racheld

As serious as wearing white accessories after Labor Day.

Awaiting are a chopped salad of iceberg, vidalias, radishes, cucumber and several colors of bell pepper, with my Hubby's favorite sweet Southern dressing of wine vinegar, sugar, mayo and garlic. A bowl of diced fresh tomatoes, shredded basil, gratings of fresh parmesan, with a little crumbled queso fresca, in EVOO--to be tossed with angelhair hot from the pasta pot. Slices of summer squash and chunks of onion, tossed into a hot pan with last night's marinade (soy, garlic, brown sugar) and pan juices from some boneless pork chops. Cold watermelon chunks for dessert.

And the round sandwiches always had the softest pinched-edged bread, from the smush of the cutter as the rounds were cut. A serrated knife could cut nice smooth edges on the squares or triangles, but the rounds were always higher in the middle, tapering off all round to little stitched edges, like overstuffed pillows with neatly seamed sides. Southern sandwiches have never leaned much toward butter on the bread, except in more exalted circles, in which the ladies of the house had taken more than a passing interest in Trollope or Austen and read of such fancy undertakings as buttering sandwiches. Except for the little bread-and-butter fingers, a staple of the "authentic" teaparty set, whose "high tea" (sic) was touted as an example for envy and aping. And somewhere in the cocktail circuit or the lavish wedding reception, there came to be a snuffcan sandwich (charming title) which was constructed by making any kind of fancy sandwich, crusts and all, from which little divots were extracted by means of a little silver can in which some unnamed ancestor had purchased her snuff. Of course, the removal of the layers from the can was quite dicey, as the other end was smooth and resisted all attacks from a can opener, leaving the ingenious cook two choices: Whack the can forcefully onto the cutting board several times, making the party-prep kitchen sound like an invasion of woodpeckers, or poke holes in the can with an icepick, which was then used to push the little stacks out onto the doily-covered plate. Somebody had TOO much time on her social-climbing hands. This painstaking construction of one-bite wonders is accomplished today with little plastic doohickeys of all shapes and sizes, with dainty plungers which whisk the contents gently from their mold---I have a set somewhere, a hostess gift at one time or another, in shapes of the four card suits, but since I don't play bridge...we use just the heart shape, and that on VERY odd occasions. And maybe the diamonds, cause they're cute. But back to the buttering...it was customary to butter what would be the BOTTOM bread only, with a little slick of mayo on the top slice, since mayonnaise is an integral part of every food Southern, from casseroles to sandwiches to Jello molds (including one recipe for a congealed salad which requires greasing the mold WITH mayonnaise, for proper release). The butter-film kept the juices from flowing downward and soaking the bread, but the mayonnaised top layer ensured the authentic taste combination. And REALLY fancy hostesses had their cooks mince a plate of parsley, take up each round sandwich and hold it like a little wheel between thumb and forefinger, rotate it in a little dish of mayo, then one turn through the parsley, making a lovely green-wreathed dainty that Queen Victoria would have admired (but probably would not have eaten). And Miss Paula goes so far as to do a little fingerdot in the center of each sandwich, then attaches a wee leaf of the green by the mayo glue. But she also advocates a slice of sweet onion on her teaparty tomato sandwiches, or at least a scrape of the knife across the cut onion, with the juice stirred into the mayo. That is swooningly delicious, and may be fine for home consumption, but a party of behatted WMU or Eastern Star ladies would not be caught DEAD breathing onion onto the visiting Exalted Grand Matron. Not on your Shalimar. And then there was the best-thing-since-sliced bread: ROUND Wonder. Which was also perfectly fine, except that no hostess worth her Lawry's would EVER send round sandwiches to table with crusts on, hence round cutters to cut off the already-round crusts, and the party beat goes on. My Better Boys and Early Girls are about waist high, now, and dangle little green jewels from every bough. Soon will come the ripening, then the sandwich-making of goopy, drippy, soft-white-bread and Blue Plate sandwiches, to be consumed ever-which-way the eater chooses. Little Round Tomato Sandwiches are another matter entirely, and require a setting of Battenburg, a nice Spring flower arrangement, doilied plates, and a flock of ladies gathered in a bubble of so-so-social conviviality. The LRTS have had a long and honored history at the Southern teatable, and must be given the respect and gravity they are due. But a REAL round tomato sandwich, cut from squashy-fresh Wonder Bread with a cutter the approximate size of the tomato slice, smeared with a film of Blue Plate, the thick, juicy ruby slice laid on and snowed with a sprinkling of salt, mayo-ed top laid JUST SO--that's all the daintiness necessary. The rest is up to the happy consumer, to plate and sit demurely munching, or to kitchen-sink the glorious concoction, consuming it all in one delicious few bites, followed by a long swig of 40-weight iced tea. As my Mammaw said: Gooder'n snuff & Better'n taters.

