racheld

Those of you who grew up in cities or towns or at least NEAR somewhere which served something besides barbecue, hamburgers and chicken fried steak will probably not understand, but my first taste of Chinese food was when I was maybe ten years old. And it WAS Takeout, of a very special sort. Scene was the prototype of a sleepy, dusty, Delta day; time was noon dinner. My Mom cooked a big hearty dinner every morning, Daddy walked home from work just a couple of blocks away, and stoked up on peas and cornbread and fried chicken and enough banana pudding and peach cobbler to serve the multitudes. I doubt that we had anything more in our spice cupboards than salt, pepper and cinnamon. Food was baked, stewed or fried. Or jelled. Daddy had said he was bringing us a surprise for lunch, so we set the table and awaited his arrival. I walked out back to look down the long green alley separating our row of houses from the ones on the other side of the block, and beheld my Dad, walking along under the shade, with his hands out in front of him on each side. I ran to meet him, and saw that he was bearing two "boilers" like the ones we cooked snap beans and other vegetables in. I know it had been a hard thing to carry those two heavy pots upright by the stickout handles, as they were steaming hot and really heavy. We made our way to the kitchen, where he whisked off the lids to uncover almost a potful of tiny, gleaming, almost translucent rice grains, perfectly cooked and tender. They were nothing like our usual Mahatma rice, which my Mom swore by until she discovered the magical Uncle Ben's. This rice was sticky and soft and perfect, holding together in little clumps on the fork, and picking up a lovely sheen of the sauce poured upon it rather than drowning in it. The other pot lid revealed the mystery: A grayish, greenish mass of slices and slivers and long strands of strange vegetables enclosed in a gluey substance. Mother's usual skepticism arose. She sniffed once, not at the food, but in disdain, then headed for the refrigerator for leftovers. I leaned into the vapors drifting from the pot and was imprinted for life. The aromas of garlic and greens and a hint of oil and the merest undertone of licorice were all there. They drew me in, those shreds of bamboo and bean sprouts, strands of thinnest-cut celery and wisps of onion, all velveted into the most luscious-smelling sauce I had ever encountered. My Mother was persuaded to sit down, and we all helped our plates. He showed us to make a mound of rice, spread it a bit as the cook had showed him, and cover the top with the (a word first for me, but forever imprinted): CHOP SUEY. The first taste was amazing, salty and rich and garlicky and with all the flavours of the stir-fried vegetables. We always started stews and beans and other amalgams with a frying of some onion and bell pepper, but this stir-fry was quite different. I don't think I had ever tasted even sauteed celery before, and the bamboo shoots and bean sprouts were as exotic to me as if they'd come from Madagascar that very hour. Daddy had become friends with the Chinese family who owned one of the tiny grocery stores on the street where he worked, and had smelled the cooking coming from their quarters behind the store. He had asked them to make him a pot of it for us to try, and they had it ready when he got off work at noon. The store was a smelly little place, with a few cans of vegetables, some smoked meats and maybe a dozen loaves of Wonder Bread on the shelves, some chips and a Coke case and maybe turnips and potatoes and onions in a couple of halved wooden barrels. She could have used the parings and the leftovers and the discards from the vegetable bins, for all I knew, (and I think today, that in those times and their level of subsistence, perhaps she did). But her cooking skills transmuted a handful of green bits into a wonderful, delicious amalgam of flavors that still sets the standard in my mind for all Chinese cuisine. I still seek out restaurants which cook what I think of as "brown" food---the salty sauces and the grayish mixtures which are seasoned with garlic and onion and soy, rather than all of the sugary/peppery/sesame sauces so prevalent in all those "buffet" places. We are fortunate to have a very special Chinese restaurant here in town which cooks just that way---the Chop Suey is called Chow Mein, but I snug a spoonful into the center of my plate, ring it with small servings of Moo Goo and sauteed long beans and a bit of the onion and pepper from the Pepper Steak pan, scoop a little of that sticky rice into my small bowl, pick up my chopsticks, and I'm home. Home to that hot, dusty Mississippi noon when I tasted and found my cuisine in two battered, borrowed pots.

Caps above are mine---still unused to all the bells and whistles available in posts. You should have taken into account a possible PERSONAL abhorrence or consideration when you decided to inflict an unusual and possibly unacceptable food upon someone. And the fact that you are writing to ask says that you are cognizant of your culpability in this. That "joyous taste" you mention will not be remembered nearly so long as the unpleasantness of the denouement. I cannot fathom being so blithe about something which might have caused someone you love an unpleasant experience. This was far removed from strange herbs or exotic preparations or unusual sea creatures. This was by nature a choosing FOR someone in a circumstance in which you should have given the person a choice BEFORE he ate it. I CAN understand his consternation and upset at having been duped, as it were, in his own home. More than the 2c of yesterday, but this is a subject you CANNOT decide for someone else. I'm not speaking from a sob-story position of the beautiful-big-brown-eyes, how-could-you-DO-that standpoint, but of your needing affirmation from a bunch of strangers that you did not err. And I think you did.

