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!

 

 

Food, nostalgia, a new word, and a book about Chicago--or is it about girls and women?

Not to brag, but I just had the best dinner! It’s been a day when Sophie and I were out here alone—no visitors, no human contact except by phone and computer. Jordan breezed in for two minutes, so frustrated with her busy business that she breezed right out again. But dinner made up for it. A piece of salmon filet with chimichurri sauce, a boiled potato with lots of plant-based butter, and a green salad. Chimichurri is my new favorite thing. When we went out to supper Saturday, I had salmon with chimichurri (no, I’ll not tire of it) and came home with a small container which goes a long way. I roasted the salmon with salt, pepper, and olive oil. And not too long in the oven—I love the glass door in my new toaster oven, because I could see the salmon lighten as it cooked.

This is a nostalgia day for me. Fifty-eight years ago, I married one Joel Alter. Some good came of it—four wonderful kids and a liking for Jewish food. Beyond that, it was pretty much a wash. From my point of view, we were happy for fifteen years, and then miserable for two after he went crazy. Were he still walking this earth, I’m sure he’d have a different tale to tell.

More significant now to me is that eleven years ago today, Megan, Colin, and I were in Edinburgh, the start of our wonderful week-long exploration of Scotland. It was a trip that will forever be one of my best memories. I’d love to go back to Scotland, but since that seems unlikely, I cling to these memories. The picture is Megan and me at Edinburgh Castle.

One more bit of nostalgia: I watched an interesting program tonight, an interview with Dawn Turner, author of Three Girls from Bronzeville: A Uniquely American Memoir of Race, Fate, and Sisterhood. Bronzeville, a neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side, was in my childhood a Black neighborhood. Growing up in Kenwood at 51^st Street, I knew 47^th Street was the dividing line, but I never heard the name Bronzeville. When I was very young my family attended St. James Methodist Church at 4611 S. Ellis, clearly in Bronzeville and not Kenwood. (Today the church is being converted into apartments and community work space—nice to see the very traditional limestone building being preserved.) The program tonight was interesting, but whereas Turner talked about the universality of her growing up experience (her best friend and her sister had much more difficult adulthoods than she, a respected and successful journalist), I wanted to hear specifics about those two adjacent neighborhoods. In my young years I thought 47^th Street was a gulf as wide as a moat, and I wanted to know how that affected her because I know how it affected me. She touched lightly on it but not in depth. Still, the book goes on my TBR list.

My new word for the day: hegemonic masculinity. (Okay, it’s two words.) It means a society dominated by men. I ran across it online today but thought it so appropriate when old white men (and one young white woman) are trying to tell women what to do with their bodies. Like the majority of Americans, I continue to be distressed about Justice Alito’s draft, with all the holes in its logic and support and the utter lack of medical knowledge or consideration. But I read an encouraging post today from Wendy Davis—remember her? Thirteen-hour filibuster in the Texas legislature against an anti-abortion bill which was later passed anyway. Davis has not given up the fight, and she wrote that there is a way to win if control goes to the states. I’m not sure I have this right, and now I can’t find the reference—but there is a way. It has to do with amending the state constitution so that the decision will be in the hands of voters at the ballot box, rather than the state legislature. It’s early days yet, but there is a movement to that effect in several states (Michigan for one, I believe) and we must be alert here in Texas for the first opportunity to work toward that goal. We’re fortunate to have Davis to guide us.

Monday, and a whole week ahead. So far I seem to be lazing through it. Hope it’s a good one for you.