The food around here is getting better

 

Dover sole unintentional hash

Tonight, Christian is in Coppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being a high school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’s for dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” and truth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambled eggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called and asked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and a few other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpings of sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybe it’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not because I need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets that hold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justify myself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s a picture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after we

Almost pefect filets

ate. I think maybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie that never comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it was a good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m not quite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.

Otherwise it’s been a day at the computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every email from a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first time I am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonder about the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods with the accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.

Today I heard from an old friend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there part time and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven him out of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him into the next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he worked on years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Hows and Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediately sprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor and harassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meet an untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!

Hot still weather has come to Texas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85^o and the air is eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during the week. And 100^o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and I have the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something was disturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He paced our tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night, he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming. Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. And he doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at the butcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turns away. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.

You know what I think I’ll do tonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How about you?

Update on Benji, history repeats itself, and a kitchen surprise

Benji was a dream overnight—Jacob enticed him into the crate with a couple of small treats, and I never heard another peep out of him until morning. I know he woke about six, but he was patient until seven when I let him out and fed him. Then back inside, I grabbed an extra snooze, and he was quiet and good. This afternoon, even before I headed for a nap, he put himself in his crate and settled down for a long sleep. He’s responsive, enthusiastic about being loved and talked to, and easy. And he’s loving having almost constant access to the backyard, although when he is in the cottage, he now mostly lies by my desk while I work—yesterday he paced. Just now, he put himself in his crate. I guess, like Soph, he considers it his safe spot.

But  yes, there’s a downside. He has the highest, shrillest bark ever—and he barks, as far as I can tell, for no reason. Christian asked why it bothers me, since Sophie was also inclined to bark—but she barked at squirrels and was quiet for long periods outside. Benji barks every few minutes, and I am hoarse from calling him to come inside—which he mostly does happily. I don’t want him barking incessantly and offending the neighbors. I’ve had long conversations with him about this, but they don’t appear to be taking. It’s still early in the game. Christian’s theory is that Benji has discovered lots of new friends in the neighbors’ dogs and is talking to them.

AS I posted elsewhere, I was appalled to read that state troopers in riot gear were called out to quell a student protest at UT/Austin. For those of you my age and even a bit younger, I’m sure that brings memories of the horror of the sixties and the Kent State Massacre (actually 1970). Apparently it’s not just UT/Austin but there are student protests across the country. All on behalf of Gaza. I read something today that said, in effect, if you find yourself opposing the student protests and siding with the establishment, you are on the wrong side of history—and this has been true throughout history. I don’t know about such a sweeping statement, but I think it applies to the protests of the sixties and seventies and to today.

I feel great sympathy and a lot of connection to the Jewish people. I was once married to a Jewish man who is now deceased, but my children and I remain close to his family. I am not ready to throw Israel to the wolves, but I wouldn’t mind tossing Netanyahu and some of his cohorts in that direction. I think there’s a huge difference between Israelites and Netanyahu’s official policies. I think what they’ve done to the people of Gaza is beyond horrifying. Yes, October 7 was a nightmare and Hamas must be conquered—but at the cost of all those civilian Palestinian lives? Especially the children? Today I read of victims at two Gaza hospitals whose bodies were found with their hands tied behind their backs. I suppose we aren’t sure if Hamas did that or the IDF. Supposedly Netanyahu said recently, “You will not teach us about morality.” But I think someone needs to. If those poor hostages, the few left alive, never come home, it will be because of Netanyahu’s scorched earth policies. And we frequently read that many Israelis are as upset as we are.

My measured take on this: it is possible to grieve for both groups of people at the same time, and America should reconsider the extent of its longtime support of Israel until Israel changes leadership. I thought this even before this war, when Israel was being a bully and grabbing Palestinian land on the West Bank. Over the years Palestinian-occupied territory has shrunk to almost nothing, evoking in my mind some sympathy for the Palestinian people. Now, what we see is awful. I don’t understand the politics of campus protests and the positions of various campus administrators, but my instinct is to listen to the students.

On a lighter note, I tried a Southern Living recipe for roast chicken Caesar salad tonight. First of all, I didn’t read carefully enough to realize I needed a bottle of commercial dressing as a base. Luckily, Jordan had one. Next I realized I didn’t have croutons, so everything came to a halt while I fished in the freezer for odds and ends of bread, let it defrost, and made croutons. Then I realized the recipe called for lining romaine leaves on a sheet pan, brushing with oil, and broiling. A quick survey indicated that Jordan and Christian both share my antipathy to charred lettuce. Now, finally, the chicken is coated with dressing and broiling—and Jordan says it’s turning black. Ah, the suspense of dinner in the cottage! A PS I was quite sure this was not a keeper recipe: they both loved it! Go figure.

A mixed day, good and bad, and I’m tired. But like Robert Frost, I have miles to go.

Minor misadventures and cooking redemption

 

 

After the eclipse, I would have told you that for most of the day there was a spot on the moon. Nothing serious, but nothing went quite right.

The major project for today was for Jordan and me to go to Christian’s office for covid booster shots, because this is the day once a month that a visiting nurse comes to give shots—a wonderful service his company provides its people, and he was going to let me take advantage. Going places in the morning is always a bit of, well, a reach for me. I much prefer to spend the morning at my computer. But I dutifully dressed in street clothes, even washed my hair so Christian would not be embarrassed by his mother-in-law.

We were early; the nurse was late. I sat in my transport chair in the hall and tried to keep up with emails. Finally, she arrived—a substitute because the usual nurse, her mother, couldn’t come today. It’s been six months since Jordan and I had our twin covid cases, and we were finally eligible for the booster. The nurse didn’t have Moderna, only Pfizer, but she assured us we could switch. I said our doctor said not to switch, and she immediately said to follow the doctor’s advice. So I asked for RSV, which I also need. She didn’t have it. Then she found two doses of Moderna. But she could not take me Humana Medicare. She talked to her mother, who said something to the effect that she loved Christian so much her daughter should go ahead and give me the shot. I do not understand any of this.

