eG Foodblog: racheld - Thanksgiving and Goodwill

[suzilightning]

OMG...what a treasure!! miz d. is blogging...and while those pictures are purty the word pictures are the best. what can i say i am a librarian after all

i never knew my paternal grandparents since - highly unusual for the time- my parents split in 1955 when i was a mere 1 year old. my maternal grandmother was nan or nana or nanny but her influence was small since she was in ill health and died when i was 5 almost 6. my maternal grandfather pretty much raised me till he died when i was 20. pop was a character - who preferred cooking and doing housework to doing outside chores. i am going to be making his clam chowder later today for johnnybird and a friend's mom and john still loves it when i make smooch(that pastiche of macaroni, tomato and ground beef).

i also got to know - over 20 years- john's grandmother (granma)who was a diplomaed (?) cook from germany. while her daughter and granddaugher didn't have the inclination to cook, and only did under duress, i learned how to make apple kuken, esslin(butter cookies made in the shape of an s), spaetzle, potato salad and cucumber salad in her kitchen. i also spread out from there and have become adept at maltashen and a few other southern german items.

really looking forward to spending this holiday with you......

[racheld]

It's lovely to hear from everyone this sunny morning.

Enjoying the sun in the upstairs kitchen is our bird, referred to by another member as a feathered boltcutter. I've always called him our Gaudy Hawk.

He has about eighty words, and living in this household, nine tenths of them consist of FOOD-related items, the most prominent being "Cookie" and "Frenchy Fries." He can smell bacon cooking in a campsite in Montana, knows the clink of fork against plate means he's gonna get a bite, and will bite any part of your person that gets too near his beak.

I didn't notice that this was his outdoor cage til I noticed the rusty lock. It's a smaller version of his home indoors, and he goes out every day in warm weather, enjoying the breeze and the birds, and has quite a stream of visitors from all around the yard. I know when the squirrels or chipmunks are scavenging under his cage, because I hear him calling our GrandDog's name: "Bid-deee!!! Biddddd-deee!!! C'mere!!! C'mere!!!"

All animals are Biddy, all meat is chicken, all fruit is apple and vegetables, cooked or raw, are salad. And he orders from the menu about once every thirty minutes.

In this picture he's hanging in his "Getcha feet" posture, and will spring up there for you to tickle his feet.

He's a dancer, and our song is Louie, Louie---I don't know the words, so I just sing "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh," for the second line---He'll chime in on the "OH" part, and when he really gets going, he stops swaying and bouncing, climbs to the top of the cage, hangs by one huge claw, and does the wing-work.

He'll sing out, "C'mon!!! Let's DANCE!!! C'mon!! Getcha ARMS up!!!" with all sorts of swinging and arm action.

He reverts to "baby" when I sing Mr. Rogers' theme---it's the only way we can get his nails and wings clipped---and will try to "feed" me when he gets all cozy and coy.

He's eight, will live to be close to eighty, and Chris says, "We'll have to leave him to someone in our Will---which of the children do we like the least?"

[MarketStEl]

Metaphor of the Week:

Tofu is like a teenager looking for a peer group; it takes on the persona of its surroundings

←

Now I'm gonna have to swing by H-Mart on the way home and pick up some. D*mn you!

Wait--I'm going to have to resist this urge. There is a 22-pound turkey hogging precious fridge space, waiting for its star turn on Thursday.

As a gay man, I know that Thanksgiving -- the most family-oriented of all our holidays -- can be problematic for some of my brothers and sisters who, for whatever reason, feel less than welcome celebrating the holiday with their own families -- even if those families make every effort to include their gay members in their celebrations. My partner and I felt it was important to establish our own Thanksgiving tradition, independent of our respective families'. (It was fairly easy to cut out mine: 1,200 miles separated me from them, and both parents died within a year of each other in the late 1980s.)

An important part of that tradition is inviting friends over who may have no dinner of their own to look forward to. Even though I buy a big enough turkey to feed multitudes -- my partner has a thing about small turkeys -- our apartment is only so big, and thus we can accommodate only a few each year. But it's always a pleasure to be able to cook a traditional Thanksgiving feast for friends who appreciate it all the more because it lets them be part of what I think is the best holiday of them all.

