racheld

I'm hitchhiking on this duck thread, but I've posted in several sites looking for a recipe for wild duck with turnips and prunes...anyone know that one? It was mentioned in Prince of Tides and may be totally fiction, but surely somewhere there's a combination like that. Can't reply to thread because I've only cooked Mallards.

My college roommate spent a semester in Germany, where she took a liking to the students' favorite dessert combo: A Hershey bar, an orange, and vodka. I never did try it, and our campus was ostensibly "dry" so I never had occasion to see in what order or combination the ingredients were enjoyed.

It's almost midnight here, so it's still YOUR ANNIVERSARY out there in the West. Congratulations!!! I've loved and enjoyed this thread; I've groaned and muttered with you, I've laughed and sympathized and craved those goodies and admired the beautiful perfection of your store and your art, I've read and rejoiced with you, I've wished destruction on any problems and pitfalls, and poo to cheapskates who want a discount. Vicarious moments, through your words and pictures. You've found time to share with so many of us, and you literally have NO idea how many good wishes come your way today. Thanks for being so generous with your time and your talents. One year down, 99 to go!! BEST WISHES!!! rachel

I did not know of the cyanide/cashew relationship, and had wondered why our macaw will not touch them. Actually he does; he throws them out of his dish onto the floor. He's a Brazil nut fiend, can crack and shell one in a few seconds, loves all other nuts (a little iffy on filberts, but so am I---the backyard squirrels benefit from that one), but cashews---I learned to toss them out of his serving. Smart boy.

Um Hum. Tis true---drive right up and take away. Some friendly places would probably just give you a LOOOOOOONNNNNG straw and stick it in the daiquiri keg. I MISS New Orleans. And Robicheaux rules. I listened to Black Cherry Blues whilst I did the breakfast dishes. Chopping and stirring are certainly more interesting with a little Cajun flavor, mist on the bayou and all that. The dishes just form themselves, while I'm transported. But I don't miss the heat. Or the mosquitoes.

You're very welcome. And like every good Southern Girl, your thank-you notes went out in a timely manner. Good girl. Now about the recipes for that melted ice cream cake...intriguing and tempting. Please publish. In fact, do a thingie on the groom's cake alone...all the steps, whether you have pics or not. Just keep this thread going. The Happy Couple do indeed look so, and our very best wishes to them. And what's the little sombrero on the groom's champagne flute?

I'm chewing a crisp, crunchy bite as I write; My Hubby just took the last pan out of the oven. Mine's still a bit warm, and just perfectly balanced among crispy cookie, toasted pecans, and ultra dark Ghirardelli chunks. And he made three dozen lighter ones, with pale brown sugar; those have white chocolate chips, macadamias and dried cherries. They're all SUPPOSED to be for a brunch I'm doing tomorrow, but who can NOT sample a cookie straight out of the oven?

With the customary "byte" out of it, of course.