Upshot: I got my covid booster but haven’t gotten the RSV shot yet and will probably have to go to a pharmacy for that.

I was expecting a lunch guest tomorrow (she has since had to postpone until Thursday). Heather was a student intern in my office at TCU Press more moons ago than she would probably like to remember. She went on to editorial work at Harcourt, and then I lost track of her. Turned out she had been in San Antonio attending the Culinary Institute of America. We hooked up again, and when I was working on my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, she was a huge help. But we had at that time great political differences. I suspect she is more forgiving about that than I am. At any rate, the relationship just sought of drifted into space, but recently she emailed that she had published a small children’s book and needed marketing advice. She admitted we probably still have our differences but maybe we could set them aside. So she’s to come for lunch.

I am seriously challenged by cooking for someone who trained with the CIA, but I found a sort of non-recipe I liked: marinate tomato slices in balsamic vinegar and then top with creamed spinach and grated cheese—run under the broiler until cheese melts and is bubbly. Perfect! So I ordered spinach from Central Market, but it didn’t come with my weekly order. I was sure I could get it before Wednesday, but today I thought, “Yikes!” Then Heather emailed to say she has to cover for someone at work tomorrow (she’s in charge of food service at an extended care facility) , so I presented her with my dilemma—did she want to bring the spinach or did she want my signature tuna salad? We have settled on the tuna, and she will be here Thursday.

Tonight was Mary’s regular happy hour night, and I was so pleased that I had gotten a jar of pickled herring for her—she loves it, and I pretty much do too. But when I was trying to cut off the cellophane collar on the jar, I noticed my fingers already smelled like the pickling liquid—red flag. And then the lid to the jar popped off sort of spontaneously. One unusable jar of pickled herring, and one big disappointment. I will call Central Market in the morning—may be too late for a refund, but at least they should know.

But after these mishaps and my kitchen fails of the weekend, I redeemed myself tonight. Central Market had sent me an unasked-for lb. of ground chicken. They hadn’t charged me for it, and I know they couldn’t take it back, so I had to do something with it. I’ve made chicken burgers in the past and not liked the texture. Lettuce wraps seemed the perfect solution. I got the copycat recipe online for PF Chang’s lettuce wraps, raided Christians supply of Asian seasonings, and made my first-ever lettuce wraps with real butter lettuce—a luxury. Served with sugar snap peas (I’m not sure it wasn’t a mixture of sugar snap peas and snow peas—hard to tell them apart and Central Market may have slipped a bit). It was, if I do say, delicious, and a recipe I’ll keep and reuse (may have to buy my own sesame oil and hoisin sauce, etc.—I did not use Siracha but substituted the ordinary Heinz chili sauce I had).

So how was your post-eclipse day? A spot on the moon or all in order?

A sort of nothing weekend

 

Usually I plan ahead and see that there are good things on my calendar for weekends, but this weekend? Nothing! It’s a bit of vanity to realize that one reason was that I couldn’t wash my hair. Sounds silly and frivolous but I think it’s true. I had that thingie removed from my scalp on Friday, and the doctor said to wait two days to shampoo. That was Friday late morning, so does Friday count as one of the days? I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until Monday. But my hair had Vaseline in it from the procedure and was generally a mess, and I was self-conscious about it. Tomorrow I am going to wash it first thing in the morning, and I expect the world to be a lot better.

We hoped to hear about the new dog we are interested in today—hear as in an invitation to greet and meet. But it didn’t happen. The wheels of dog adoption, like a lot of other wheels, move slowly. Having adopted four children, I should not be surprised at this slow procedure, but I guess I expected pet adoption to be easier. It’s probably a good thing for pets that it is not. The foster said she wasn’t able to get approval of my application today, so we wait (I am already conditionally approved). I was afraid that the poor boy was so attached to his foster that he wouldn’t want to be uprooted, but Jordan found out that agencies rotate dogs, not letting them stay too long with any foster for just that reason. I suppose that also cuts down on foster fail, where fosters fall so in love with the dog, they decide to be the permanent adoptive family. We did hear that the boy we have our eye on has been in foster care for two years, which makes me so sad I want to rescue him immediately. But we have also heard that he is afraid of “everything,” and that gives me pause. I had an experience with a fearful dog at Christmas when my granddaughter’s dog was afraid of my walker. And I want a dog with some spirit. So I am uncertain.

Weekends are usually good cooking times for me but that too went awry this weekend. I planned last night to make cod in a butter/lemon sauce, so with my grocery order I requested a lb. of cod. I got a quarter lb.—enough for no one else but me. We had garlicky chicken thighs in an anchovy/lemon sauce. Good, but I wanted to cook the fish, partly because I like fish and partly because I’d like to add more of it to our diet. Jacob has been wanting spaghetti, so tonight I made a recipe called Weeknight Bolognese. I can’t recommend it. I chose to make it on Sunday so I could cook all day, but the recipe really didn’t take that long—except for browning two-and-a-half lbs. of ground meat (beef and Italian sausage). I got wide pappardelle noodles, but the sauce wasn’t as rich and thick as I wanted. In fact, it was thin. Good flavor, but not what I want in an Italian sauce. And I thought it was way too much meat in proportion to the sauce. Jacob didn’t say anything, but I noticed he didn’t eat much. I’m going to plan soon to make an old-fashioned, Italian nonna kind of Sunday soup that cooks all day. Honest we could have used the bottled Rao marinara sauce Jordan bought, and it would have made me happier.

It's ten o’clock, and I have just had my second nap of the day. I relish my afternoon nap—it’s become a part of my routine, and I think it healthy. But when I fall asleep at my computer at eight-thirty, it’s a clear sign that I am not engaged in what I’m doing. So that too will have to change. I find I almost never want to go back and pick up where I left off—clearly I abandoned them because I wasn’t that interested. So I’m on a mission to find a book that absorbs my attention and calls me back.