Silky-tender country ribs with honey barbecue sauce; paper-thin Vidalia sandwiches with mayo and seasalt; Culver's Strawberry Custard.

Weird is not exactly the word to describe certain kinds of meat, I think. Some sensitivity to "experience comfort" or prior association with the animals involved is required in certain cases. Chickens and ducks and cows, oh, my, are part of an ingrained thought process in most people, I would imagine, and depending on the culture, so is every creature which walks, swims, flies or slithers. But in the case of certain animals, people have a tendency to look at the persona and the personal factor, as in the case of horses---they are companions, friends, and workmates on so many levels to so many, and have been personified in life and literature as more than just beasts to be consumed. Taking a chance on a dinner so unexpected in one's frame of reference is a cause for consternation and concern, and I know that most people would hope to be informed when the comestibles fall so far outside the norm of expectation in both foodstuffs and emotional associations. Less than 2c, but I'm off on a daytrip and must hurry. rachel

Please do not knock Wonder Bread or sweet potatoes with marshmallows til you've walked a mile in my clodhoppers.

Cincinnati Chili. And no offense to a lovely city that we visit often and find charming and entertaining. We tried the cheese-laden concoction at a local franchise of the Tall-Buildings-In-Silhouette and could eat only a few bites. The cinnamon was OVERPOWERING. A ten-gallon pot of apple butter has not that much spice. We asked for go-boxes, thinking to perhaps give it another chance in the privacy of our own home. But we could not bring ourselves to taste or even smell the stuff heating in the microwave. The two styrofoam pillows sat there in the fridge, glaring mockingly at me every time I opened the door. I finally gave them the shake test---if you shake a container of leftovers and it rattles, you can throw it away---it's the LAW. And I still avert my eyes when we pass the billboards.

That's the most touching post I've ever read on here!!! And probably the most innovative. Your dedication and perseverance earn you the MDG award---Most Dedicated Griller, with tassels, and epaulets and everything. Keep up the good work. Can't wait to see what you do with the birdbath.

Black Forest ham, cold, cut in paper-thin slices to curl in mounds upon the platter, with homemade brownseed honey mustard; Napa shreds stir-fried with garlic, soy, and a pinch of sugar; Ranch-dressed orzo salad with roasted peppers and vidalias; Jalapeno/corn/scallion/cheddar cornbread; juicy pears and Alabama Hoop Cheese. 40-weight iced lemony tea.

Do NOT, as I did today, inflict them on someone who may be emotionally scarred and put off chocolate for life. We showered and dressed and went off to breakfast at 10, with two objects on our outing: Go to Son and DDIL's house and make some pictures of them and their houseguests. Go see Star Wars. Sometimes in Winter I smuggle in a pack of M&M's or maybe a bit of homemade fudge in my pocket to enhance the popcorn experience. Today, I bagged up, in a Ziploc sandwich baggie, about a dozen very large chocolate-covered DRIED cherries, not the kind with the oozy fondant inside. To avoid their melting in my pocket, I put them in the center cupholder. We ate our breakfast and went on over to their house, where we were warmly received and introduced to her college friend and her new husband. Pictures by the lake, pictures on the lawn. As they posed and snapped, I walked my Granddog on a leash. Occasionally comments were made about the common area, where some residents had apparently not been taking care of their dogs' BUSINESS as they should. We said our goodbyes, and as I got into the car, I noticed the baggie sitting there in the full sunshine. It had succumbed to the closed-car temperatures, and was a mass of melted chocolate with visible lumps peeking through here and there. I took the baggie back to the door, knocked, and presented it to my son, who grimaced, took it and started for the garbage. I said, "No, put it in the fridge; it will be OK to eat as soon as it firms up a bit so you can get it out of the baggie." All four stared at me open-mouthed, then I said it was chocolate. Son then said he didn't think he could eat it, even later. And maybe never again.

