You know it’s a slow week when the highlight of the day is going to the doctor’s office for blood work. The nice thing about that is that Jordan and I both had appointments. And the brdy part was that it got me out in the fresh air.
But that’s sort of how my week
has been, so tonight this is a non-blog. I just don’t have much to say. My week
has been consumed mostly by my dive into the food we ate in the 1950s. I can’t
figure out if I’m working on a cookbook, a memoir, a narrative about culinary
history or some weird combination of all those. I’m loving some of the facts
that I turn up, along with the stories friends tell me. One friend remembers
her grandmother making biscuits in an old enamel pan, adding a pinch of this
and a glop of lard—no measuring. Still another remember the time the flour from
the store had little black specks in it—not knowing any better, she dumped it
into the barrel where her mom kept fresh flour. Of course, the whole thing had
to be thrown out, and her mother was angry. She had lived through the
Depression, as had my mother, and she was terrified of waste.
Two other things consume me,
and my thoughts frequently go to the Middle East, grieving over the Israeli
dead and those held hostage and equally over the Palestinian civilians caught
between two warring armies—and two ideologies. But at the same time I am
riveted to the chaos in our House of Representatives, or as Hakeen Jeffries
calls it, “the Peope’s House.” I am relieved beyond measure that Gym Jordan’s
hopes for the speakership seem doomed, but I am still a bit afraid to count on his
defeat. To think of that man wielding political power, let alone being third in
line for the presidency, is a horror beyond imagining. I should think that this
clown show has the Republican party hemorrhaging votes, but I know that mine is
a simplistic attitude. At this point, there’s no explaining die-hard
Republicans.
I have also done some menu
planning this week—I will be entertaining a small group next week one evening,
some book ladies, and a longtime friend another. So I was thumbing through old
recipe files, something I like to do. For the small group I will fix pigs in a
blanket and onion soup biscuits—where you quarter refrigerator biscuits and
roll the pieces in butter and onion soup. Remember how many things we fixed
with that soup back in the day? Today most people still use the classic dip
with sour cream—it’s so addictive. But I am trying to stick to finger food, so
no dip. One friend is bringing deviled eggs—yum!—and another Parmesan crisps.
The night my friend comes I’ll do a stuffed eggplant (it’s okay—she doesn’t
read on Facebook) because I know she loves eggplant, and my family won’t eat
it.
And then there are some
eat-alone nights. I’m still in search of a can of corned beef hash so I can fix
it like my mom did—refrigerated, then took both ends off the can and pushed the
meat through in one big cylinder, which she sliced and fried. She got a good,
crisp crust on it, something I have yet to duplicate, but I’ll keep trying. Speaking
of such retro dishes, I did fix creamed chipped beef (commonly known as SOS or
shit on a shingle) for someone last week, and we both raved about how good it
was.
As I look back at the week, or
half week, I realize that I find comfort in reading, writing, and talking about
food. It draws my mind from the chaos of our world and somehow reassures me
that the normal world is still there for many of us. That normal world is so fragile,
and we are so fortunate, that it sometimes scares me a lot. But I am an optimist.
I pray for peace abroad, and for tolerance here at home so that we may truly love
our neighbor—and let our kids read whatever books they want.
I’ll quit and read a good
mystery. Watch for Gourmet on a Hot Plate tomorrow—hint, the recipe of the week
is something from the fifties (no surprise there), and it involves chicken and
linguini.
‘Night all. Sweet dreams.
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