All of this leaves me with a lot of resolves to kick up my interest in life. Fortunately, I understand that these dull, down periods are a part of life and are regularly more than balanced by periods of high activity and engagement. It’s up to me, so I resolve to be a new person (again!) starting tomorrow. Now who’s got plans for next weekend?

 

 

Thunder and lightening

 

As I write this, the gods have begun bowling in the sky. All day we’ve heard predictions of severe storms tonight, with the possible threat of hail and tornadoes. Jordan planned for us to eat early, because Christian was going to grill and didn’t want to be standing over the grill in the rain. But the prediction moved a little bit later, and we ate as usual about seven-fifteen. So far, the thunder has not brought rain, but I am hopeful. Jacob had a golf tournament today, and I am thankful the weather held off until that was over.

After the luxurious meal yesterday, we had burgers tonight. But not just any burgers---lamb. I mentioned to Jordan tonight that I now have four or five recipes for lamb burgers, and I haven’t kept track of which ones we liked best. But tonight’s version had two Tbsp. of Worcestershire and were delicious. And that marked a culinary milestone for me: I actually used up a bottle of Lea & Perrin’s Worcestershire (is there any other label worth using?) and had to open the new one waiting in my pantry. It made me think of that old saw about a housewife will never use up a bottle of Tabasco. Times have changed, and I guess for a while cooks, male and female, went through Siracha at a rapid rate, but it seems to have fallen out of favor now. At any rate, I’m going to put five stars on tonight’s recipe. And I have one and a half burgers for lunches this week.

Yesterday’s meal—and a couple of mid-day glasses of wine—sent me to napping, but when I woke up I surprised myself by working at my desk for five straight hours. I drafted a newsletter, wrote a blog, and finished the book I was reading to the point I was ready to review it and move on. It is One Way Back, Christina Blasey-Ford’s memoir of her experience testifying at the confirmation hearings for then-SCOTUS nominee Brett Kavanaugh. Of necessity in telling her story, Blasey-Ford delves back into her high school years when his assault on her happened. When Kavanaugh’s nomination became public, she thought she could just tell someone her story and that would be it, but of course the whole thing snowballed. Ultimately, at great personal cost (she still needs security details) she exposed what Kavanaugh did to her as a high school student, but more than that what kind of man he is today—a whining, sniveling, angry man who was nonetheless confirmed to a lifetime appointment on our highest court. I agree with her in uncertainty that the initial incident warranted the weight it was given—I suspect such happens in homes all over America all the time. But the revelation of his beer-loving character today was significant, and I applaud Blasey-Ford. A PS; she is a surfer, and the phrase, “One way back,” is surfing terminology. It’s a good book, and I recommend it.

Now it is raining—steady, fairly hard but not destructive.

I’ve spent some time today searching for the right new dog—it’s a good cure for missing Sophie, and I hope she would understand. Tonight, with the thunder, I remember how scared she always was, curling up right by me, and when I was cooking, I remembered how she stationed herself right by me in my tiny kitchen lest I drop a morsel. The dog that interests me is named Oreo (can you change a rescue dog’s name?). He is an Aussie mix, crate trained, housebroken, a true gentleman who loves to cuddle (don’t all gentlemen?). I have asked how to arrange a meet-and-greet, and I think Jordan and Christian are with me on this one. I’ve seen several dogs online that entice me, but many rescues, especially Aussies, stress that they are wary in new circumstances and, too often, afraid of men. I’ve got two men here—Christian and Jacob—who are ready to love a new dog. It’s called moving on.

Already the rain has slowed, but I expect we’re in for a spell of it. I hope it keeps up until I go to bed, so I can lie in bed, cozy and comfortable, and listen to the thunder.

Stay safe, everyone.

Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved around Sophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking up love and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they came to see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning, Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and Climmy Reynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturday evening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “I didn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her, including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves. Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wanted out at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to come in. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I held firm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almost catatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wandering with no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass in the yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had great debates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said they might hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home. She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll help her over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is to surround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard to tell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash

As usual, despite the trauma with Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—the St. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christian minced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Gold potato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Having grown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood Smoked Meat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey. So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece because it was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—just natural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however, delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburger

Saturday night Renee came for supper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice, and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique, and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed and talked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was when she seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had a lovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roasting hen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skin and set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot, and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful. At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christian said, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing his golf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deter us from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like an orderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficult day, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad. I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respond to her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around with interest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy hour on the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest, silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s been stubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’s had a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and ready to adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be flooded with memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed with happy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow into remembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The whole family is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

A red trike, the pickle report, a lot of cooking, and not much else

 

Allow me a moment of nostalgia and excuse the blurry picture above—those kids were really moving. That’s Jacob on the trike and Morgan behind him, trying hard to unseat him. That trike was the cause of more battles when the grands were little! And it has a history of its own—it was some eighty years old when it was given to me by family friends whose children and grandchildren had enjoyed it. Repainted at some time by loving hands, it had solid rubber tires, and the front one had a huge hole in it. I can still hear Maddie, looking down one day, and exclaiming, “There’s a hole in my tire. When the playroom at my house was transformed to a TV room (what happens when grands outgrow hobby horses and trikes), the trike went home with Colin. I hope he’s still keeping it safe for the next generation.

Since someone asked about my kitchen experiment, here’s the report on the pickles infused with Hidden Valley Ranch Dip: pretty good. I let them sit for twenty-four hours in the fridge, as recommended, and served them with a bowl of plain Cheezits. Verdict was favorable, and we decided that the dip infusion softens the pickle flavor a bit. I used a 24 oz. jar of Claussen kosher spears. You may remember that I also tried the recipe where you coat Cheezits with a seasoned olive oil mixture and bake them---and I burned them to a fare-thee-well (and wasted a whole box of Cheezits).