Edited November 21, 2006 by MarketStEl (log)

[racheld]

I have to give equal time to the catly contingent---Kitty is maybe eighteen or twenty, the Vet said. She came into the house on Halloween five years ago, after enjoying the patio buffet for several months. She is now entirely toothless, but STILL wants her dry food.

She's otherwise a tinycan Fancy Feast girl.

Her eyes are a fierce GREEN, just like the picture. Even the irises have a deep emerald look.

This is birdie's other outdoor companion. It's lovely out there in Spring and Summer, but this was the farewell bow of the Hostas, before they went to sleep under a good mulching.

I'd wander out with my first cup, sip it as I made the garden rounds, and say a prayer for our friend Rebecca, who has been my online coffee companion for quite some time.

Moire non

[Swisskaese]

I think someone asked earlier , but what does "Moire Non" mean?

[racheld]

It's a little closing in letters to an old friend---I told about it in Post #37.

The response to this has been just overwhelming, and I'm just stunned at all the replies and PM's.

Thank you all for following along on this small journey, and thank you for giving so much of your family history.

[Kouign Aman]

That cat has amazing eyes. And fur like velveteen.

Your bird is lovely. Does he let you or Chris preen him? Do you ever rub the feathers on the top of his head the wrong way, gently?

Do you ever wonder if he'd be quieter in the soup pot?

[racheld]

Finally:

Breakfast: An English muffin, toasted in a non-stick skillet with a smaller-size pan to press it down. Dickinson's strawberry preserves.

Daughter's lunch----Pho

Okay----FRIDGE SHOT

Couldn't resist, though the bottom is full of leafy, green, healthful things. This is the way refrigerators appeared in all the ads in years past.

[M. Lucia]

What a loquacious bird. In Arabic "bidee" means I want, I always hear bratty Damascene kids squaking biddee this and biddee that. So when I first read your post I thought your parrot was saying 'I want,' or wanting to eat the other animals, eek.

[racheld]

He's just calling for his old friend, who lived with us for a year and a half, along with Daughter #2 and oldest Granddaughter, along with an immense desert tortoise, who was mentioned in a LONG ago post. I think, of all the animals, I miss Sheldon most.

All animals are referred to as Biddy, including Maddy, our Granddog who lives near us here.

Reggie even calls out to the squirrels in my voice, "C'mon, Dolling!!!" They must be so disappointed when they arrive and the nut brigade is absent.

[racheld]

We're heading out for a bit; I'll see y'all later!

[Smithy]

Oh, Rachel. Your writing always makes me slow down and savor the words. Your posts resist skimming and speed-reading as surely as my bowl of rocky road ice cream demands that I notice and enjoy every bit of sweet or crunchy or savory or cold or soft. We are rich indeed to have you posting, and triply rich that you're willing to blog on Thanksgiving week. I suppose you'd have to say that we who are short of time for our online community are now in treble trouble.

I never met my maternal grandmother; Mama Keen died before I was born. Pop, my maternal grandfather, is a benevolent mystery whom I only met two or three times, since we lived on opposite coasts. It was Nana and Papa, 50 miles away, who formed my ideas of good grandparenting, and who cemented the core of our clan. When my sister, the eldest of my generation, was born, Nana spent endless time teaching her to say "Nana" and "Papa", much to the then-disgust of my grandfather. By the time I came along, the names were a done deal for all of us, and Papa had forgotten to mind it any more.

Nana was firmly in the "food is love" camp, and it was impossible to drop by without having her try to stuff food into you before the hello's and hugs had been completed. Our family gatherings were feasts of the first order: turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans that broke all the rules and were to die for, stuffing, sweet potatoes, biscuits, jello, and doubtless other things I've forgotten. Then there was dessert. The women of the next generation down were allowed to participate in some of the dessert making, so I can't remember just who brought what - except that my mother generally made the apple pie and a chocolate pie and a mincemeat pie 'specially for Papa. At other times of the year, Nana would have cobbler waiting in case someone dropped by; the peaches often came from our trees, but she had more local sources as well.

