racheld

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."

So we all quote Maggie, and remember, remember. My childhood and young adult memories of how our home smelled was almost exactly those. Ladies wore just a whiff of perfume, and it went without saying, they almost all smoked. There was about the dress and the image of the time a fragrance of nylon and perfume and the vaguest whiff of cigarette smoke, along with Coty face powder and maybe a little spraynet. Hugging your Mother or an aunt was as close as you were gonna get to those perfectly-made-up images on the movie screen, and they filled in quite nicely in that capacity. And today, I cannot be near a smoker without choking up and having to leave the area. I got my fill of hairspray in the every-morning gauntlet run past about six sets of dorm rooms, all with open doors, the fumes and fog of Kents and Kools wafting out on a strong tide of Spraynet and Intimate perfume. But the softness of that feminine fragrance, mixed with the scent of a cobbler a-bubble in the oven, or a pan of warm honeyed biscuits, or even a skillet holding the necessaries: Onion, bell pepper, garlic, sauteing for whatever main dish was on for that night. Those are the smells of home, and I find that they frequently make up the scents of my own home....something good cooking or simmering or baking; an afterthought of the lemony cleaner I used to wipe down the cabinet doors; good coffee perking; vanilla in almost all desserts; the actual twist of lemon which poofs over every glass of iced tea; something frying up crisp and juicy just as Hubby drives into the driveway. He comes in, inhaling deeply, saying, "I smelled fried chicken clear out into the yard. If those AirWick people could bottle that, they'd be millionaires." And I love Shalimar, always have. But my last little fan-top glass bottle lay broken in the bathtub, leaking its treasures into the shards of glass, victim to a Mallard hen which made her way down the chimney one day while I was at work. I almost cried over that wonderful, expensive waste, and would have just run a bath and settled into it, if not for the glass and the duck poop. But that's another story.

The last breast half from today's herb-roasted chicken, sliced onto Daughter's yeasty cheddar rolls with shredded lettuce, mayo and salt. Steamed broccoli; English cucumber sticks with chive dip; Jalapeno Jack sticks, Buttery French Vanilla pound cake. Frosty glasses of Dr. Pepper. Last night's taped Stargate.

My Grandmother made the quintessential Southern dessert---Pineapple cake. It answered all the necessities: eggs from the henyard, in the deep-yellow layers and whipped to snowy softness as 7-minute icing; flour, sugar, homechurned butter and an elegant treat: a can of crushed pineapple. I mentioned it fondly in the "Adventures in Eating" site in the "Childhood Treats" thread on March 3, but don't yet know how to make the link where the letters turn blue and take you there with one click. EVERYBODY loved it. And I thought everyone must have one in their own pie safe at all times. I'm glad WE did.

No currying for me, please. I happened on this thread because I was following the "Soup Dumpling" one...my first time in this area. The CAKE IS AMAZING!!! Just for me, it will be long remembered for its lovely transparency and the idea of the koi, and the perfect smoothness of the pond. And the lotus---the translucence of the petals is a once-in-a-lifetime creation, and if it was melting, you must preserve that technique for all future flowers, because it's just the most beautiful cake topping I've ever seen. I'm so glad you strayed from peaches and tigers---this one was a picture I'll not forget soon. Beautiful. Could you do a little step-by-step on the "green" and "clear" and frosting, etc.? This is my "beautiful" for the day. wow

One of the nicest compliments I ever received was after church one Sunday morning when a friend came up to me in the parking lot and said, in front of several of the other ladies, "We had the most delicious Stroganoff the other night. I had the beef all cooked and tender, and the noodles ready, and we were out of sour cream. I poured in some buttermilk, let it simmer a few minutes, and it was Scrumptious! All I did was think 'What would Rachel do?'" Make-do has probably engendered some of our greatest recipes.