Christian wants me to try it again at a much lower temperature than recommended. His theory is that my toaster oven, being smaller than a regular oven, burns much hotter—and I have noticed that before. The other night he brought out a chicken-and-wild rice casserole (their oven is broken) and said the recommended temperature was 350 but he wanted to do it at 300. I admit it was nicely heated through—and delicious. Christian is one of those cooks who needs a recipe to start with but then often branches out on his own, adding and subtracting ingredients.

It's been a cooking week. I fixed Norwegian hamburgers Sunday night, having forgotten that they are a bit of work although well worth it. Last night I did a hamburger Stroganoff—a lot less work and still very good. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me at TCU Press for years, came for lunch so we could catch up on families, publishing news—and, of course, politics. Melinda is, if possible, even more fierce about trump and the Republicans these days than I am. But cooking both lunch and dinner for others takes a chunk of time. I made salmon patties and a salad for Melinda and asked if she preferred Thousand Island or buttermilk dressing. At first, she chose Thousand Island because she hadn’t had it in ages. I proudly boasted that both were house-made, to which she promptly said, “Oh! Maybe I’ll just have lemon.” Seems she’s leery of mayonnaise, but my cooking ego was deflated.

Much as I like to cook, I am happy that we have leftovers today and Christian will be at a meeting during dinner. I’ll have Norwegian hamburgers and mashed potatoes for lunch, Stroganoff for supper, and somewhere I’ll work in something green. My mom believed you must have something green every day which led me once to sit across the lunch table from the man then in my life and exclaim in horror: “You don’t have anything green on your plate.” He had chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” My current green favorite, besides salad, is the fresh frozen green beans I get at Central Market. Give them three or four minutes in boiling water, add butter and salt, and feast like they just came off the vine. Don’t get the microwaveable kind. Not as good.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

 

A leftover day

 

Sue and Jordan

I think that’s a perfect name for Saturday. After a work week and before Sunday starts a new week, Saturday is the day left over. I had a busy week and a more active day yesterday than I am used to, so I promised myself a slow, easy day today. It turned out to be a day of leftovers.

I wrote like a fiend much of the week, averaging over a thousand words a day plus, most days, my blog. That wasn't drudgery—it was joy. I’m in one of the spells when the words seem to come easily and the story flows—and writing is fun. But yesterday, no writing. I was up early making tuna salad for a lunch guest and a dip for happy hour guests. At noon, my long time (50 years?) friend Linda arrived. She had the good manners to rave about my tuna, and we caught up with families, the few old friends we still know about, life as elders, and touched on the world situation. Her (relatively new) husband had an appointment elsewhere but popped in. and they both left shortly after two, because Linda insisted I need my daily nap. And I do. Sophie and I are always overjoyed to have Linda in the cottage.

In the evening, Subie, Phil, and Renee came for happy hour. The discussion was wide-ranging but got particularly spirited when we talked about wolves and their effect on the ecosystem and about the city of Greenville (see below). It was all fun, and we were tempted to stay where we were, but a little before seven we left for a farewell party for Teddy and Sue. I’ve explained this relationship several times, but fifteen or more years ago Sue moved into the house next door to me. I can still see her dad walking down the driveway when I asked him, “Are you my new neighbor?” and he replied, in a wonderful Canadian accent familiar to this daughter of a Canadian, “I’m your new neighbor’s father.” Sue, newly divorced, moved in with two young children, and her parents went home to Ottawa, Ontario. In time, Sue declared she needed a Fort Worth mother, since hers was so far away. I was honored and consider her my Canadian daughter. Along the way, she bought a house ten minutes away and married Teddy (one of my favorite people in the world). Now they are moving to Greenville, South Carolina—because they fell in love with the area. My parents retired to a small North Carolina town nearby, and I can easily understand the pull of the region. I’m excited for them but will miss them.

The party was fun, and I even knew a few people. But there were two stairs to get in, and we had to recruit a friend from the party to help me. That sort of got me off on the wrong foot, and it was hard to get my party face on. Still I knew a few people and enjoyed visiting. The setting was a gorgeous house, and I was particularly impressed by the hostess’ daughter who acted as the party angel. Teddy, bless him, helped me out and saw me safely into the car.

So that’s why today is my leftover day. I confess I am still wearing the flannel pants and T-shirt I slept in, and I think I’ll just fall into bed tonight, still wearing them. My work today was leftovers—my neighborhood newsletter, some bills and some insurance matter, more worry about the trees. Kept me busy all morning.

Even my meals are leftover: tuna salad from yesterday for lunch; a bowl of split pea soup brought to me some time ago by a friend. It’s been waiting for me in the freezer for another cold night, and tonight is perfect (at 6:30 it is 41 and headed down). The Burtons are going to Plank, the new seafood restaurant I really want to try. I threatened them if either one came home and told me they had a steak or a hamburger in a seafood house.

Tomorrow won’t be as easy. I’ll go to church in the morning, and I’ve promised to make Norwegian hamburgers for Sunday dinner. Norwegian hamburgers are something we learned about from Colin’s mother-in-law, who lived in Norway until she was seventeen and came to the US to marry Lisa’s father. The hamburgers are meat patties in beef gravy, but don’t dismiss them as like our hamburgers. Different texture, different flavor and delicious. We love Torhild, and we love her cooking. I hope I can do them as well as she does, and I hope there are leftovers.

How about you? How was your Saturday Stay safe and warm on this chilly night.