We toured another part of the state last weekend, and one of our stops was at a store called "Bulk Food." I'm familiar with Gordons, etc., but this one was shelves and shelves of containers of dry herbs and spices and coconut and dried fruits and candy, etc. All of four long shelves was devoted to small-to-large containers of dry stuff, and my gotta-try-it kicked in bigtime. I bought several familiar dried herbs, etc., some of every shape and size of dried coconut, fruit, fruit leathers, etc., and one was the dried tomato you speak of above. My thought was not "what can I make with this?" but "Hey! I don't have this one on my shelves!" (I was surely a Ferengi in another life--acquire, acquire). So now, I have a use and a reason to get it down and try several sauces today. Maybe some nice juicy shrimp or crawfish in a light pink Nantua. Over rice or angelhair. Or a spoontip of the powder into a gentle bechamel with several cheeses, simply baked with penne. Or, WAIT!!! maybe a......... Thanks for the incentive and the ideas.

I got it the first time--the spatial part of my brain has a gray fuzzy spot like those things on cop shows to protect the faces of the innocent. Anyway, I agree that you'll be much better off with smaller cookies, and even smaller than the indicated 5" ones would be OK for dessert after a luncheon or shower tea plate. Even 3x2 would be a good size, if that's feasible for working those small designs. It's HAAAAARD to cut a cookie, and breaking would entail someone's getting her fingers all over someone else's portion. And perhaps one of the 12" ones for the bride's table, if you're really set on making a big one.

Does he do this for all types of meat, or just for what is sold in definite portions? There's a difference between saying, "I'd like two of those fish fillets." or "May I have four of the lamb chops, please," and "Give me a pound and a half of hamburger." The first two may reasonably be wrapped, then weighed, but the hamburger would of necessity be weighed before wrapping, cause NOBODY'S that good at estimating. Our butcher does, however, lay the nice sheet of paper, torn from the roll in a size sufficient to wrap the parcel, onto the scales, ladle the hamburger on top, get my approval, then remove from scales and wrap. So the paper would always be figured into the equation, anyway. So where was I going with this, exactly.....? To bed, I think. Good night.

Lovely blog, lovely family, great pictures, WONDERFUL kitchen (where's the envy-green shade of ink when you need it?) and I love the captions and explanations and answers to questions. I gotta go back and read the kitchen thread all over again, step by step. Just a wonderful way to start my first cup of coffee (from MY freebie machine, as well). And I DID think your cornholders matched. There's a thread going now about them, and I looked at yours, saw green at one end, yellow at the other, and marvelled that someone cooking for hungry children underfoot, guests standing around, and taking pictures and making a documentary at the same time could have the forethought to put a stem on one end and a corn on the other. Every time. Thanks for the lovely peek into that marvelous kitchen. And I don't think you're a Yankee. (is Rebel politically incorrect?---can't keep up with the standards any more). You've morphed into at least a Yankel. It's all that goooood fried chicken, I think. rachel

