee mouth, giving herself that Marlon Brando/Godfather grin as she sucked all the juice out of her section. She avidly asked for more and more, and one of my favorite videos of her life is the soft lighting of the candlelit room illuminating her tiny round self, pillowy Pamper-rump lurching along as she pushed a tiny plastic grocery cart, taking step after step around the dining table, with that enormous yellow smile. And she is still a lemon-lover. She's six now, and every visit includes at least one Fairy Tea. Though we partake of imaginary fare and drink of fanciful flavors of pretend tea, when she Pours Out, she never fails to include a squeeze of lemon.

Beautiful and interesting. I love seeing traditions which are carried on by the descendants or adopted after many years. From the bottom up? Lift off all but the bottom and take it out? And repeat lifting every time? I never would have thought to serve it that way.

Did your guests take your going to bed as a signal to go home, or did they just dig in and have another round? Was the other half of your "we" still vertical and playing host? When my children were teenagers, we had sleeping space for 13--why such an odd number escapes me--and I would leave them to their hanging out and go on to bed, only to awaken to find all spaces full and myself having to step over a couple of sleeping bags on the floor. But that was a gentler time, and they were kids. But you just left your party and went to sleep? I LONG to be that laid-back and easy with friends, but I have to see that last one out the door with a "Y'all come back!!!" And the easy camaraderie of it is that they felt welcome and free enough in your home that they stayed. Enviable.

I've been off-and-on immersed in a deadline for proofreading, and I'm getting addled, as well as blind. The little typo of "prim rib" just set me off into almost hysterical giggles, from which I was rescued by Hubby with a soothing voice and a frosty Margarita. Sorry for the lame humor. And the menu sounds luscious.

We had a lovely lunch at a local place yesterday (mine was a masterpiece of a sandwich with grain bread, avocado, tomato, cucumber, roasted peppers, sprouts and pesto---and I'm not a vegetarian). Before ordering our lunch, we strolled the many aisles of wonderful teas and coffees and cheeses!! and all the jellies and jams and pickles and capers....everything under one roof, since we could see through the glassless iron-laced windows into the wineshop side of the store, and could smell the luscious aromas from the cigar shop. Despite having an entire cabinet devoted to all my lovely teas and cups and various adjuncts (the teapots are all over the house, displayed on rails above both kitchens, over the microwave, nestled into the open dish cabinets and bookcases, etc.), I was just carried away with all the selection. Names I had never heard before, the whisper of a tropic isle, a sun-drenched field, an exotic hillside in a country I'll never see save through pictures and descriptions and sips of their glorious teas. I overdid it a bit, but I craved those teas, the IDEA of them, the projected tastes and moments and events and frames in which I'd serve them and enjoy them and share them with friends and family. The new ones on my shelf are: A couple of the old Stash standbys, some chai spice and a new red-and-white combo, with rooibos as the main component. Two questions: I've never known how to pronounce rooibos---what would I say to order it? And the white is new to me---if it were alone in the pot, would the tea be almost clear and still flavorful? A pretty shiny box of Yamamotoyama China Oolong. A couple of the ROT's---Ginger Peach Decaf and Honey Ginseng Green. A trio of Grace Rare: Owner's Blend, Darjeeling and Connoisseur...these three on sale rack, but well within ED. Hedley's EB and EG---Hubby's before-breakfast requirements. This a.m., I've had a cup each of rooibos/white (lovely vanilla flavor, beautiful color in the cup). And oolong--exactly like I like it. And last night's bedtime chai spice was just as it should be---gently aromatic of clove and cinnamon and cardamom, sweetened with honey---the perfect sweet-sleep tea. Though it's been unseasonably hot here, the bedtime cup conjured up visions of warm pajamas and soft slippers and a good book before retiring. And I reserve the right, as a long-time SOUTH person before moving to the Heartland, to enjoy each and every one of these OVER ICE when the spirit moves. rachel (taking my classless taste and slinking away).

Does this mean that not only to you have to add those ruffly panties, but a tightly-buttoned dress as well? Sorry---I've been proofreading for DAYS and my mind is rebelling.