A happy foodie weekend—and a cuckoo clock

 

My new birdsong cuckoo clock

I have a new cuckoo clock! Forestalling any comments on the appropriateness of such a clock in my cottage, I hasten to tell you this one is different. It could say “Cuckoo!” but instead Christian set it to a bird song. On the hour, a little blue bird emerges and trills it song—I am not knowledgeable enough about birds to tell you what bird it is, but it is cheerful and, to my delight, not too loud (it doesn’t wake me at night). It has a repertoire of twelve birds’ songs, but the instructions are in German, so we may not change it often. Thanks to son Jamie for this cheerful addition to the cottage. I’m really enjoying it.

As my weekends often are, this one was devoted to food—but rather to writing about it almost more than preparing it. I keep finding recipes that fit into my cookbook featuring my mom’s cooking or my updates on it. I have now, I think, gone through most of the old files I have, but I also keep remembering things she fixed. Like salmon croquettes—I had written that she rarely cooked fish, claimed she didn’t know how. And then I remembered the croquettes, only because Jordan and I had my version (salmon patties) for supper Friday night. And today I remembered but haven’t written up that in that era of jellied foods, Mom had a fish-shaped mold and made a jellied salmon appetizer. Not sure I have—or want—the recipe, but it deserves a mention.

Jordan and I have seen a lot of each other this weekend and enjoyed it, at least I did. Friday nights Christan often has a late happy hour with a good friend, so it was just the two of us. I made extra patties in case he showed up hungry, but I’m not sure he would have eaten the salmon at all. He once told me his mom made them and described them as like hockey pucks (she liked all meats very well done). I do remember once he said he’d try mine, and he liked them, but he hasn’t seemed anxious to try again.

Fresh salmon was on sale at Central Market, so I ordered—what turned out to be a huge piece for Saturday supper for the three of us (Jacob never has weekend meals at home—ah, to be seventeen again!). At the last minute, Christan was invited to the rodeo. Saturday morning he was most apologetic about the last-minute change and then began to tell me how it was really good for his business, etc. I told him he didn’t have to rationalize, and he laughed. Jordan still wanted salmon but we discovered the pound and a half was big enough we could cut off portions for ourselves and still freeze the rest for a meal another time. Christian has promised to grill it. Last night I roasted it with a garlic/anchovy/butter sauce. Good, but one of those recipes I can’t follow exactly because it calls for starting the dish in a skillet and finishing it by putting the skillet in the oven. When you only have a toaster oven, that’s not possible. Still, it was good, and I enjoyed the tiny bit I saved for lunch today.

Tonight though was the big deal. Christan a couple of weeks ago requested carnitas, one of his favorite meals. I can’t tell you where I got the recipe, although some years ago I had an editor who taught me to cube a pork butt and cook it in simmering water until the water is all evaporated and the cubed meat crisps and browns in the fat. Then I found a recipe which adds spice to the water—orange peel, chopped onion and garlic, salt, bay leaves, oregano, cloves, and a cinnamon stick. The trouble is the water rarely evaporates in the time the recipe suggests, and I always worry that we’ll be sitting around until ten waiting for dinner. My prep time was lengthened because the boneless, cubed meat I ordered—wasn’t. I’d say at least ten percent was on the bone and hard to deal with, and instead of the one-inch cubes I requested, I got three- and four-inch pieces. I am honestly not a complainer, but I feel a call to Central Market coming on tomorrow.

Tonight I calculated two hours for it to cook—forty-five minutes longer than the recipe said. We ate at 7:30 which was only half an hour past my target time. We serve the meat with guacamole, sour cream, shredded Monterrey Jack, chopped cilantro, diced red onion and, of course, tortillas. For all my worry, it was really good tonight—full of flavor and very tender. It’s a lot of work and worry but worth it. I promised to do it again in six months.

So here we go into another week. Zenaida, who cleans the cottage, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, her schedule upset by holidays and weather, so Sophie and I are grateful she will be here in the morning, even though she’s coming at the awful hour of seven-thirty. And I have company coming for supper—I’ll need my nap.

May each of you have a blessed week. In Fort Worth, it will be sunny and in the sixties. We will be lulled into thinking winter is gone, but I am sure it is not. At least we can enjoy the good weather.

 

 

A bit of borrowed wisdom and some kitchen fails

 

Sharon's happy hour

An online friend, one of those I’ve never met in person but consider a good friend, had a birthday recently, and for her birthday resolve she vowed to follow her mother’s advice to “look up and out” rather than look “down and in.” If you look up and out, you focus on the world outside yourself and what you can do to make it better. If you look down and in, you are focusing on yourself. Such focus leads to self-absorption as opposed to a lively interest in the world around you. I can think of lots of reasons to avoid self-absorption—the people I know that spend their days looking down and in tend to be boring, unhappy with their lot in life, obsessed often by minor illnesses. On the other hand, have you recently met someone who seemed genuinely glad to meet you, interested to know who you are and to share thoughts with you? That person is looking up and out. I thought it was such a perfect way of encapsulating attitudes toward life that I wanted to share.

But I must admit I’ve been looking down and in a bit lately. One of the ways I define myself is as a pretty good cook. I may not write recipes and I may be challenged by such things as crispy tofu in lemon-tahini sauce (really?) but I can tackle most basic dishes, even some fancy ones—okay I do really want to try Beef  Wellington. I can even often fiddle with a problematic recipe and make it work out. And I enjoy doing all that. So kitchen fails upset me more than I should allow them to.

Friday night I was dining alone and decided to treat myself to a piece of salmon. I’d seen a recipe for roast salmon filet with a horseradish glaze—I like horseradish as well as the next Englishman (perhaps an inheritance from my dad) so I tried it. Probably the recipe was a mistake in judgment on my part in the first place. The recipe was for four servings, and I was adjusting it to one. Plus the lovely piece of salmon I had was the tail end of what had apparently been a whole half—rather thin, so I adjusted the amount of glaze and the roasting time. Even so, I ended up with a piece of slightly underdone fish with a thick sauce. I dislike overdone, dry fish and I love sashimi, but this piece was just thick enough I wanted it done more. And the sauce didn’t make things better. Fail #1.