This is Rachel's Hubby responding. In my domain, "Fire is Man Thing" Woman no mess with fire! Amazing how they have trained us to do those things that they do not want to do, but could probably do better! Anyway you have several problems that over the years I have learned to overcome. You mentioned that you use real charcoal, good thing, I never respond to anyone who is deluded enough to think you can Bar-B-Que with anything other than real charcoal. First problem, heat. You can never control the heat completely, so you have to compensate for the lack of control. Keep a container of water in the middle of the charcoal and it keeps the meat from drying out, plus seems to smooth out the temp. Second concern is flavor. I use mesquite or hickory wood to give the smoke flavor at beginning. To much smoke will overpower, so don't keep adding wood. It will overpower any spice combination you choose. Third problem is how to make it fall off the bone when you pull it. Solution, after about the first hour on the smoke and charcoal take the meat off and wrap it tight (double wrap) in heavy aluminum foil and it will pressure the meat to tenderness. Cut the airflow down and wait about two the two and a half hours. Take meat off and let sit in foil for flavor to permeate. When cool enough to handle, pull and chop or cut to taste. Suggest Sweet Baby Ray sauce. Have experimented for years with own concoctions and have not been able to do better. Boss just informed me that I am required to light up the Weber this evening. Each time different, some better, some a learning experience. Happy Grilling. Chris

Say on, Brother, Say on!!

In certain seasons, our favorite Chinese restaurant has them on the buffet, cut in 6" lengths, stir-fried with onions, jalapeno slices, soy sauce and a pinch of sugar. They are served with tongs, of course, but I've been known to swipe the spoon from a neighboring pan and scoop up a bit of the lovely sauce and pour it over the beans on my plate. At the end of the meal, I lay down my chopsticks, dump the last of the rice from my ricebowl into the little spot of sauce, and eat it with a spoon. In the off-season (I suppose there must be one, though they seem to be supplied with all other regular green things year-round) they substitute plain old green beans, left whole and cooked by the same recipe. It's a treat to go up to the buffet, glance expectantly into the long-beans' rightful pan, and find that they do not taper or have little curly wisps of tail, but are the wonderful, cleaver-cut long tender ones that are soooo tasty and crisp. Like last night's.

Absolutely gorgeous!! I just found this thread, and despite the six-months lag, I had to comment on these gorgeous desserts. And what, pray tell, do you use to slice? These look as if they've been lasered with a thinner-than-air blade, with absolutely no crumbing or smear. Just perfect. I haven't read past the third page, but I'm hoping there's a recipe in my future. rachel

Pa-dum-PUMMM!

Hmmmmm.....source of great amusement. Perhaps we should have a man made tea sandwich contest at Varmint's pig pickin'? What other dainty foods do men love but don't make? ←

You could serve it in a bedpan...a new one, of course. We chockys would follow you to the moon.

Do you keep going?

Yep, we know all those people. And even worse than the food-dictators are those who don't warn you, but spend the meal discussing the effect of salt on their blood pressure and their latest blood sugar count, and IF I NEVER HEAR THE WORD "tra-gliss-a-rids" again it will be too soon!!!!! And these are my dear aunts! You can't drum them out of the family, you can't alter their conversation, you can't even change the subject---the weather just reminds them of their seasonal allergies, and the news brings up the latest survey on good vs. bad cholesterol. A bit of gossip just brings to mind how low Mrs. Vandeventer is, and who had surgery only to be sewed right up and sent home there-was-nothing-they-could-do. And these used to be such wonderful people, the lights of my childhood with their visits and witty conversation and lovely, fashionable clothes. And elderly aunts aren't the only ones---just get yourself a guest or two with a gym membership or an addiction to running, and you'll swear off entertaining altogether. One of the last ones brought her WATER BOTTLE to the table. And said the word hydration about five times. Maybe somewhere there's a kindergarten class that would like to come over for cookies.

And it was delicious.

A company called Lizano Sales www.lizanosales.com has cans of HOP 21.00 per case, and glass jars, 24.00 per case...14 oz. sizes of both. Guess if you wanted that much and liked the canned, you'd just pick them up at your local grocery, but that's what I found online. Was hoping for a frozen variety...seems it wouldn't be so "tinny" in taste as the canned. Good luck in your search.

Lobster bisque and an enormous shrimp cocktail for Hubby, with a disgusting "pink" sauce he likes---ketchup, lemon zest, mayo and Worcestershire. Lovely buttery skillet toast. I'm not a seafoodie, so tuna salad on popcorn rice cakes for me. Following the theme as best I can. Vanilla tapioca for dessert. Two amaretti each at 9 p.m., during Apprentice Finale.