Ours are the requisite Barbiecorn size, perfect little simulations which would not fool even the slowest-witted squirrel. They came as a set of eight, now reduced to seven or six by the tossaway of picnic debris, or careless drop into the late evening grass. They are a source of dainty delight to our granddaughter who now lives far away, but they do not get the usage they had been accustomed to in her tenure, for we use them only one at a time. Hubby is a corngriller extraordinaire, and almost all our corn comes to table encased in the well-marked, steamy shucks, to be skinned by the asbestos hands of the cook, with much sssss sssssssssss of indrawn breath as the green leaves are creaked away to reveal the golden treasure. One minicorn is used per guest, for time allows no moment for the removal of the roundydoundy snub nose of the ear; a quick insertion of the little silver teeth into the blunt end, the ear is laid into the big platter of melted butter, given a quick spin to coat it to a shine, and handed forth, to be consumed in its most glorious, crunchy, buttersheened moment. And the round end, by shape and nature, always cools rapidly and makes a natural little handle in its own right. And now, a more exalted place than a catchall sidepocket of the plastic silverware drawer thingie must be made---Fathers' day brought an immense metal case, worthy of a master carpenter or a surgeon, filled with all manner of barbecue tools with polished wood handles, including a dozen or so little brown knobs, shaped like corks with wicked prongs. Of course, in our household, (tongue firmly in cheek here), each and every tool and cornholder and longtongs will be immediately washed and restored to its pristine newness and replaced in its perfectly-shaped pocket in the toolbox. (And I won't be stepping on one of the things in August when I take out the trash). Right.

Seven to brunch to meet our houseguests: Breakfast Burritos of Spinach Tortillas with Sauteed Mushrooms, Scallions, Scrambled Eggs, Sour Cream, Sharp Cheese. Salsa of Diced Fresh Tomatoes, Vidalias, Cilantro, Jalapenos, a spoonful of Picante. Corn Souffle; Three-Pepper Sausages, Artichoke/Mozzarella Sausages; Cottage Cheese with Threeberry Jam Topping, Fruit Tray, Thick Focaccia with Paper-Thin Tomato, Pepper and Onion; Sesame Green Bean Salad; Bowtie Pasta Salad with Olives, Tomatoes, and Basil; Cream Cheese and Pepper Jelly with Crackers; Brownies, Cheesecake; Juices, Roasted Chestnut Coffee, 40-weight iced tea.

On the above cheeseburger I mentioned: Five minutes before sitting down to the table, melt a pat of butter in a skillet, put the two halves of the bun cut-side down, leave for a few minutes to turn golden and crisp. If doing more than one at a time, lay all tops or bottoms into butter, turn other half cut-side up on top to be heating, let crisp, reverse. We had these tonight, and our two guests kept telling Hubby what delicious burgers he grills. I can keep a secret. There's a family joke about this kind of burger: Once when Hubby and I had to make a long drive and be at our destination in a hurry, I made us each one of these, each wrapped in a paper towel so as not to get soggy before we hit the Interstate and could begin munching. We drove over to say goodbye to his parents, left the cardoor open, and returned to find one of the burgers on the ground, being eagerly chewed, paper and all, by one of the ever-underfoot garage cats. FIL came outside, scolded the cat, retrieved the burger, and offered to go inside and cut off the catbit part, but we declined. He just kept saying, "There's nothing wrong with the rest of this burger," as he unwrapped, took a bite, made a delighted face, and snarfed down that cat's dinner, murmuring his enjoyment, and keeping the bitten part carefully away from his mouth. The mangled side finally disappeared between his fingers, as he got as much of that burger for his money as he could reasonably consume. He STILL says it was the best burger he ever ate. It's all in the buttery toast.

Perfect expression of a sad syndrome. Vanilla lobster, anyone?