Marlena: (small hijack) You and your husband must take one of those two-week See-Everything-In-England, Wales and Scotland bus tours. He would deem it worthwhile, old hat as it might seem to a native, for the breakfasts alone. Ours was fantastic, and my BIL's high point was breakfast every morning. He spoke of it longingly after dinner, looking forward to the "piled high" rashers and fat glistening sausages and the eggs and broiled tomatoes, the racks of toast and the baskets of buns, the wedges and rounds of delectable rich cheeses, the jams and marmalades with fanciful names like bramble jelly and Tiptree's Bitter. The men in our party (as well as some of the ladies) tucked into a proper Brit spread every morning with the gusto of a troupe of Falstaff's understudies. As you did, I confined my morning repasts to the vast displays of cereal, arrayed like crumbled sculptures in footed cutglass bowls, the platters and bowls of colorful fruit and yoghurts and juices. Eight hours a day in a confined space, no matter how large and luxurious, is still a bus trip with thirty other people, and still reminds one of the frailties of the body human. And I was determined to have the whole experience. I wanted porridge in Scotland, just once in my life. So, sitting down amongst all the plenitude, I asked for a bowl of it. The young bright-cheeked server said, "Oh, Madam, the porridge is not for tour guests." I waited a moment, and said, "I'd like to order a bowl." She repeated, "The porridge is only for HOTEL guests." Of which I was one, I might add, but there was in her mind a distinction ingrained with her lessons in decorum and bright-cheekness. So I said, "Pretend I just came down and sat down amongst all these tour people. Please bring me a bowl of porridge and bring me a check." Light dawned. "ALLLL right," she smiled and went off to fetch it. I did, however, serve one of each hot, juicy offering onto my plate on the very first morning. It makes a stunning picture for my album, that classic Brit breakfast which has done so much to make them the stalwart citizens they have always been. (And BIL ate it, in addition to his own). As we went "wheels up" from Heathrow, I heard a wistful murmur from the row behind me, "Bye, Bye, Breakfast."

The words "oafish family" above reminded me of someone who used to be, but no longer is, a part of ours. He was married to a close relative, and now is not. About eight years ago, all our children were here for the week before Christmas, and we had several parties and dinners all together. One night, we planned a very special meal, with Hubby doing his secret-recipe grilled whole tenderloins. I did all the special side dishes and the appetizers. For the appetizer course, I did the kids' longtime favorites: Shrimp cocktail, which consisted of several pounds of peeled shrimp, beautifully arranged on a platter around a large compote of cocktail sauce, with garnishes of lemon. The leaves of several artichokes, arranged ditto around a crock of warm Hollandaise. I had set both tables with beautiful white cloths and the best china and my seldom-used beautiful white Battenburg napkins, a gift from my late Mother. In the den with both appetizer platters were a stack of hors d'oeuvre plates and pretty paper napkins. We had been eating and drinking and chatting for a few minutes when I noticed that "guest" was eating a substantially-larger pile of shrimp than anyone else. He had a larger plate than the rest, plus a big white napkin. He had gone up a flight of stairs into the dining room and removed "his" dinner plate from the table, brought it down and loaded it with shrimp and a liberal dousing of the bright red sauce, and was munching away. When dinner was ready, we all headed for the table, as I went to get him a spare plate from the china cabinet. He did not come in for a minute, and I found him in the kitchen, where he had tossed all the shrimp tails into the garbage. He was methodically wiping all the red sauce from the plate with my beautiful white napkin. He looked up, saw the spare plate in my hand, flipped his empty hand in the air and said, "Don't bother with that. This one's fine."

What mental malfunction would compell anyone to make something so completely unappealing & repulsive? ← This actually sounds a lot like a midwestern delicacy my husband likes occasionally, which his whole family calls "sandwich spread." They make it by grinding pickled ring bologna, which is fairly easy to buy in the supermarket where they live, with pickles. Definitely not my thing...and I've never heard of them serving it with cheeze whiz. MelissaH ← The first year of my son's marriage, we were invited to a big family picnic at his in-laws' house, for the Annual Lunch featuring his MIL's Famous Ham Salad. She had mentioned it to me a couple of times before, when she learned that I had cooked for so many people for so long. But she always said "ham." We arrived to find the yard filled with people enjoying cold drinks, the shady lawn, each others' company. We were welcomed warmly, and after the great round of introductions (though I'm sure we had met about 50 of them at the wedding) we went into the house to find MIL standing at the kitchen table, with slices of bread laid out in tidy ranks like soldiers, spreading green-flecked pink floof onto half the slices. She'd spread, cover, and hand off to my son, who seemed to be the only one manning the stove. He had two immense griddles going, each covering two stove burners, and each making six or eight of the sandwiches at a time. My DDIL was standing by, squeeze-margarine in hand, and as he'd flip the next six onto a platter, she'd do a little Dali-esque squiggle of yellow lines onto the griddle, ready to receive the next six for grilling. People were lined up clear out the back door, mouths watering, waiting their turn. They would come forward, select one or two sandwiches, make a pass to the buffet, where they pried the two halves apart and inserted any or all of a dozen extras: sliced tomatoes, onions, pickles, olives, more cheese, sour cream, etc. DS was sweating a bit in the Summer heat, and from all those burners going at once in the stove corner, but the line never abated. I sliced more tomatoes, more onions, put out more chips, helped spread a few myself. We made 118 sandwiches in the course of about an hour and a half, and they were all consumed, down to the last crisp crumb and gooey fleck of filling. Cokes and Iced tea flowed like wine in Paris, and then they broke out about 10 cold watermelons. We sat on the lawn, on the swings, on a big terrace wall, spitting seeds and settling into our new family. I was glad to leave behind Souse when I left the South for the Heartland, and did not realize I was escaping to baloney salad, but it's served by some mighty fine people.