I enjoy learning new words from fellow eG's, but had there not been a couple of answers after the original question, I would have replied that I did not know, other than the word that I learned from a woman in the DEEP South. She had done a bit of housecleaning for my Mother, and in the process, somehow convinced Mother that she could cook. And in the ensuing years, my parents were subject to any and all of Rodellar's bits and bobs of arcane culinary history. She prepared odd breads and custards and five hundred ways to cook greens and/or grits. And one day, Mother was interrupted at work by a call: "I'm making a cobbler; do you want sankers in it?" A quick mental inventory of the pantry and freezer contents turned up no fruit or other ingredient that would serve to be called by that name. Mother then asked, "I never heard of that, Rodellar; what IS it?" The reply, in a tone of careful consideration for the feelings and the ignorance of the questioner, was, "You know--SANKERS. You can make cobbler some several ways--you can put the crust on top. You can put strips on top. You can drop dumplins on top. Or you can put the strips on, let 'em cook a little bit, then you push 'em under and put some more strips on top. That's a cobbler with sankers." And they were quite tasty, as well. Rodellar and my parents muddled through several years before my Mom's retirement and permanent reclaiming of her own kitchen. I have several memories relating to her tenure in the kitchen I grew up in, though many years separated our use of it. There was the daughter-in-law who worked for Mother previously, whose homecoming call from her husband on the day he was released from prison resulted in a childhood memory for me that has lasted as indelibly all these years. We were eating our noon dinner, and the phone rang. "It's for you, Margaret," Mother said. She talked for a moment, returned to the table, and picked up her plate. She went over to the drawer where we kept the folded grocery bags, retrieved a small one, and began to scrape the contents of her plate into it. We looked at her for a moment, then Mother asked, "Do you have to leave right now?" and she said yes she'd better go on. Mother then said, "Let me get you a plate you can take your dinner home on and eat it later...we'll fix you another plate---that's all jumbled up now." Margaret continued to scrape macaroni and cheese, ham, and field peas into the bag, which immediately bloomed a huge grease stain on the bottom. It began to spread up the sides, clearing as it went, so that the colors of the food were outlined against the golden-greased paper like watercolor flowers. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry right now. He can have this for his supper." Even as a child, my dismay at the innocence and the hardship of that small offering was something to remember. I could only think what MUST have been in her own larder, that a bag of thrown-in food from someone else's dinnerplate would seem like a good homecoming. That moment of sacrifice and making do has haunted me for years. Another daughter-in-law (wife of a son who moved away and prospered, marrying a lovely young woman who was a college professor) surprised and startled me one day as I went in the back door to cook for Mother's expected houseguests. Rodellar was unable to come to work, so the dear, multi-degreed, multi-lingual DIL was standing there in a puddle, manning the mopbucket FAR FAR from her home and her university life, mopping a stranger's kitchen in order to help out her husband's mother. And when Daddy closed out our family home after Mother passed on, and we all gathered to help move and to carry home the things of our childhoods and fondest memories, there was a tiny inscription inside a cabinet door in Rodellar's shaky hand: "When mint hand get on 11, put potace on." I almost dismantled the door and brought it with me...I'd proudly hang it in MY kitchen, testament to two women, two good cooks, separated by the customs of their time, but united in friendship and their love of cooking. And I can still hear the big brown fieldpeas rattling into that greasy paper bag.

I just showed your pics to Hubby, chattering all the while about flowermaking and handmade cakestands, berry filling and tuxedoed strawberries. His comments were most flattering---he's an avid photographer, and said you captured the spirit and the colors and the joy of the day in a way that professionally-posed "bride stands here" photos never can. There's a special feeling and a special warmth to having such a part in creating a beautiful, tangible symbol of your child's wedding day...I've done it four times now, and thank you for re-creating that time in your words and pictures. I still say---glad it was you, and I'm so happy for you to have all these wonderful pictures and memories of that hectic, hardworking, can't-find-my-keys rush of cake and flowers and butterflies that make up such a joyous moment in a family's album of memories.

LYLE LOVETT. On many a hot day with the oven going full blast for hours, I've just ridden away on that pony, hair flying in the the cool breeze, or floated away in the seaspray in that boat. Genius.

Were those tapioca drinks the "bubble teas" described in the Coffee and Tea thread several months ago?

After a lifetime of Jane Austen and Mrs. Miniver and Trollope and Dickens, I was delighted to descend every morning at our hotels in England to find a toastrack on every table, along with a steaming teapot and a coffee press. I didn't care that it was cold. It was crisp and sliced in triangles and sitting in a lovely silver rack and I was in ENGLAND. It added to the experience, deepened it somehow, in an exponential way. I had heard of the enormous, delightful Brit breakfasts, and they certainly were. I've just never been a hot-food-early person, so while my tablemates stocked up on big sausages and rolls and tomatoes and beans and deep-fried eggs, I breakfasted happily on a bowl of cereal or fruit, and several half-slices of that wonderful, crisp, long-anticipated cold toast. From a silver rack.