I LOVE this. You traveled with enough equipment to do brain surgery, and STILL have to make do now and then. Makin' do and doin' great. I also love all the generations and ages and tastes and mindsets and thoughts. We've been part of a multi-generational family for always, and it's a hoot and a blessing and a pain...wonderful to be together, neverless. Now, right this minute, in the quiet of the evening, go sit on that deserted beach for me. Just pick a dune or a soft spot, look out at that neon-waved ocean, listen to the SOOTHE of it, and let it wash over you. We used to go after supper and sit listening for hours and letting the wind clear all things. It's a wonderful place, wonderful atmosphere, wonderful therapy, take your pick. I need that envy-green ink again.

Perfect Sunday Summer afternoon---shady lawn, old friends, lovely food, a white tent and tablecloth shimmering in the breeze, a reason to celebrate---you put it together perfectly. The table is beautiful. And the spare squareness of the serving dishes adds to the round abundance of the beautifully-prepared food. Just superb. And what does a Norwegian groom's cake consist of/look like?

Our favorite strawberry-season dessert (or dip for any fruit) is ricotta smoothed into a wide plate or wide shallow bowl. Sprinkle the top with a nice layer of turbinado sugar (the crackly, shiny, golden kind, sold at Sam's as Sugar in the Raw). It's just heavenly, the contrast of a bite of luscious fruit, covered in the creamy, rich cheese with little sparkles of crunchy sweet sugar all through it. And after it sits a while during the winding-down of the evening, when everyone is still lingering over coffee or brandy, the sugar gently melts into golden pools and runnels of the most delicious syrup, dripping from each spoon of cheese. And there's a scrumptiously ethereal (Sicilian? Italian?) dessert made with pound cake slices which are used to line a bowl, brushed with Amaretto, then filled like a layered bombe with first: Stiffly whipped cream with powdered sugar, almond extract and toasted sliced almonds...smooth that up the sides in the shape of the bowl. Then fill the center with: More whipped cream mixed with powdered sugar, melted chocolate, ricotta and more sliced almonds. Fit more cake slices over the top; chill 4 to 8 hours, unmold, dust with powdered cocoa, slice. And, Wendy---what is the final amount after draining?

We stopped in Shapiro's (huge, delightful Jewish deli) today for lunch. We took our usual table over by the big mirrored wall, and were just one table away from the private dining room, whose double doors were folded ALLLL the way back to spill out a crowd of laughing, talking, giggling, tickling flirting young people-- perhaps twenty teenagers, and a couple of younger kids. The noise level was at its peak when we sat down, and they mingled, filling the big doorway, but we could see a great crowd of adults laughing and talking inside. They moved away from several of the tables, and there were trays of desserts and fruits, which all the young folks kept munching from. Hubby and I speculated that they must be a church group, in town on a museum tour or such, and then the adults began to make their slow way out of the dining room. All the kids were nicely dressed, in long-sleeved outfits, all the girls in dresses or skirts, and all the adults were wearing either black or gray ensembles. They all kept up their mingling and laughing and eating, spilling out way into the area we were in, mixing amongst the tables of us locals, carrying their brownies and strawberries around the room, enjoying each others' company. Finally one young man filed past with a huge posterboard featuring pictures of a smiling couple in 40's attire, the shyly-smiling young woman in a neat hat, and the young soldier in uniform. As we left, we were just behind a couple in the parking lot, who were still laughing and talking as they strolled hand in hand. She turned to us, and said, "I hope we didn't disturb your lunch." We reassured her that we had enjoyed all their enjoyment, with all the young folks having such a good time. Taking his cue from the poster and pictures, Hubby asked, "Was this an anniversary?" "No," she replied. "A funeral." My only thought was, "Way to go!"

Tonight we had breakfast for dinner. We do that several times in Winter, but don't remember a Summer night breakfast. The weather is cooler now, and we were out and about in the sun all day. Had a cool nap when we got home, and while he slept on, I made: Potato/chive pierogi (we like the cabbage ones better, but these were what I had in the freezer) sauteed in butter with a sage leaf; soft scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, thick skillet toast, orange marmalade, Decker melon chunks, yoghurt with fresh raspberries. Friday night SciFi channel lineup.

I hope the investment advisor can afford to be so snobbish. The twee art makes me feel as if I've eaten too many marshmallows, but he was probably looking at 120,000+ on her wall. The woman has MONEY to spend. Maybe his excruciating TASTE can pay his rent. ← At the time this professor (art history) said this, the painting on that wall was worth well over a $Million. His friend said that a woman that would spend that type of money on something like that is just not the type of client he can work with. ← Nuff said. It just sounded as if he were cutting off his elevated nose to spite his face.