And does Grandma Hill's Coconut Cake have 7-Minute Frosting? That's a good old southern standby.

There's a baked chocolate pie, similar to Chess, even called "Chocolate Chess" in some incarnations. Then there's the cocoa/sugar/milk/egg yolks pudding cooked in a big ole boiler til it blups little air bubbles and thickens into the most unctuous, the most fragrant, the most velvety chocolate concoction on this earth. You let it cool a little bit, pour (spoon would be more apt---it's too thick to pour properly) it into a blind-baked pie crust and top it with the meringue made of the whites. Brown it to gold, let it cool a bit, and get out of the way of anybody else in the house. Or now that we all seem to have a little torch doohickey in amongst the blenders and pastry-cutters, just ladle the custard into fancy cups, floof on some meringue, chill them, and brown them up right before serving. I like cold chocolate pie best, anyway. Or was that what you meant? And I know you didn't mean to leave out Divinity. The very word always makes someone in our family say, "Do you remember the time....? in reference to a teenage SIL who was helping my MIL, famous for her desserts and candies. SIL thought that if you could tint half the Divinity pink and half pale green and arrange the two colors on the teastand for a lovely effect, why not just put both colors into the mixer while it was running and have something GORGEOUS. MIL never did live down serving GRAY Divinity to the WMU.

We were out for the afternoon, and stopped for an early dinner at a lovely place which cooks squid about five ways---Hubby likes them all. On one of the buffets, I noticed six of the nice silver covered pans which usually denote delicious dumplings, and lifted the lids one by one---one had tiny open-top meat dumplings, one was a scrumptious shrimp paste inside a fluffy dumpling, and two of the others were also meat-filled. I placed one each of four kinds on a plate and ladled in a tiny bit of the dipping sauce, making a savory moat around all the beautifully-shaped white islands. But one was just the most beautiful dumpling I've ever seen---it was perfectly-shaped peach, about 3/4 the size of a real peach, with blushed cheeks and two tiny green dough leaves adhered to one side. It may have been from the Chinese version of Sysco, but it was just almost too beautiful to eat. That one I balanced upon two of the others til I could get back to the table and put it on a little plate. So I lifted each dumpling with my chopsticks and took a bite of each. Their labels had read, Meat Dumpling and Shrimp Dumpling and Peach Dumpling, and they were all just delicious--wonderful fillings inside the most ethereal steamed dough. I left the peach one for dessert, but before I finished the others, the last one I tasted seemed to be all dough, so I thought it was just a little steamed plain bun. When I took about the third bite of it, I regretted that I had floated it on the little bit of garlicky, gingery sauce, because it was filled with a delicate vanilla custard, like a slightly-thicker creme Anglaise. It was a pale creamy yellow inside, with the taste of a perfect, eggy vanilla custard, much like the filling in a Southern Chess Pie, or a delicate flan. The peach one had a traditional sweet bean filling, and perhaps the vanilla one was also bean-based, though it was a pale yellow. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed each and every one---especially the second one of the vanilla ones, which I went up and got for my dessert course. I totally ignored all the chicken and beef and pork dishes on the buffet, which I usually enjoy while Hubby has all the seafood he likes (especially what he calls "eating piranha"--they always have a tray of beautiful silverskinned whole fish topped with intricately-cut steamed vegetables, and the fish have MANY sharp little teeth). Anyway, I really enjoyed my dumpling dinner---I ate six of them. And I wondered as I ate---how do you EVER get them so seamlessly perfect? Several of these had tiny squares of parchment on the bottom as I lifted them from the steamer, and I KNOW they were too perfectly formed and uniform in size to have been other than machine made---I think. So I imagine them to be a bought item, frozen for transport and steamed on the premises. But there was not a seam, a crevice, an ANYPLACE into which that bean paste or vanilla custard could have been injected. They were lovely, and I thank you for the idea to skip everything else and enjoy all those lovely dumplings.