Maine has called to me throughout all my life in the HOT humid sunny South. And now, due to Daniel's prose and pics and wit and a stomach capacity unrivaled since Hagrid, it's CALLING---it's ringing chimes, it's playing Mozart, it's on call waiting and e-mail and yodels from the hills. I WANNA GO!!! We've planned to go every year for the past several; Autumn seemed to be the time, but when we got up here to these glorious Indiana leaf spectaculars, we were so overcome and awed and just joyous to be present at such a display, we cannot bear to leave home when such a beautiful, miraculous show has been arranged just outside our door. And now, it's a given---we're planning on Maine for September, after all the crowd of houseguests planned for the next three months has come and gone. Thanks, Daniel, for a wonderful piece, well written and well executed, and obviously WELL enjoyed. Your zest for the travels and the places and the food and even that pesky lemonade came through in a can't-stop-reading-and-looking sort of spell that I could not break away from. Yep. We're going, thanks to your words and enthusiasm. The Chamber of Commerce is missing out on a GOOD THING. And (blush)I don't even like lobster.

Yummy-Ki-YAY!!! Thanks for channeling me to this thread---why hadn't I seen it before---the title maybe? Perhaps I associated it with the smoking hour or smoking room or smoking jacket, with parts of another thread about cigarettes. We've had one of those nice little smokers--I remember a gentleman who invited me to his home for dinner one evening back in my dating days, and he prepared brined pork chops. They were just creamy, melty bites of the most wonderful soft tender meat. And then I met Hubby, whose lineup of great qualities and attributes and talents and kind, honest, REALLY smart personality just swept me...you get the picture. BUT he did and does have an affinity for grills and firepits and smokers and all sorts of paraphernalia pertaining thereto. After about a month of our seeing each other, he presented me and my patio with a Weber grill, replacing the rickitik old leaning tripod we had been doing burgers on for dogs' years. After all, when you live in the center of Cue Heaven, why try to make it at home? So, then, when we were buying our wedding rings, he steered me to another store, in which I got to choose amongst the Gucci Webers, for in his words, we were purchasing "our first piece of furniture together." Little did I know that that would lead not only to some kickass grilled delicacies over the years, but also a succession of larger and better and more updated and just the nicest...needless to say, our back yard has taken on the look of a grill emporium with grass. We have lovely flowerbeds and hostas and patio pots of immense lacy ferns and herbs and cacti; rosebeds and petunias and a huge round vegetable garden, all punctuated with ash-sifting black statuary in the vein of all those petunia-planted toilets seen in yards with washing machines, wheelless automobiles and slinky ol' coonhounds. If not for my insisting that FIVE of the nine be at least temporarily stored in the potting shed, there WOULD be nine of them scattered in an oddly-arranged pattern around the yard. There ARE four out there, two still sporting a looped-through set of grabbers in the one-screw-loose handle. The rickety legs allow no more movement, though the wheels are not ENTIRELY engulfed in lawngrass. Attempting to roll one invites frantic grabbing, collapse, and a cloud of ashes across your shoetops. There are two actual Webers in sight, the newest, most up-to-date models, our mainstays and in constant use in Summer. Before we actually moved up here, he came up alone for five months in Autumn. His first shopping foray was to secure a grill---not even WalMart still had one on the floor; it was getting COLD. His distress was so evident that the department manager called his own home, spoke to his wife, and sent Hubby over to buy the one HE had purchased and only used a couple of times. There are also two others of the home-constructed variety, hidden discreetly out behind what WAS the poolhouse and is now my potting shed. One is a little cut-in-half barrel with hinges, which served for a while. The other is an immense length of 2' steel pipe, cut in half and hinged as well, bearing a jaunty funnel-hatted stovepipe and supported by another large pipe which sits on the inverted disc which formerly served as the foot of a satellite dish. This last one was made by Hubby's brother (formerly mentioned in another thread for having built a Rodeo Ring, complete with bleachers, concession stands and Port-o-Johns, in his own YARD) for our foray into the Northern wilds, cut and welded and constructed and proudly delivered to us the first year we lived here. And since there's been no great need for roast ox yet, there it sits, testament to a brother's love and predeliction for dangerous tools. So if your travels ever lead you across I-70, we've got two guest rooms, a real Cue Pro on staff, and enough grills to host the annual Pig-Pickin' Cookoff. rachel