I hope the investment advisor can afford to be so snobbish. The twee art makes me feel as if I've eaten too many marshmallows, but he was probably looking at 120,000+ on her wall. The woman has MONEY to spend. Maybe his excruciating TASTE can pay his rent.

When a military friend of my husband was being transferred, the couple asked us to move into and rent their house for the year they were gone. We were getting ready to move when he asked if I would cater a little party for a "few" friends the next week, when she would be getting her citizenship. Since he and my husband had been working together for a while, I said I would; THEN he said we'd have to have it at our apartment (where I was in the throes of packing) because they were expecting the movers in to pack all their stuff. So we shoved all the boxes into the spare bedroom, made a nice cocktail reception type meal for 30, and they all arrived at our house after work. All the guests were male, except for the honoree, two of her friends who were also married to soldiers, and me. The three women were all from the same country, and spent the entire party talking to each other in their own language, despite my trying to draw them into conversation quite a few times. I'd sit down, we'd say a few words; they would go right back to their own conversation, spoken very fast in a language I did not understand. They smoked constantly, despite my asking them to go out onto the patio; they put out their cigarettes in their plates of food, they talked to each other, and one of them pointed at me, said something and they all laughed. I mingled with all the other guests as well, all of whom ate and drank and had a wonderful time, as well as being VERY complimentary on the food. The three women wandered around picking up items, commenting to each other, and drinking. I would approach, and they would glance back over their shoulders at me and go right back to their own conversation in their own language. I mingled with the guys some more, and the last straw came when I walked by the dessert table to see one of the women standing there, tearing the green leaves out of a fresh strawberry, with several others already done and a big spatter of red drips all over my pretty white cloth, while she had a plate right in front of her. She tossed all the leaves back onto the fruit platter, picked up her plate, and walked off. There was a very grudging "thank you" at the end of the party, and the 2x4 that REALLY broke the camel's back was that when we arrived at the house on moving day, they had taken all the appliances that they had promised to leave. I should have been wary of something, because the week before we had had them over to lunch. I set out a nice lunch spread on the nicely-set table, then ladled the homemade turkey soup into bowls. I set one bowl on the table, went to get the others, and returned to find her already seated alone at the table, busily eating the bowl of soup.

Not QUITE burnt black, but the little crunchles which slough off while you're frying chicken and remain in the skillet through one or two more fryings are deeply, brownly, richly tasty. Hubby always requests that I fry a pan or two of chicken wings while he is cutting corn; I pour the oil into another container, and he "fries" the cut kernels and scraped corn milk in the last bit of oil in that hot black skillet, with all those wonderful crunchy bits, even a bit of well-browned flour which escaped and sifted down. It's heavenly corn, and we had a bowl for dinner tonight. And a childhood friend always toasted her marshmallows twice: she caught it on fire, let it blaze blue for a moment, ate that crust; then she stuck the stick with the naked, gooey middle back over the fire for another mini-inferno before she ate it. But I just saw my beloved Miss Ina put her chicken to marinate in a tomato-based sauce BEFORE putting it on the grill. Tomato BEFORE=BAAAAAD burnt, not tasty.

I'm so glad to have found these three---wonderful and interesting, a chronicle of a part of the business just coming into being. And familiar, somehow, with the name...I don't know where he pulled the number from, but my son has for years referred to Starbucks as "Nine Dollar Coffee."

That's one of the talents of Creme Brulee---they were born to be admired, cracked with a spoon, eaten with great glee and enjoyment, then left OUT of the fridge, lest their golden shield become a droopy, drippy, less-than-perfect covering. The crackle is a great part of the charm, and crunchy bites of browned sugar are necessary to the whole experience. They sit there, late into the evening, telegraphing their message: "I'm still here---Come here!!! You know I won't make it through til morning!!" At least the last is correct---none at our house have ever seen daylight, save as a tiny thread of missed custard in the bottom of the dish. Midnight cravings, indeed...and 10 p.m. And 3 a.m. And I can just TASTE that lemony custard.