Lovely. Simply lovely. Beautifully photographed, WELL coordinated, etc. A couple of questions, when you get a minute: Having transported and set up quite a few little amateur efforts back in my younger days, what is the process---LOFT to me connotes up a LOT of stairs. Did someone have to lug all the parts UPUPUP, assemble the cakes, photograph, and WILL THEY BE DISMANTLED for the trip DOWN, into the vans, off to the station, to be reassembled on site? How does this mesh with frosting applications for the photographs? I just have visions of two people struggling down flights of steps 50 times with an enormous, delicate creation at the mercy of their steady hands and feet. Also---are the pink "boxes" in one photo the tiers of a square cake? Looked too pretty to be just wrapping. Kudos to all for the beautiful cakes and all the logistical work it takes to put on a display of this magnitude. Looking forward to more photos!!! One of each!!! rachel

Back when we lived in Alabama, my husband's grandparents were in their 80's, and neither was up to much housecleaning, etc. He did what little cooking there was, as he had for most of their married life, except when he was off in the woods cooking for a "logging crew" in the 40's---gigantic meals of meat and gravy and enough biscuits to sink the Bismarck. I had every Wednesday off, and would usually go and spend part of the morning with them, as they were alone most of the time. I would make pastries at home, or at least pop into the grocery bakery for donuts---something for a little coffee snack. Then, I would cook them a nice lunch, with plenty of leftovers for their supper. This was not a little salad lunch, or a sandwich; this was a big old Southern noon DINNER, with peas and cornbread and coleslaw and perhaps fried chicken or ham. This is the meal they were accustomed to, and this is what I cooked. The reason Granddaddy did all the cooking for their family of nine was that Grandma was a Churchworker. Capital C. She lived and breathed her Mission work, and her Stewardship, and her visitation and five church services per week. She took her Service To The Lord seriously, ahead of family, friends, and any other little extras like that. I never saw her in anything other than a church dress, with nice shoes and her stockings rolled below her knees. She stood ready for any call to come be of SERVICE, able to grab her hat and Bible and be out that door in two minutes flat. So, about the second time I was to go see them, she called and asked what I was going to cook---she thought she'd just ask the Preacher and his family, since there would be all that food, anyway. So she did. All seven of them. It was summer, so the whole family, teenagers and all, arrived for noon dinner. They passed the time of day in the living room, while I manned the oven and the stovetop in a strange, very hot, no A/C kitchen with no prep tools (learned to take my own knives, whisks and aprons) and got hotter and more resentful with each burst of laughter emanating from the tallhair take-their-ease crowd awaiting their dinner. And that's the way it went...I'd go visit, and the Organist and HER family showed up right on time for a meal...Or another family, down on their luck, needing a good feed and some cheering up. This went on for several weeks, spending my day off repaying all their social or spiritual obligations. They were such dear people, and all so thankful and sweet, I was ashamed to be so resentful of the time, and it did become a family joke---we'd laugh about it at home. But soon, somehow my boss mysteriously changed my day off to Saturday, which I needed to spend at home to be with my own family. No more Church Lunches.

There's a lovely passage about swamp cabbage in "Cross Creek" by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (author of The Yearling and other works). She was a stranger to the Florida swamps when she moved there for seclusion to work on her books. She was an ardent cook, and presumably a great one, considering the level of her kitchen provisions and tools. And anyone who makes up a making of rolls to rise, puts them into a big old black dutch oven, carries them in her lap in a boat down an alligator-infested river, then alights to build a fire and nestle them in to bake for supper---THAT'S a dedicated cook. She speaks of the swamp cabbage as a delicious, wonderful thing, but unattainable by her until she was counseled by a lifelong swamp dweller to "be ruthless" with trimming all the tougher layers away from the tender heart. It was so tempting to leave on too many layers, keeping quantity ahead of quality, but the toughness of the few remaining outer ones would spoil the whole pot, until she learned to seek the best part and discard the rest. She would go out back with a machete, hack one down with several swipes of the blade, then spend a long time peeling back and chopping off layers, like seeking the crisp tenderness at the heart of a tough old onion. I've always wanted to try it...we all buy those tinny cans of hearts of palm, and they're nice enough and a bit elegant on a salade composee' with a nice vinaigrette, and even have their place in that Southern everything-from-a-can combination of corn and English peas and French green beans, all Del Monte sealed and delivered into a syrupy sugar/vinegar sauce which renders them to a candied, toothaching "salad" recipe passed down through word of Hairdryer. So go find some; go out in high boots and fell that tree into the mire--order it from off if you have to. Just trim it ruthlessly, letting the chips fall away, and cook it up into a dish to savor. You'll be cooking a memory of your own and passing on a tradition. And write of your search and the finding. It's good to see another generation taking up the torch.

Indoors or out? Open House drop in, or come at 2 & stay? How many?