Sink the back of a spoon into a bowl of hot mashed potatoes, skins on or off; continue making a dozen or so little divots. Gently lay a pat of butter into each, Sprinkle top with crumbled bacon, chopped chives, snowing of cheese. Wait a moment for butter to melt into little golden lakes; carry it carefully to table. Make a lovely cheeseburger to your own specifications, WITH a nice slice of chilled sweet onion. Garnish plate with about a dozen half-slices of cold crisp onion, which you will segment into crescents and eat crunchcrunch like chips, between bites of juicy burger. Empty a can of Eagle Brand milk into a microwaveable bowl. Heat one minute, or til steamy. Stir in eight ounces of Valhrona dark, chopped. Leave it alone another minute. Let it rest and get acquainted. Stir briskly until it coalesces into a silken, flowing mass of chocolate, folding back upon itself and beckoning with its shining wiles and enticing fragrance. Spoon over ice cream. Lick the spoon. Dip fruit. Take a bite. Double dip. If there are leftovers, chill and dip onto parchment by teaspoons. Roll into truffles and do not tell that they're of such humble birth. Or reheat at midnight and eat without ice cream. Make Stroganoff. Cut a cream cheese into one inch squares. Drop all over top of sauce; cover pot and leave five minutes. Stir cream cheese into sauce. Do the same for a pot of cooked, drained potatoes; drop in a stick of butter and a whole cream cheese...put lid on, let soften, mash. Make favorite brownie recipe; add a cup of chopped chocolate and pour into pan, reserving one cup. Stir reserved batter into 1 pack softened cream cheese--drop onto batter, swirl with tip of knife. Bake, cool, frost with chocolate frosting. Pipe lines of lighter or darker frosting on top; feather. Make burritos, wraps, anything with flour tortillas. Serve with salsa, guacamole and Ranch. Hubby likes homemade "pink" dressing, made with mayo, ketchup, garlic, and a special-recipe vinegar/sugar spice mixture that we make by the quart. He likes it so well I smuggle a bottle of it into Mexican restaurants in my pocket. Crisp-fry thin-sliced onions; drain, salt, and sprinkle on already-loaded baked potato. Center bowls of chilled gazpacho with several spoonfuls of lump crabmeat or half a dozen peeled, tails-off shrimp. Center ANY hot soup with a dollop of sour cream, garnish of chives, grated cheese or buttered toast crumbs. Kindergarten lunch: Allow them to peel a slice of American cheese and center it in the bottom of an empty soup bowl. Allow them to tear it into fanciful shapes if they wish. Ladle in soup or chili.

Salad of butter lettuce, diced grilled pineapple, sunflower seeds in sesame/orange vinaigrette. Angel hair pasta two ways: In "Semi-'fredo" sauce---a mock Alfredo with whole milk, Parmesan, a bit of creamcheese, and no basil, with crabmeat and whole poached shrimp for him. And AHP dumped hot over a mixture of cold diced tomato, basil chiffonade, EVOO and shreds of Parm for me. Tiny strawberry cones for dessert, while Takin' the A Train with Count Basie.

For some arcane reason, both of my old egg plates (one clear hobnailed, one milk glass with the memory of a gold rim) hold fifteen halves. Never could figure out the odd number--Cook's treat, I suppose. Or filchment by all passersby during the mixing and filling process...egg halves are fair game, as long as there are enough left to fill the plate. Though I remember once that there were two empty spaces, so we put olives in the little depressions. And someone remarked at the clever idea--a non-cooking friend, as I recall.