The next night I was expecting three people for supper—Jean, who often has supper with me, and Greg and Jaimie, who usually come for happy hour. I went all out—made an overnight salad the night before, spent a bit of time that day making broccoli/cheese soup according to a Southern Living recipe. Jaimie, who is an excellent cook, brought a spinach/artichoke dip, and I immediately sensed one problem. I should have provided the appetizer, so that the total menu had a plan. As it was, we had a lot of vegetables. As Greg suggested, a lot of roughage that might have consequences. And everybody ate so much of the dip, they weren’t hungry for dinner. Especially Jean,, who didn’t try the soup at all. Then it turned out Greg can’t abide broccoli. I said the soup had a lot of cheese, and he said he’d try it. But he didn’t. Jaimie and I were the only ones who ate it, and she took a baggie home for lunch, but I think she did that to make me feel better. Anybody want broccoli/cheese soup? I have it in the fridge, and I’m kind of soured on it now. It used to be my Jamie’s favorite, and I’d long been thinking I’d like some but hadn’t cooked it because Christian, like Greg, abhors it, can’t even stand to be in the house when it’s cooked. Jacob loves broccoli, but he’s not been around much for me to try it on him.

So tonight I sort of redeemed myself. Tuesday night is the night Mary comes for happy hour, and tonight we included longtime friend Sharon in honor of her birthday tomorrow. I stuffed mushrooms with my mom’s cheese mixture, made a spread with a cream cheese/curry base topped with cranberry chutney and garnished with green onions, and trotted out the rest of the ranch dip I’d served last night. I think Sharon felt well feted, and I felt redeemed a bit. The mushrooms were really good, but one problem with ordering your groceries is that you don’t get to choose the mushrooms—I have never stuffed such tiny “shrooms.”

Anyway I feel better about things now, maybe for having gotten this off my chest. Tomorrow, I think I’ll pitch the soup (my mom would be so horrified at the waste) and make the family spaghetti for supper. And maybe tonight I’ll dream of Beef Wellington.

My thoughts on caviar--yes, caviar!

 

My caviar appetizer

For a long time now, I’ve been wanting to do appetizers with caviar—no, not just because it’s ritzy and sounds sophisticated. I genuinely like it. The New York Times occasionally has recipes for dishes with caviar, like a caviar and cream cheese sandwich. I don’t know—that might be a bit much. I think caviar does best as an accent on a dish. But it’s expensive, even the cheap stuff—and my palate doesn’t know any better. But tonight, we were celebrating Subie’s birthday, so I tried something I’ve been wanting to: potato chips with seasoned sour cream and a dab of caviar. I have to confess, that was my supper. I ate a lot more than anyone else, and my honest assessment is that the flavors go together to well. The salty caviar is balanced by the sour cream and the whole things tops a potato chip almost perfectly. Almost.

I laboriously sat in Jordan’s kitchen, spooning sour cream onto potato chips— “Only unbroken ones,” she cautioned me, so I told Christian he could eat all the broken ones. I used my marrow spoon for that—another sign of my supreme sophistication. I mean, really, how many people do you know who own a marrow spoon? For that matter, how many people do you know who will eat bone marrow? Back to the caviar: the wide end of the spoon worked well for the sour cream, and I switched to the tiny narrow end for the caviar. Now, I have never been known for steady hands, and age has brought a slight tremor. So, I used my “good” right hand—still, what I intended as a neat small dollop of caviar ended up as a spray on the chip. And some ended on the counter—Christian scooped it up with a sponge, which I considered a great waste. Someone with steadier hands could have made it look a lot prettier. And the recipe said for the holiday season to use red salmon roe. That’s about twice as expensive as the low-grade black—I got black. Sometime I’d like to taste really good caviar, just to see if I could tell the difference.

A marrow spoon

Subie and I loved the chips. I don’t think Phil voiced an opinion, and I know Christian, who can sometimes these days be adventurous, was not so tonight and didn’t taste them. To my surprise, Jordan must have tried one, because she voiced what I had found: when you put the sour cream on the chip twenty or thirty minutes before serving, the chip gets soggy, at least in the middle where the sour cream is. The ideal would be somehow to make it self-serve, with small pots of sour cream and caviar. I have some left over, and a friend who probably doesn’t mind leftovers is coming one night soon. I’ll experiment with technique. And I guess I’ll use the marrow spoon again.

Writing this has made me think of my caviar memories. I did not grow up eating it. I think my introduction came the night my parents took my new husband and me to the Kungsholm in Chicago, over fifty years ago now. The Kungsholm was one of my favorite restaurants—a true Swedish smorgasbord, generous with such wonders as caviar and smoked salmon and marinated herring and all those things I love. After dinner, guests were invited to a puppet theater where miniature operas were performed. The puppets were on automated tracks, and I’m not sure how they did the sound, but it was glorious. If you ask me how I know about Dr. Faustus, I’ll say the Kungsholm. Unfortunately, the restaurant closed years ago.

But I have to be honest here: my parents were not exactly thrilled about my marriage to a Jewish boy from the Bronx, one who had never been taught much about manners and society and all the things that made my dad’s professional world go around. In Joel’s defense, he made correcting that a big project and quickly learned from Dad everything from table manners to gardening. But that night at the Kungsholm, he was delighted to have caviar. He kept going back for more until my mother said quite aloud, “I’ve never seen anyone eat so much caviar.” Joel’s family were eastern European immigrants and poor, so I don’t know how much caviar he had as a child. But he had similar foods, such as the herring and a marinated eggplant salad, etc. Anyway, that night is one of my fonder memories of him.

For over forty years, I threw a huge Christmas party, inviting sometimes a hundred of my nearest and dearest. It started small in the sixties and kept growing, at first with Joel but after he left, I kept up the tradition, with new friends. And one of the dishes I aways served had a seasoned cream cheese base with caviar, chopped onion, and chopped egg spread over it. Gosh, how I loved that. Today I don’t know if I can even find the recipe—and I certainly have no occasion for a spread that big. But I’d love to make it again.