Those green beans were of the melt-in-your-mouth, army drab variety, with bacon, and they were the best beans on earth. (I stick by that assertion, even though soft green beans are no longer in vogue. ) We kept trying to work out how Nana did it. Bless her, she had no secret recipes and was always willing to help, but nobody could get it right. One year my cousin Sally dogged Nana's footsteps around the kitchen and took notes. Sally is a precise and clever woman, so her notes should have been right. They didn't help. We finally concluded that it was the cooking pot, but really, I think it was the love and Nana's special touch.

I did take that cooking pot when Nana passed on, though, and it makes passable beans even if they don't quite measure up to Nana's. One summer when my parents were visiting, Dad looked at that pot where it simmered on the stove and said, "I remember when Mom got that pot." He told me about Nana hosting a Wear-ever party, like the Tupperware parties of later years, and getting the pot set (2 pots, 1 lid, a steamer insert) as a hostess prize. That was right around Dad's 10th birthday. I felt warmed and cherished, and still do, knowing that I'm the 3rd generation to cook in a 1929 set of cookware. The connections go on.

Doggone it, now I'm getting misty-eyed. Thank you, Miz Rachel, for hosting this blog.

[Priscilla]

Pretty Kitty! She looks like a Russian Blue.

And pretty pink breakfast plate. Izzat Waechtersbach?

[Kim Shook]

Rachel! I am so, so glad to find you blogging! I was just a leetle down this week - lots to do, no time, numb hands, sore feet and then "what to my wondering eyes should appear" when I take a moment to check out egullet, but Miss Rachel writing her wonderful, evocative prose ! Thank you so much for sharing this week with us. I know that I will be including you and this blog in the thanks that I give on Thursday morning!

My grandma’s were Bomo (pronounced Bawmaw – baby pronunciation of Grandma, I think) and Bebo (not sure where that one comes from). The first couldn’t cook a lick, but made delicious Duncan Hines chocolate cakes . The other was a former flapper who had dance cards from the White House in her cedar chest. She gave me Metrical cookies and delivery Chinese when I spent the night at her house and cooked one wondrous meal a year – Christmas Eve.

You live in INDY!! We lived in Batesville for a couple of years! Have you ever been to Metamora? It is a little ersatz, but charming on a snowy day when all the tourists are gone – your little couple from the Feast of the Hunter's Moon would fit right in. Blog on, ma’am – we are all breathless with anticipation!

[snowangel]

I love that you have coffee with Rebecca. At our old house, when our "rebecca" fell over in a storm, we put in a patio on her resting ground, and built a pergola, and then planted a wisteria the wisteria was who I shared coffee with every day. In the new house, we have a deck that's high off the ground, so I have my coffee perched on my patio table (which I do keep shoveled off in the winter, and the snow pants are right inside the patio door for "protection") and have coffee with the birds that perch on the perennial plants I don't cut down.

I love my morning coffee companions.

[racheld]

Dinner tonight---an old friend, a funny, sweet friend, came by last week to use one of our printers. I had to be out of the house, but Son #2 was working in the workshop, so he let him in.

He left us a Thank You note with his email address, so I did a one-line note to confirm. I merely said, "You're welcome any time."

Quicker than lightning came back, "I'll visit soon. How's Tuesday with you?"

So we had dinner. I happened to spend some time out photographing a German bakery not too far away, and our guest has been to Germany MANY times, so we decided on a sissified version of sauerkraut and weenies.

We had a little cranberry-ginger spritzer to start, along with some Alouette and crackers, and Chris' favorite, the pineapple glop in the teensy little glass from Kraft.

I had made and baked the meatballs (panko, an egg, a thought of garlic, and a pennyworth of Dijon, in 94%), whilst the spoonbread was in the oven.