I've seen TNCC only twice, but Susannah reminds me of the Mom in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Sunday: Eleven at table for Garlic-Thyme roasted chickens, dismembered and laid gently onto Portabella pilaf; cool Asparagus with a mustardy mayonnaise; sweet corn casserole with scallions; salad of kidney beans, boiled eggs, Vidalias with sweet mayo dressing; salad of butter lettuce, red onion, dried cranberries and mandarins with lime vinaigrette; variety of cheesecakes. After-dinner entertainment by 13-year old cousin with a banjo--Genius child. Monday: Three houseguests remaining for tender-grilled babyback ribs, baked potato casserole with sourcream, butter, three cheeses and green onions; crusty baked beans with applewood-smoked sausages sliced in; thin Vidalia sandwiches; thick tomato sandwiches; strawberries, Ricotta/Turbinado dip and small waffle-cones of ice cream out on the patio with the fireflies and windchimes. Lazy, late conversation and peeks through the telescope at the golden moon.

No, but I saw a Tarzan movie once where Jane stirred around in a huge stone pot over the fire and fished out an ostrich egg. She cooled it in the stream for a bit, smacked it gently all over with a little hatchet, shelled it, sliced it neatly into segments, and served it to quite a few guests gathered in the treehouse. I found THAT fascinating at eight, let me tell you, and have never forgotten it. But bladders? Might as well make the Hollandaise in a urinal. Couldn't you use some plastic wrap, twist the top, do the boiling, and unwrap? Iron Chef does it all the time.

Popcorn. Watermelon. Is there an echo in here?

Yes, there are no beans in the chili itself, but they are often added on top. A four-way chili is the three-way with onions, and the five-way is the four-way with beans. ← What MAKES it Cincinnati style? Is it cinnamony like Skyline? I mentioned this once in another thread, and the "YUM'S" resounded. Still can't get a taste for all the cinnamon.

I hesitated to mention our party lemonade, but all the basil, etc., made me think it's not too far off track. Make your favorite lemonade recipe---ours is juice, simple syrup, water, and zest from several lemons, removed with vegetable peeler in long strips, as thin as possible. For 1/2 gallon, slice a medium unpeeled cucumber, float the slices, refrigerate, stir now and then. Color it pink if you wish---adds to the mystique. Remove cucumber or not, it's up to you. Serve after an hour or so...guests will ask time after time for "That Watermelon Punch."

Disheveled salad---I love it!!! Now let's see, with that I'll have some Drunken Shrimp and maybe a Deconstructed Dessert. M-Y-U-Y-M!!!

3 T. Soy Sauce or Tamari 1 clove garlic, crushed 1 t. brown sugar 1 T. dark Sesame Oil Mix above in a flat glass or plastic container; let sit a few minutes for garlic to permeate. Lay in four to six breast halves; marinate up to an hour---turn from time to time. Pat dry with paper towels. Grill over charcoal or on indoor grillpan; also works nicely in a hot heavy pan with a little spray of Pam. These are delicious lifted directly from the grill into soft rolls or buns, so that the juices provide the dressing for the sandwich. Or cut chicken into chunks, marinate, thread with pineapple chunks and whole water chestnuts; brush on remaining marinade. They glaze perfectly during the time it takes for the chicken to cook.

From the bounce-down-the-aisle to that last grinning-around-a-mouthful moment, GG is a winner. And somehow I remember his carrying in an umbrella on his entrance every day, hanging it up somewhat like Mr. Rogers and the sweater and shoes routine. We loved his zest in the cooking, his delight in his own merriment, his bright-eyed lusty joy in the tasting and sharing and feasting. He talked non-stop, chopping and stirring and sticking a finger into all the sauces; his twinkly little legs in those pipestem brown trousers ran and bounced and skipped around the kitchen. His sense of humor was just racy enough, with entendres which whizzed over the heads of his younger fans, of which there were legion. And Butter Stocks must have gone up a thousand points during his tenure---he used it and clumped it into everything, smearing it in with a heavy hand; he advocated it in everything except Jello. But our all-time best moment was the STORY---there was one every day, just a few moments of a tale while he chopped and stirred. And our favorite, remembered and still repeated on occasion by our whole family to this day, was the sad-but-uplifting tale of TUH-key Guhl, a singled-from-the-flock turkey which was a family pet. She seemed to have free run of the house, with concentration on the kitchen. She had her own HIGH-CHAIR, for Heaven's sake, where she sat and pecked up her dinner as everyone else was having theirs. But alas, one day, when a great crop of berries/plums/grapes had fallen to the ground and fermented, the flock got into the mix and all fell dead from over-consumption or alcohol poisoning, take your pick. The parents sadly plucked and dressed each lifeless body, mourning their own dear Tuh-key Guhl as they worked. But just as they finished plucking out her tailfeathers---a miracle! She miraculously awoke, and staggered drunkenly around the floor, off-kilter from her binge and bereft of her tail-feather rudder. The family rejoiced, and Mom, feeling sorry for the poor cold little thing, knitted her a little outfit, a red coverall with a bonnet to match. So there she would sit, a full-grown turkey in a highchair, her little red bonnet bouncing as she pecked up her dinner. And that's my best memory of Graham Kerr. Bless his dear, inspiring, naughty heart.