I often talk about this last stage of life (the Third Stage, if you will) being filled with treasured memories. Tonight reminds me that caviar is one of those memories. And I’m not going to give it up. There’s more potato chips, sour cream, and caviar in my future. Yours?

Lazy Sunday—and a PS on aging

 

“And on the seventh day, God rested.” I took full advantage today of God’s designation of Sunday as a day of rest. For some reason last night I couldn’t get to sleep—almost never a problem for me. So this morning I felt justified in sleeping a bit past nine o’clock. But if I thought I slept late, the Burtons outdid me—except for Jacob who was up and out the door about ten to go host at Joe T.’s. It was well after eleven before I heard a peep out of his parents, which meant Sophie did not get her shot this morning. The vet said it’s okay to miss once in a while but don’t do it too often. So this was once in a while.

That start to the day threw my whole schedule off. I had intended to cook this morning, but I needed some dishes from the house—and some bourbon. So I did an extraordinary thing: I cancelled Sunday dinner. I was going to make sheet pan chicken with potatoes and carrots, but I knew the Burtons had big dinners (they went to two separate dinner parties) last night and were out late, and I had a vision of fixing that only to hear, “I’m not really hungry.” Plus I wanted to do the cooking that I hadn’t done in the morning. I was making two appetizers for a celebration happy hour tomorrow night, and once I decide when something is to be done, I am a bit compulsive about it. I wanted to cook today, so that I could work at my desk tomorrow. Besides, Zenaida will be here cleaning, and I can’t cook when she’s here—the cottage just isn’t big enough. I hide at my desk while she cleans.

Last night Jean came for supper, and I splurged. I had intended to make tuna casserole—I have a standard recipe I’ve used for years but somewhere found a new one I thought I’d try. When Central Market had halibut on sale, they hooked me. I fixed roast halibut with crumb topping and creamed spinach—Jean liked it so well she insisted we split the tiny bit left in the pans. And I agree—it was a really good dinner. Topped off by chocolate bonbons.

I need to add a PS to my thoughts on aging, posted in this blog last night. Not that I want to talk about me and my health a lot, but I have several chronic conditions—A Fib, hypertension, and chronic kidney disease, once advanced but now moderate. Plus I cannot walk without assistance. But I am determined not to let those conditions dominate my life. I will not go to the doctor constantly to have my blood levels checked, my heart studied on an echocardiogram, and so on. I go dutifully when scheduled, and, praise be, I get a clean bill of health on those visits. But those conditions are not front and center in my daily thoughts. In fact, I rarely think about them. I feel healthy, pretty energetic, and I am determined to live life as normally as I can for as long as I can.

I did talk to my brother tonight, for whom health is more of a problem. He’s pretty much bedridden—weak as a kitten as he tells it. When I had hip surgery, someone convinced my children I would need an electric wheelchair and should get it with Medicare aid while I could. It sat as a great obstacle in my closet for several years, but about six months ago we got it transferred to John at the ranch, and he gets up to sit in it for a while most days. Today we had a great conversation with lots of laughter, and I thought how wonderful it is that he, in his condition, has an intact sense of humor.

And then I realized again: it’s because of our mother. She taught us to be tough doctors’ children, never to cry “Wolf,” to soldier through whatever happens, to pay attention to our health but never take it too seriously. And until dementia took her mind, she had a marvelous sense of humor. My dad’s family, by contrast, went into a panic if he sneezed, and I think she was trying to counterbalance that. Bless you and thanks, Mom.

It all comes back to positive thinking, at least in my mind. Sweet dreams and positive thoughts to each of you!

Kitchens, ghost and otherwise

 

My tiny kitchen

Despite my whining about standard time, I woke up feeling rested and full of energy this morning. Sophie let me sleep until 7:45 daylight time—I am probably going to spend from now to March adjusting the time to daylight time which will continue to be the standard I follow. Anyway, an hour later when I’d dozed off, my brother woke me, calling from the hospital. I was glad enough to talk to him that I didn’t mind being pulled out of a funny, funky dream. We chatted a bit, but I didn’t have my hearing aids and pneumonia makes him wheeze so that I had a hard time understanding. Still, I was delighted he called, even if he did think I’d called him.

I meant to write about ghost kitchens today, because the new title of the latest Irene adventure is Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, but before I got to that I spent a lot of time in my very real, definitely not a ghost kitchen. My project for the day was to make beef tips in gravy for dinner tonight, and this morning I got it put together—seasoned and browned the meat, sauteed onions and garlic, made the gravy. It’s in the fridge now but will come out to simmer for at least a couple of hours after I nap. And the cooking dishes are all washed and put away. Yes, I am feeling very righteous. It also smells delicious. Decisions, decisions—should we have mashed potatoes or noodles with it? I thought of polenta but I don’t have enough in the freezer.

These days I’m in a kitchen a lot, whether it be my own, my imaginary dream kitchen, sometimes my mom’s kitchen of memory, or Irene’s ghost kitchen. Irene wanted a café, like she has in France, but as Chance, her billionaire lover said, “A ghost kitchen is much cheaper.” Ghost kitchens, also known as cloud kitchens or dark kitchens, exist only to serve online orders and deliver food. There is no on-site service, and the customer has no interaction with the kitchen staff. Irene’s kitchen serves her own gourmet dishes, but some ghost kitchens serve several popular brands of food at one. Ghost kitchens have much lower overhead—they don’t have to be in a fashionable or well-traveled location, and they don’t require nearly as much space as a dine-in restaurant; they have no front-of-the-house staff such as host or hostess, wait staff, bus boys, etc. The restaurants either maintain their own delivery service or use one of the many delivery apps such as Door Dash or Uber Eats.