The "sauerkraut" was indeed a can of Bavarian, but cooked according to my first Father-in-Law's recipe (not that he ever cooked anything but catfish in a big pot outdoors---that will probably be Saturday night's treat). Once when I was cooking dinner for the In-Laws, I realized that the small cabbage I had shredded and stirred in a bit of garlicky oil was just TOO small for five, so I threw in a hot-water-rinsed can of kraut. Father-in-Law LOVED it, and ate up all the scraps---he said it tasted just like "my Mamma's homemade kraut, made in a churn."

So that's what we had, with some turkey Kielbasa, cut into quarters, and four apple-Gouda sausages. After they had all had their turn on top of the simmering cabbage, which I'd stir-fried first in some oil I'd fried onions in, I laid on the meatballs and covered the pan, letting it sit for a few minutes.

The whole thing was ladled onto a platter, steaming and fragrant with vinegary-tang and caraway:

A salad of Pinto beans, Vidalia, red and yellow peppers and the TINIEST little wheels of pasta, with a homemade creamy Italian:

Some cucumbers for Megan in cider vinegar and mustard seeds:

And in keeping with the theme---Southern Spoonbread with corn:

It's been quite a day!!

moire non

[fou de Bassan]

Spoonbread! My Granny River made the best spoonbread in the world. I was lucky to have two grandmothers and two great-grandmothers who lived long enough for me to appreciate the wonderfulness of old Baptist women. Thanks for the photo and memory jog.

ed. caint spel

[racheld]

More bakeries on the schedule yesterday---we live close to both a German bakery, and a Hispanic one---The Heidelberg Cafe, and the Panaderia las Americas. We went totally worldwide, as well, and snagged a few greens and some condiments at the Asian market while we were at it.

A look into the Heidelberg pastry case:

The young hostess, Jeannin, was so nice---the glare on the glass was distracting, so I asked if we might look in from the back side, and she hustled along with me, opening doors, and even moving gnomes around for a better shot:

I meant to buy one of these---don't know if that's flour or powdered sugar. An excuse to go back.

I love how the bread is just right out there in the old manner, just living its life for however it lasts---no chilling or bagging or coddling. Just good honest bread, with its traditional ingredients, and no need for change.

This was midafternoon, and the morning crowd had changed the landscape of the loaded trays:

Biscotti invites for a moment's pause with some of that GOOOOD coffee:

Chef Jeurgen has one of the world's largest collections of Springerle molds. This is just a small display:

And, of course, clocks:

[jmsaul]

This is lovely.

And I'm glad that good food can be found in Indianapolis if you know where to look. I may ask you for recommendations at some point. I go to a conference there every year at the convention center, and so far the only standouts I've found are St. Elmo's steakhouse and a nice sushi place.

[racheld]

Her Royal Poshness this morning.

And the gaudy hawk upstairs has had his bacon.

This was my own breakfast, with a press-toasted English muffin and three cups of Espresso. Homemade pear preserves, made with the old sandy pears from our trees back on the Mississippi farm.

This is the view from our back yard, with the back door just out of sight to the right of the windchimes, of which there are four sets, from little tinkly silver ones to a set that could practically boom out Bach. The red bush drops its leaves, but makes a lovely shade and a lovely color from inside both the upstairs sitting room and the downstairs kitchen, which you could see straight ahead were the bushes not in the way.

Chris calls the big green one the weatherbush---we can look out the low window and see what the climate is outside. It's also home to what he calls my "third pet," an immense spider which has lived there for two years. She is known as Mistress Octavia, Ogress of the Weatherbush.

I have lots more pictures loaded into the special album which Susan issued just for this blog, but I'm having trouble retrieving. More to come when I get a little tech help.

It's the day BEFORE the Day, and I can imagine the aromas that are wafting from all the kitchens in preparation. Our own goings-on include boiling and shelling the eggs for the devilled egg tray and for the gravy---italics just don't seem to do it; we need a flinch-when-you-say-it font.

The asparagus casserole is ready in the upstairs fridge, the ambrosia cake is frosted and encrusted with a new kind of coconut we got at Wild Oats---it's not-quite-dry shreds with an intriguing coating of sweetness. Too much going on to actually whack one with a hammer and grate it right now.