Those three get the YUM-buds a-tingle. Pray tell what was the lemon verbena a part of? I'm seeing a sauce over cake and ice cream, with a scatter of the flowers on top. Mainly because we just had Buttermilk Cake with Lavender Sauce.

Jeniac, I, too, am mostly a salty/mustard person, and make all our "Ranch" dressing with dill pickle juice, crushed (or powdered, do not TELL) garlic, some minced parsley or fresh dill, and mayo...it's super-salty, just to my taste. Milk and buttermilk just blanded it out, but this pickly stuff is great. Also, do not look when Hubby pours a glop onto his baked potato.

Guess I hadn't looked in on this thread for a while, and hadn't seen the kind words. Thank you all...a word or a phrase or a relating of a circumstance, and my memory chip just kicks in, pouring out way more than is needed. But those moments, those days are so brilliantly inscribed into all that is me, I think of them occasionally, with more than nostalgia for a time that is past. The news MAKES the world too much with us, and it is still a miracle and mystery that the simple preparation of a sandwich or a cold drink can be a part of a blessing in many ways that other, greater things cannot. We left a restaurant several months ago, in the rather cold evening--my husband, our visiting son, and I, and passed a man sitting on a narrow ledge outside an adjoining store, which was closed. We asked if we could go and get him dinner; he pointed to the Arby's down the street. We asked what would he like and he replied that he couldn't take food from us, but he would appreciate it if we would just go there and pay for some coffee and a sandwich. We offered him a ride with us; he refused, so we waited in the parking lot until he walked the couple of blocks and settled into a booth. Hubby and Son went in and sat with him until he had ordered a couple of sandwiches, coffee, and a couple to go for tomorrow. They paid the check, and we left him there, a small, wispy-haired soul blowing into a paper cup, as I looked out the back window. So to the subject: When I was a very young child, all my friends played "doll" or "school" or various run and play games...I organized counters and dishes and pretend cookstoves and skillets, channeling Ramsay right and left, sending this one and that out to gather grass, acorns from which we separated the tops into little bowls and cups, and the best, cleanest mud and sand for ingredients. We would mix and stir and bake, then decorate cakes and pies and cookies beyond Colette Peters' imagination. My Mammaw sent everybody home the day she caught us sitting with little bowls in our laps, painstakingly shelling the almost-microscopic little "peas" from the slender hanging pods of her precious cleome bed. We sucked honeysuckle blossoms for the nectar, raided plum thickets and blackberry rambles, held buttercups under our chins, and could not be warned away from the hive-filled wall which adjoined the diningroom in her tiny house. Bees had moved in years before, and you could see the ins and outs of all the workers, entering and leaving by way of several holes in the siding. I ALWAYS wanted the adults to "raid" the honeycomb, but we never did, and when they tore down the house when I was a teenager in order to build my grandparents a new one on the site, I was on a trip with my class, and missed the whole thing!! I could, however, "charm" a bee into letting me take her back outside, away from the siren-call of the lightbulb at the end of its long ceiling-string. My Grandpa would cup his hand upside down near the frantically-buzzing bee pressing her backside to the lethally-hot bulb, slowly slide it up and between her and the light, close his fist softly, and release her out into the night air. I was determined to learn to do that, so I practiced every time I went to visit, if there were a bee in the room. He said, "You just have to think hard how much you love that bee." It worked, and I released several of my own over the years. He could also do that with a wasp, but no way on this earth could I ever love a wasp THAT much.

Well, here's Charlie Brown watching clouds again, but here goes: A frozen Little Debbie Stars&Stripes cake. Just one of the two in the wrapper. It's creamy-firm, with almost the texture of an ice-cream bar, a tiny 2" square, maybe 1/2 an inch high, pour-coated with a thin layer of icing, which is a bit parafinny itself. It's solid vanilla, from the little block of cake to the pour, to the red lines slashed across for decoration (rockets' red glare, maybe). The little threads of red have a tendency to escape from their moorings when you take a bite, and lo, much later, you look down and there's a tiny red fleck upon your shirtfront, which can be retrieved and munched at your pleasure. Or, having fallen upon your plate, should you have one, there is ample opportunity to do your best Lucy impression of the time she was trying to evict a long-staying Tennessee Ernie houseguest, and pleaded poverty, serving one slice of stale bread, then picked up each and every crumb with a moistened index finger. And then there are wee blue stars which are like the fallout if you punched a hole in some dried Royal-Icing paper. They are eminently crunchable, caught up between your front teeth, with one satisfying little "click" as they give way and give out a wisp of vanilla before they disappear altogether. And it's the last one of the season, from a package bought before our 4th celebration, immediately unboxed and tucked into the flat of the tiny top freezer shelf, like little dominos in a row. Unless maybe Big Lots or Aldi has a shipment already near exp. dt. Freezing them couldn't hurt.