Daniel, you've worked up salivary glands from here to Madagascar. All the pics of those Q's!!! And SLAW-ON!!! You really know your stuff. We lived about an hour's drive south of Memphis for years, and Leonard's was our smokehole of choice---lots of crusty crispins, really smoky and porky and dense, with a vinegary shredded slaw that you could eat for breakfast (that's right, you do that too). I got confused with your timings, and it seemed you left one place, strolled down the street, and sat yourself right down on the next greasy chair in line, ordered again, and ate it right up. Ah, the pleasures of being twenty-something---a cast iron stomach, endless possibilities, sleep like a baby if the opportunity arises, or drive in exhausted, see a party, freshen up and join in til after sunrise...that's the life. Anyway, brought back lots of memories, and set our tastebuds tingling. They just don't DO Q up here like we're used to...we did our own this past weekend, and it was fabulous---a nice pork shoulder, Weber-smoked slowly over a waterpan and a little extra applewood, with homemade slaw and some scrumptious potato salad. It's Spring---finally, and time to smell the pitsmoke. Wonderful trip, GREAT pictures---you could just lean in for a nice juicy bite--- nice narrative...You could go to the movies and make a journal worth reading. rachel

Yes. From four tables away.

I'm far away, but would LOVE to try this wonderful-sounding restaurant someday. Yet I cannot help deja vu-ing back to a Dudley Moore/another comedian doing a back and forth bit about the restaurant that they started: The Frog and the Peach. They served two dishes only: Frog a la Peche and Peche a la Frog. In each case, one was stuffed with the other with a lovely sauce.

Years ago, there was a Peanuts strip in which Charlie, Lucy and another character were lying on their backs on a hillside, looking up at the clouds. Charlie just lay there, whilst the other two conversed about the shapes, and the images that came to mind. Lucy averred that she could clearly make out Holbein's PORTRAIT OF ERASMUS, and her companion stated that he was enjoying Van Gogh's CAFE TERRACE ON THE PLACE DE FORUM. They asked Charlie if he saw anything special in the clouds, and he replied, "I was going to say I saw a doggie and a horsie, but never mind." So are my feelings when I read these listings of great and monumental dinners and methods and combinations. Still I come here, and still I put in my meager listings: Last night was applewood-grilled buffalo burgers on Wheatberry Buns, with sharp mustard and crisp sweet onion slices. Sides of bean salad with roasted peppers and sesame vinaigrette, potato crisps. Tisn't much, but twill serve. After all, the song doesn't say, "Where the buffalo foam........."

I just found this thread, way back over in the hind-end of the thread index, and even though I know every soul, every phrase, every given name and nickname and every food and preparation mentioned and how to plant, harvest, cook and serve it, there's a whole big world out there, uneducated and unenlightened. There are palates which never tasted hushpuppies straight from the big black fishcamp pot, eyes which never beheld a Red Velvet cake or a golden-meringue-topped nanner puddin straight from the oven in its oblong Pyrex, vanilla wafers standing proudly like soldiers against the sides. There is somewhere, I'm sure, a dear soul deprived of the tongue-curling scent of REAL barbecue, the smoke rising from the crusty rungs of that pit like praise to Heaven. Whole nations go through life without biscuits and molasses, or a glimpse of that crusty-topped baked corn coming steaming out of the oven in its own black skillet, the same skillet which every day turns out fried chicken and okra and catfish to make an emperor swoon. Lives are lived, inventions patented, work done, educations sought and achieved, music composed and books written, all by people whose own lives would be changed and enhanced by mere introduction to the wonderful, rich heritage which is the Southern Kitchen. Our Southern roots are ingrained, but we are more and more every day being inundated and saturated with all the wonderful cuisines from all around the world, the sushi and the greens and wok-cooking and tagine-cooking and so many luscious amalgams and mixtures and spices and grains---it seems selfish not to share and keep sharing the glorious table spread by Southern cooks, no matter what their locale. So I think it deserves being brought to the forefront again, just because. I've only been here since October, and there's a great big ole group that's joined since then. Let them enjoy it too, and read and laugh and envy our raisings and our heritage. And go buy their first bag of grits.

