racheld

"Cut in wheels and fried in meal." My favorite Grandmother's reference to a pan of fried okra. It was a wonderful introduction to a lovely vegetable, and served to be my introduction to oysters, as well. I'd SEEN those hideous gray/black little quivery creatures, and could not imagine that anyone had ever got up the nerve to eat one. But fried, they looked OK....doesn't most anything? Everyone said, "Try one---see, it's just like fried okra." And it kind of was. And okra is just scrumptious. Gently steamed on top of a pot of field peas with a big hunk of ham or bacon, the tiny pods tender and melty to the tongue, with some of the flavor of that smoky pot of peas. Wheeled and fried in either meal or flour, a mixture of both, or even one of those fishfry mixes in a pinch (or in someone else's kitchen). Tiny circles afloat in the rich brownred gumbo, holding their own amongst the seatang of the shrimp and crab, adding a deep earthy flourish to the dish. And even as my Mammaw cooked it, a strangely concocted dish of pods, stems intact, steamed THEN meal-rolled and fried, lending a rather lizardly look to the daintily-arranged golden delicacies with their long greeny-brown bodies and tails. The outside was crisp, salty, perfect, then the melting, creamy interior richness. Never had it that way before or since. Guess it was her own recipe. And pickled!!!! Salty and crisp and tangy with good vinegar and the snap of red pepper. I watched admiringly once as a lady who was to be our hostess at a cocktail party in her suite at a VERY grand hotel in Washington unpacked a small case. It was red leather with shiny brass fittings, and looked worthy of jewels or State secrets or at least caviar. To go with the lovely spread and bar she had ordered from the hotel, out of the case came three pretty home-canned jars from her own Southern garden. One of thumb-sized baby green eggplants, brined with garlic and herbs, and two pints of pickled okra. So I vote YESSS!

A rustic pasta lunch which consisted of a chopped Caprese salad (cool) tossed with al dente Angelhair (hot). Garlicky toast and iced lemony tea. And then Hubby brought home a peach cheesecake blizzardy thing from Ritters to share. Tastes of Summer.

Can't think where it is at the moment, but somewhere in last year's Virginia trip pictures is one of a McDonald's sign announcing "Karaoke Tuesdays."

Bottle rockets. We have the biggest tree (no berries or fruit) for blocks around. From 1 July til 30 Aug or so, we are the Starling Motel, with the accompanying noise, debris, and thousands of drops per hour, upon patio, plants, furniture, bird feeders, birdbath, and any unwary passersby. At sundown, the invasion begins: The great clouds of the birds, each chirping directions at the top of its lungs, fly in and settle upon this one tree. They have dozens---hundreds---of perfectly good trees to choose from, and this is the spot. Literally. They sag the boughs of this 60' tree, as wide as it is tall, and fill the air with chirps, chatter and yukky projectiles to unman the faint of heart. Then the ammo is broken out, from the cases of bottle rockets lying ready in the upstairs storeroom. One of the soot-encrusted launchers (having lived a previous life as a Diet Dr. Pepper bottle) is used to shoot whizbang zip-pow into the tree, time after time, as the disturbed sections flutter and take flight for better environs. The little shapes cover the sky overhead as they flee for cover and safety in other parts. Each rocket evicts a horde of the swooping birds, and after the first dozen or so, the crowds diminish, as does the noise level mongst the leaves. As the second dozen sound their loud bangs, the overhead flight is smaller and smaller, until with the end of the third dozen, quiet comes with the final WHEEEE-POW!! A few determined squatters try to return, and they are firmly discouraged. As the night falls, no bird ever braves the darkness for the familiar tree. They spend their nights elsewhere, and the drastic steps are worthwhile. I'm an animal person. I love all furry and feathered and swimmy pets. I reach into the sink and rescue an ant from a watery grave as it circles the drain in a whirlpool. I have a special affinity for spiders, and have been known to scoop one up in my hand and take it outside. And I REALLY love birds, especially the big old blue and gold one whispering himself to sleep in his room-sized cage upstairs. I DO NOT like poop-encrusted furniture and cushions and ferns and umbrellas (which brings to mind having to escort guests into the house beneath one on a memorable evening not long ago). Nor is power-scrubbing the concrete patio every day with disinfectant my idea of a pleasant morning. I would not stand for cruelty to any animal within my sight or property. But when something so NASTY, so egregiously, persistently destructive to property and wellbeing and health just KEEPS ON keeping on, I TAKE STEPS. Actually, Hubby takes most of them. He lights up those fuses with childhood glee, aiming for the most populous sections of the limbs, whilst I cover my ears between bottle-holdings. Sometimes I'm the loader, sometimes the lighter. I do not enter into the spirit of things with the littleboy enjoyment evinced by my middleaged mate, but sometimes it's just nice to be married to a man who will do anything in his power to protect and preserve what's ours. I just didn't know he was going to be Drum Eatenton.

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.