Ghost kitchens existed before pandemic but really flourished during that quarantine. Customers didn’t want to go out to eat, restaurants couldn’t hire enough wait staff, some restaurants were forced to close completely. Today, with quarantine lifted, ghost kitchens are still popular. Some major restaurant chains operate ghost kitchens under another name: Conviction Chicken is the ghost kitchen of TGI Friday’s, Cosmic Wings and Neighborhood Wings are operated by Applebees, Chili’s has Maggiano’s Italian Classics and Just Wings. The list is long.

Sometimes ghost kitchens are shared—one building may house several, or an independent ghost kitchen may rent space in an existing restaurant. A business called Fort Worth Food Works houses several ghost kitchens and offers all the facilities and services a restaurant needs. Perfect for a start-up chef.

Irene’s ghost kitchen, of course, is none of those. It’s the whim of a faux French chef. She is, however, going to offer small cooking classes in her kitchen. First up, the French classic popularized by Julia Child (shh! Don’t say that to Irene!): boeuf bourguignon. Then maybe a good hearty cassoulet; perhaps Coquilles St. Jacque (scallops in wine sauce—someone once asked me what I fixed for company the night before, and when I said Coquilles St. Jacque he said, “Gesundheit!” so I always explain it). Lobster thermidor and coq au vin may be on Irene’s class last, but daily she’ll fix appetizers such as gougeres, desserts like crème brulee, and special orders—her secret liver pate. Will she make a success of the kitchen? Who knows? Certainly not me at this point, though I hope to know by next spring.

Speaking of recipes I ran across a custom that is new to me but apparently worldwide: putting recipes of the tombstones of people, mostly women, revered for their cooking skills. Want to make Bonnie Johnson’s No-Bake Oatmeal Cookies? Just go to the cemetery in Nome, Alaska and get the recipe. Or read about it on Gastro Obscura The family recipes carved into gravestones (mailchi.mp)

Happy Sunday night!

 

Food, war, and chaos--finding comfort in bad times

 

 

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.

A little lesson on food and cooking

 

 

Leftover roast salmon with pasta.
So good!

My mother made bread by instinct. When she taught me, her caution was, “Don’t use too much flour or your bread will be tough. Knead it until it feels right.” She knew just how much to knead, how long to let it rise. She had a big old wooden board on which she pounded that dough. Her bread came out in beautiful golden loaves. No recipe needed.

I have a friend whose grandmother made “the world’s best” biscuits in a shallow, white enamel pan she also washed her dishes in (on the kitchen table: there was no sink). She dumped in a couple of coffee cups of flour, “measured” baking powder and salt with the spoon out of the sugar bowl on the table, pulled a glob of soft lard out of the lard bucket with her fingers and worked it into the flour. Added milk until it looked right, kneaded a bit, rolled it out with a rolling pin her husband carved from a chunk of maple, and cut the biscuits with a water glass. I still have the old, metal orange juice can that my grandmother used to cut biscuits. Nobody cooks that way now. I call it intuitive cooking.

Jordan gets frustrated when she asked me how long to cook something, and I say, “Until it’s done.” Or when she wants to know how much flour to use, and I say, “Until it feels right.” She wants a printed recipe, complete with amounts and detailed instructions in front of her, and I don’t think she’s unusual in this day and age. Many young women have lost or never had instincts about cooking. (I do wonder if I somehow failed in that aspect of raising her.)

Many of the women of my generation—we old ladies of the Silent Generation—mix instinct with recipes when we cook. We can size a recipe up when we read it, judging whether or not it will work, and then we can adapt it to our taste and needs as we go along. (Christian cooks that way too.) And we can make a pie or rolls without a recipe, because we’ve done it so often—and we learned from our mothers.

The women of the 1950s, that decade when American foodways changed so dramatically, may be the last to base their cooking purely on instinct. They had cooked with their mothers and grandmothers, and they cooked the way they learned. Not all women of the fifties, though. During that decade, food manufacturers switched their attention from supplying the military, since the war was over, to courting housewives. Advertising departments decided women hated to cook, and so the food industry set out to simplify cooking, make it easier and quicker. They did this with prepared food and new gadgets. By the end of the fifties you could buy an angel food cake mix or a tube of prepared biscuit dough. All you had to do was bake.

My theory is that having most of the work done for them by manufacturers, women gradually lost touch with the food they were cooking. They didn’t have to measure and judge the texture and feel the dough to see if it was right. (I hope I get a lot of indignant responses to this.)

On another food note, I read a Ruth Reichl column today which convinced me that I’ve found my niche in studying the plain, traditional food of the fifties. Reichl is writing from Marseilles this week and sending pictures of the food. Beautiful pictures—and probably not a dish that I, a fairly experimental eater, would touch. Blue soup that is fish broth with chard floating in it (no idea what makes it blue); sliced bottarga (I had to look that one up: a cured fish roe pouch) with caviar; a “garden of fish” floating in a green, seashell jelly; a carabinero (had to look that up too: a large, deep sea shrimp) served somewhere between raw and cooked, with fennel; ravioli filled with clams and mussels in an “intense” fish soup. Absolutely gorgeous pictures, smashing photography. But I don’t know that I’d have eaten any of it. I love reading about it, and about the old French restaurants with lots of atmosphere, but I somehow can’t translate that to my life in Texas.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make a pasta dish out of last night’s leftover roast salmon. The simple life. (This is me, trying out material for the cookbook/memoir I hope I’m writing. I’d love feedback.) Just for fun, here’s what I did with the salmon (without a recipe):

Cook enough pasta for one. Drain and put aside.

Melt some butter in the skillet. Add a garlic clove and cook it briefly.

Add salmon and some frozen green peas. Salt and pepper.

Put in a glob of sour cream, enough to make a sauce.

Ad the pasta and stir until dish is warm. Do not let it boil or sour cream will separate.

Put in a pasta plate and top with grated pecorino.