Grilled boneless pork chops, marinated in soy, garlic, brown sugar. Lifted from grill directly into soft wheat rolls; the jus was the dressing. Grill-roasted-in-shucks corn on the cob. Salad of tomatoes, olives, tri-color peppers, vidalias, orzo. Fruit compote: Cold vanilla-poached Fuji apple quarters, Mandarin sections, watermelon. A first, and a wonderful melange, from the soft apple to the crisp snap of the watermelon.

In addition to the Sunday dinners I snuck away from church to go home and prepare at a very young age, I also fed quite a few wandering fellows in my early days. We lived four houses down from a railroad track---my most delightful time of day was when the City of New Orleans stopped to take on fuel. I would run down the block, climb the enormous, swooping trails of wisteria vine in the last neighbor's yard, and peer into the dining cars, all alight and bright with white napery and the coats of the smiling waiters. I thought it the most wonderful, the most romantic, the most elegant thing in the world to be able to sit there in that small space, with lovely shining silverware and china, and be one of those happy, beautifully-dressed passengers enjoying their meal. So we also became a haven for the far-from-home-and-hungry. I truly believe there WAS a mark somewhere on our property, because seldom did a week go by without a shabby, polite man or two appearing at the screendoor, hat in hand, asking if he could "do some work" for a meal. My Mother always cooked a big Southern noon dinner, and the leftovers were warmed over for our supper, along with any added dishes we might prepare. So when one of the men would ask in his polite code for something to eat, Mother would dish him up a plate, add a hunk of cornbread or two slices of lightbread, along with a big dollop of homemade preserves or jelly for dessert. Beverage was a quart jar brimming with strong iced tea. On the occasions when she felt that the dinner might not stretch into extra meals for unexpected guests and our evening meal as well, she would get out a small skillet and fry up two big eggs, straight from my Mammaw's henhouse. Four slices of Wonder Bread this time, spread with Blue Plate mayonnaise, the hot buttery eggs slid between, a good sprinkle of salt and pepper. That and the requisite scoop of home-canned preserves made a fine meal for a man needing a bit of help to get home. For several years in my early childhood, we also had gallons of free milk from Mammaw's cow, along with fresh-churned butter, so a quart jar of cold milk would serve nicely to wash down those hot egg sandwiches, and add extra nourishment, besides. So, a couple of times when she was out for the afternoon, and the knock came on the door, I bade them to sit down out in the shade at the picnic table, and I cooked the egg sandwiches and poured the tea or milk. We had very close neighbors and everyone looked out for all the children, so I never had one moment's fear of walking out that back door with the food and drink. I guess I've fed half the world by now---lots of teenagers and hundreds of young soldiers, thousands at parties and weddings and dinners we've catered, but none have been quite as satisfying, somehow, as being ten and walking out that dusty screen door, hearing it slam shut behind me as I used both hands to balance and navigate down the steps to the backyard, carrying a plate of warm, greasy egg sandwiches and a quart of iced tea to a hungry man far from home.