Daughter is upstairs, putting together a wild rice/brown rice salad, and I'm about to make another asparagus casserole and one of mac and cheese to take on our trip Friday. The lemon pie will take only minutes, the mixed-berry crumble will bake tomorrow, and the pan of fudge is solid and fragrant. I won't cut it til it's time to put it on the candy-stand.

I've been meaning to answer: Sandy, we hear Indiana called that all the time, and the atmosphere is NOT big-city, though it IS one, and even though people remark on my accent all the time, THEY seem to speak just like me---at least to me.

Maybe because so many communities grew up and were absorbed, there's a small-city feel to this whole place, and then there's downtown, a few miles from your door.

Markets with goods and items I would never have thought could be; restaurants of every ethnicity you can think of; fields of corn and lettuce and okra and soybeans.

And beautiful melons. Indiana is known for the Decker melon, with a short season and the sweetest, meatiest fruit you've ever tasted. They are hefty guys, several pounds apiece, and have the typical veining and color, but a little smoother with definitions all around, grooves like the way a child draws a pumpkin.

They gush sweetness at the first stab of the knife, and are so juicy that they leak all over the plate when you serve them. Delicious, and I wish they were around more than just July.

Edited November 22, 2006 by racheld (log)

[Smithy]

Oh, I'm going to have to have kraut and sausage soon. Your version sounds wonderful.

Her royal poshness is gorgeous. I can almost feel her fur under my hands, lush and thick and velvety. She reminds me of my Gracie Mu (see avatar), who's gone these weeks, probably out of my life, into the wilds. She was getting cranky, but I miss her terribly.

Please tell more about the asparagus casserole! That may be just the ticket for our quiet at-home Thanksgiving!

[Kim Shook]

Someone upthread mentioned southern fried chicken. Living in Indiana, we were stunned and abashed to discover (being card carrying Southerners) some of the best fried chicken we had ever eaten! They have entire restaurants devoted to serving fried chicken - some places out in the country that are only open on weekend nights and have lines out the door. When there would be community parties in our little town these guys would arrive with huge oil drums full of oil that they would fry mountains of chickens in. Have you found this phenomenon, Rachel? In the lower South , fried chicken seems to be mostly home food - cooked at home and taken somewhere perhaps, but mostly home cooking. We never met any Hoosiers who fried their own chickens, but in our little town (pop. 5000) there were 2 restaurants within walking distance that sold stellar fried chicken!

Your spoonbread made me drool! Miss Kitty is regalness itself. Your breakfast reminded me that I had one jar of my step-Gramma Jean's pear preserves left on the shelf and I opened it to have with mine! We made it together last fall when I wasn't working and I haven't made any this year yet. It was the first time I made it with her and the weekend was just a gift. Have a lovely day!

[Pontormo]

Someone upthread mentioned southern fried chicken.  Living in Indiana, we were stunned and abashed to discover (being card carrying Southerners) some of the best fried chicken we had ever eaten!  They have entire restaurants devoted to serving fried chicken - some places out in the country that are only open on weekend nights and have lines out the door. 

←

I spent three formative years in Bloomington and in a terrific thread begun by [no longer] NYC Mike in the forum devoted to Southern Food Culture, was received with skepticism when I made observations similar to yours.

Were there Medici in Bloomington, one of the family's country villas would be in Nashville, Indiana where there were two rival places known for fabulous fried chicken. Back then, the setting was idyllic. Lots of trees and rolling hills, popular for that final test for high school students taking Driver's Ed during the summer.

* * *

Rachel, I second Sandy's praise of your tofu analogy. Those preserves are stunning and that wall of German cookie molds blows me away. I have only one that I use purely as decoration.

[racheld]

Yes, Indiana has lots of really GOOD fried chicken, little meat N threes still making their way in this franchise world. And as far as cooking it, you need not look far away: our own crowd has posted some mighty pretty pictures, and several have received their G.R.I.T.S. credentials just on the photographs alone.

Before we get into the Pure Southern dishes on the Thanksgiving table tomorrow, I thought I'd show you a little party we did for fifty a few weeks ago for a friend. she wanted a "tea party" with dainty sandwiches, etc., for her mother's 85th birthday, but also some more substantial fare for the cocktail-time crowd.