That's EXACTLY IT!!! That moment of "click" when your mind settles around the facts of things, the instant of grasping a method, a process, a CONCEPT that will stand with you all your cooking life. Perhaps the rush/stress of today is not the only reason for the proliferation of mixes and quickmeals and boxed dinners---think of all the could-be cooks who are still awaiting their moment of realization. "Too much trouble" excuses everything from deli pickups to dump-it-in-a-bowl awfuls to a can of this + a can of that, into the oven = dinner. I, too, had that dawning of clarity when listening to a neighbor bewail the annual ambrosia preparations--she could not trust the recipe to anyone else, and it was just too, too much trouble. She cut up some oranges, (I peeled them), opened a can of crushed pineapple, and sprinkled on half a bag of shredded coconut. A monkey could have done it, if you could have kept him from eating it all. Anyway, thank goodness for our own early grasp of what it's all about--that magical moment when your Dad lets go of the bike, and you fly off down the street on your own, soaring away into the lovely unknown.

One big squeeze bottle of Heinz in the fridge at all times, along with several backups in the pantry. My own childhood favorite (haven't eaten ANY since) was Del Monte---tasted good and had that exotic "pineapple vinegar." Garrison Keillor on Prairie Home Companion tells us each week how to live a sensible life and stand up straight and not throw the baby out with the bath, merely by consuming our RDA of ketchup. These homely sentiments are followed by a haunting refrain: Ketchup----For the Gooooood Liiiiife. (echoing gently into the distance): Keh-chup. Keh-chup. Not to be confused with Powdermilk Biscuits, which give us shy people the strength to get up and do what has to be done.

This very subject was in our local paper just this week, in the FOOD section, of course. Lots of debate back and forth, but my favorite MOM was the one who found out that her 12 year old daughter was drinking an 8 oz. juice at afternoon break, thus adding a hundred calories a day to the four ounces provided with her lunch. Five paragraphs were devoted to this great transgression and the steps taken to correct it, plus the mother's great relief that she FOUND OUT IN TIME. You'd have thought she'd discovered Little Susie handing money to a dealer over the schoolyard fence.

I stood on a 25 lb. lard can---a big old silvery one which had been thoroughly washed and dried, then made the repository of a big bag of flour, a sifter and a white-speckled blue "biscuit pan." I can remember stirring things on the counter and on the stove when I was maybe five, plus patting out biscuits, frosting cakes, putting meringue on pies, cutting out long strips of piecrust and taking so long to intricately weave the lattice that the dough began to go gooey in my hot little hands. Then, at about 10, I sneaked out after Sunday School, ran home while everyone else stayed for Church, and had a nice Sunday dinner awaiting them when they got home. It was a small town, and they didn't worry about me walking home alone, so guess they didn't miss me til they walked in and smelled dinner cooking. And why I chose to fry salmon patties (out of a tall pink can, with great and painstaking removal of all that yukky gray skin and those pesky little soft bones) is a mystery past my solving. It took FOREVER, smelled up the house, and I got a good lecture after everyone had eaten up all the goodies. And my Mom complained that I liked to "mix flavors" too much. Her way of saying don't put a layer of strawberry preserves in a parfait glass of vanilla pudding---that was just getting too uppity with the cooking, to her notion. But she ate hers, anyway. And asked me to make it for the Missionary Society meeting several weeks later.

Brava!!! Bravissima!!! And any other kudos and congratulations---they're all in order. I'd not have been able to find my pantyhose or carkeys to get to that wedding after all that work!! You deserve days and days of picture-looking and feet-upping and just resting on your laurels (if you haven't worked them off already). Now go have a mimosa. I'm sniffing, too, into my best cambric hanky. rachel