You bet!!! My musings are confined mostly to the USA threads, especially Southern Food Culture, as that's where I'm originally from. Sorry I mistook the mooncakes---someone said they look like butterflies, and I just went on from there. Thanks for the lovely pics---Hubby is an avid photographer, and he says they're great. And I DO happen to have a jar of red bean paste just sitting waiting in my pantry. Go figure. And is the other "wing" just ground peanuts and sugar? Gotta try those for a party. thanks for the gracious welcome!! rachel

We had the Wild Rice, Apple, etc., salad last night, served room temp and topped with Mirin/Tamari marinated grilled shrimp. It was just scrumptious!!! Hubby munched and Hmmmmed with pleasure, and asked "Is this little crisp stuff APPLE in here? It's SOOO GOOD!!" Daughter was out for dinner, but there's a little Gladbox of rice and shrimp in the fridge for her lunch. She loves it when I try the eG recipes. All our dinner was room temp or cool, and I even roasted the beets upstairs in the big old Black Angus portable, then marinated them for a couple of hours in a red wine vinegar/sugar/seasalt concoction which rendered them a passable example of my dear Mammaw's famous Beet Pickles (minus the cloves, of course). Cool ending to a VERY hot day; postscript was Heath Bar Eskimo Pies for dessert. Thanks for the yummy addition to our picnic repertoire---we'll take it to a concert evening soon.

Hot Day Dinner, with all roasting done in big portable electric oven upstairs away from dining room: Chantal's Wild Rice, Apple and Pink Peppercorn Salad (from Recipe Gullet), served room temp and topped with Mirin/Tamari-marinated grilled shrimp; Roasted Beets, diced and tossed in red wine vinegar/sugar/seasalt; Crisp cold cucumber sticks with Ranch dip; Crusty baguettes. Heath Bar Eskimo Pies for dessert.

I'm seconding suzilightning: How did everything go? All the lovely people and the glorious food and the entire aura of the afternoon...did you take some of the suggestions to heart and make the dishes? How did your folks enjoy the day? After having done all the prep and cooking and decorating and serving and cleanup for hundreds of parties, I'm a sucker for a Recap. IMWTk.

I am just in awe of all the lovely meals that everyone seems to have on a casual old weeknight. I cook dinner every night, and everyone is always pleased, but all the descriptions and ESPECIALLY pictures of the plated dinners and the PIES!!! are just outstanding (fabulous) (WONDERFUL) (Scrumptious) Words just fail me. Last night at our house: Hubby had pickled herring and a Killian's Red while we cooked: Skillet-seared T-bones; steamed baby pink potatoes with a sour cream-chive-seasalt mixture dribbled over; just-picked-from-the-garden English cucumber, cut into sticks for dipping into homemade Maytag dressing; Sliced fresh tomatoes; buttered crusty baguettes. Homemade vanilla ice cream with a warm sauce of fresh maroon cherries, simmered in a little skillet of sugar, Buttershot and a slurp of Barista Vanilla syrup.

Everything looks absolutely beautiful and delicious. The Soup Dumplings sound intriguing, with the frozen aspic to melt inside...I do a similar freeze-thing with a candy filling. The hunks are dipped frozen, then are creamy and rich inside the chocolate. Way off topic, I know, but I had to say what a treat it is to see these lovely mooncakes, as well...my first and immediate thought (from making billions of palmiers over the years), was that it was dumpling dough, rolled into a rectangle, spread on one half with chunky peanut butter, the other with Nutella, then rolled and steamed in a long double-roll and sliced. Just lovely. I've never been to this site before, and it's a nice treat.

Chantal: Thank you!!! It sounds scrumptious. The only thing I have to go pick up is some pink peppercorns. I keep the preserved ones, but not the dry. This is gonna taste wonderful out under the Summer stars, listening to Mozart.

Me, too. And on that uplifting and classy note, good night.

Well, poop. How DID you do that?

Ah gotta git me a GRITS MACHINE!! ← YEAHHH!!! And howju do that?