We did a few plain old teaparty trays:

Left are chicken salad finger sandwiches; right are pimiento cheese triangles, the two mainstays of the Southern bridal shower, Eastern Star and bridge party circuit.

Little cucumber hearts with dill cream cheese. Both the dill and the tiny crisp cucumbers came in from the garden not five minutes before the sandwiches were made:

Daughter did miniatures of several of the sandwich rolls they make at her bakery:

Little subs with salami, provolone, basil leaves and garlic/oregano vinaigrette:

Wheat rolls with Chris' smoked turkey, warm from the grill, with cranberry mayo.

Small egg rolls with deli ham, American cheese, mustard/mayo for the children, though quite a few adults were partaking:

Broccoli/grape tomato/ham quiche rectangles---one of the most requested dishes at weddings and parties that we catered over the years. I've mentioned before the Mother Of The Bride who read the menu, called me with her selections, and ordered the "quickie."

Baby red potato salad, the one true recipe I follow to this day; after the pickles are gone from the pantry, I make up just jars of the juice, with vinegar, sugar, cloves and allspice (only one of each per quart), for anointing the still-warm potatoes before adding the minced sweet onion, minced bell pepper, and boiled eggs, along with a mustardy mayonnaise and celery seeds.

A three-layer mold of a firm egg salad, very little mayo, some mustard, lots of salt and pepper; cream cheese with a breath of garlic and gently-stirred-in salmon caviar; avocado with lots of lime and salt. Dark breads for spreading.

Sweet/sour meatballs with pineapple. The sauce is the one used at our favorite Chinese restaurant, and since we've been there almost every week for fifteen years, they parted with their recipe---very easy and delicious.

Crudite with dill dip---I've found that leaves of baby butter lettuce or baby romaine are some of the most popular dippers.

The ever-popular devilled eggs---she said "very plain" so I just used a bit of tomato or parsley.

A corned-beef cheese ball--my Mother's recipe. She heard about the dried beef one (probably under the hairdryer) and mistook the corned beef for what the recipe called for. She smushed up an entire can of Hormel and mixed it with cream cheese, garlic, mayo, and lots of scallion tops; a family favorite was born, especially after she started patting on toasted pecans. Quite good for cocktails, though there was one man who, at every party, would seek out whatever dip or spread had bread along with it, and commandeer two slices. He'd come back and cut a great slab of the corned beef ball, make a sandwich and munch away happily.

A lovely endive tray with mascarpone mixed with dried cherries, topped with a recipe I borrowed from tammylc ---walnut halves candied with port. I saved the reduction after I took out the glazed halves to dry and took it along to the party in a little jar. After the tray was arranged and the walnuts in place, I drizzled a bit of the wine glaze down the length of the spread. They ate up every bite.

The buffet--the hosts did the shrimp, the fruit tray, the chunky Caprese with balsamic, and something in a crockpot:

I do hope I can make up for my absence from the screen for such long times. Chris has not been well and had to have a kidney stone crushed. I've just been running back and forth to the hospital, needing to be with him, and knowing I was short-changing all of you who were looking in. I appreciate your patience. I looked forward to this for so long, and made so many plans, and here I am not even here for HOURS at a time. I do apologize, but he's my main concern in life, and he needed me; now he's home and sleeping. He even insisted on re-sizing these for me so I could show them to you.

rachel

ETA: the word "salad" to the chicken salad sandwiches. There's a world of difference between a delicate bit of sliced chicken breast, maybe with a little buttered bread, eaten daintly with delicate fingers, and a little sandwich containing the lifelong Family Recipe for gently poached chicken, minced apples, boiled eggs, the finest-cut crisp celery, a few of the homemade lime pickles, and a mayonnaise dressing with celery seeds and just an imagination of powdered sugar.

Whole Bridge Clubs and Sunday School class parties have hinged on less.

Edited November 23, 2006 by racheld (log)

[srhcb]

Repeat Slowly:

It's only a foodblog it's only a foodblog

Take care of Chris.

We'll wait here.

THANX SB