Sorry I misread the "e's" We had driven four hundred miles yesterday, and it was late here. And our home when I was growing up always smelt of BOOKS. We had lots of new BOMC ones which I read much too young, all the ones from our school libracy, and the loads I lugged home from the little depot-turned-library which dispensed books and the cookies made by the nice lady librarian. And the old crumbly ones, whose pages would shatter at the corner if you didn't turn with your gentlest touch. And my own personal trove---a gift from a between-generations cousin, who was exactly ten years younger than my Mother and older than I. She was the Nellie Oleson of our time, an absolute terror, whose parents owned one of the two little grocery stores in a neighboring town, and who had an enticing gallery of exquisitely-dressed dolls, ordered from "OFF" for her childhood Christmases and birthdays. She also had BOOKS. Bought books of her own, whole series of Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton and the Maida series and the Hardy Boys and every Tarzan in print. I would look at the dolls (not allowed to touch), but I coveted those books with a grievous avarice, and when I was in third grade, we got the CALL: Come get something she was giving away. She was putting away childish things, and my Mammaw's joy at the idea that I would be receiving all those gloriously-attired dolls was boundless, and she had discussed shelving with my carpenter Dad, hoping to provide them with the perfect display area. We arrived to find three huge boxes, all packed and taped, and so heavy that they required the dolly and the help of a couple of bystanders. I was absolutely mortified that my Dad was handling a big container with "KOTEX" emblazoned on the side, RIGHT THERE IN DAYLIGHT. But the bubble of joy that displaced all the feeling in my stomach---that anticipation and pre-enjoyment is still a milestone in my life for sheer happiness. I spent the entire Summer immersed in places and lives outside my own realm; I was right there in the front seat of that roadster (in my own smart outfit and dashing hat) as Nancy sped toward the solution to the mystery. I passed whole days up an enormous pecan tree, trekking the steaming jungles in pursuit of elephant burial grounds and horrid traders and Jane-rescue. Cousin gave the dolls to the younger sisters of her boyfriend, and I have no doubt that they were soon scattered around that tatty yard, clothes trampled and whisked away in the wind, but I can still close my eyes and be up that tree in the deep Summer heat, keeping watch for lascivious Jane-stalkers and angry tribesmen. The scent of old paper, the Johnson's wax we used on the hardwood floors(my Saturday polishings were carried out to rocking music, as I put on Daddy's old socks and danced the floors shiny), the flowers which were always present, the faint scent of my Mother's Pall Mall's, the aura of Chanel and Joy and Estee Lauder wafting from her dressing area, the delicious odors from the kitchen, where we would all be chopping and cooking and baking, the Summer tang of vinegar simmering in the latest batch of pickles, plus the Coppertone richness of a hundred days in the sun---those are still the scent-memories of my life, and my own home replicates these in its own way. Today there is a strong mentholflower scent of lavender, for the syrup I'm about to simmer for a Buttermilk Cake. It's supposed to be a lovely clear shade of pink, but my lavender has no flowers yet. I'll go out later and gather great handfuls of basil for the rustic pasta dish of angelhair, tossed hot with cool tomato, shredded basil, olive oil and Parmesan shreds. Garlic will be an undertone, from the shrimp marinade, and of course, the Cling-free sheets and the little Oust dispensers on the wall will ad their own notes of harmony to the whole. We have no idea of the complexities of our own homes' personae---the scents are just one of the points which go into their makeup; a friend used to come to our house often, and several times she said, "This smells like rich folks' houses." It was just a little house on a little street in a VERY little Southern town...but she was WAY right about the rich part. Books and music and really good food and friends to visit...wealth beyond wishes. And now back to our RSP.

Dare we ask if he likes his peas cooked in perfume, or is it like the tale of Marilyn Monroe's being asked about her preferred sleeping ensemble; she'd coyly murmur, "Chanel #5."