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.

Bringing Mom into the Cottage

For all the years of my growing up, there were two chairs on either side of the Italian marble fireplace in our Chicago brownstone. On the left was Dad’s chair, overstuffed, beige, comfortable, but not exactly a stylish piece of furniture. On the right was Mom’s wingchair, more delicate and ladylike, upholstered in turquoise because it was her favorite color. There they sat most evenings after supper, reading silently but often reading to each other. One would say, “Listen to this,” and read some passage, and pretty soon the other would respond similarly. Their minds were so in sync that they couldn’t resist sharing passages. Sometimes that sharing resulted in their reading aloud to each other. I distinctly remember that they went through all the volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s The Story of Civilization that way.

Fast forward down the years, and Mom’s wing chair ended in whatever house I lived in. It was reupholstered several times, the latest being when I moved to the cottage and chose a light, whimsical patterned fabric. But then where to put it? Neither the living area nor the bedroom were spacious and there seemed no place. Still, I would not get rid of it because, well, it was Mom’s. For several years it has been shoved into a corner in front of my desk, with a dog crate making it inaccessible to all except Sophie who climbs on it when she needs to see out the window to the driveway and check on who is coming and going.

Yesterday, upholstery cleaners came. The couch and both barrel chairs that flank it needed cleaning. Over the phone, the owner of the company had asked if the fabric was washable or needed dry cleaning, and I said I had no idea. So two affable gentlemen came to look and do a fabric test. Their conclusion was that the colors could run. The furniture needed dry cleaning which meant they had to take it to their shop where ventilation allowed safer use of the strong chemicals involved (I hope they don’t come back smelling like cleaning fluid).

The absence of those two chairs left the living area looking barren, so tonight, before company came, Jordan rearranged and put the wing chair on the right side of the couch. I love it in that position. Not only does it look good, it seems to bring a bit of Mom into the cottage. As it happens, I am doing some work on a project that involves my mom and her cooking and recipes, so it is doubly fitting that her chair is in the living room. Not that I’m sure she would enjoy all conversations that go on in my cottage—I can see that chin go up in the air and the eyes go out the window.

But with the chair there, I think I can and will talk to Mom more. Like, “Why did you like this recipe?” and “Where did you learn to cook this?” I am delighted.

Yesterday, with no chairs, a young friend (she’s the age of my children) from the TCU library came for an early happy hour. When she settled on the couch with no chairs around it, I asked what she wanted to drink and offered my two easy choices: wine or water.

Reluctantly she said that she felt dehydrated from the heat and a lot of hauling and schlepping she’d done that day (librarians do not get the luxury of sitting behind a counter all day), and she’d prefer ice water. I already had my water, so I joined her. We laughed and gossiped and caught up on each other and TCU news for over an hour, and when she left, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make it a happier happy hour. Wine next time.” I assured her it was plenty happy without the wine. And that’s what struck me as important about it: I am so used to serving wine at happy hour that it was a delight to know that jolliness comes with ice water too. I look forward to a repeat.

My trivial note for the day: do you know what the latest TikTok self-care topic is: bed-rotting. Awful name, isn’t it? It means taking an extended period of time out by lying in bed, not sleeping but doing other activities. My first question was: how much else can you do? Okay, there’s the obvious quick answer, but get past that. I for one do not like to eat or read in bed, though I have been known to lie in bed, sort of half-conscious, for hours at a time, if I’m not quite right with the world. In fact, I claim I nap because some of my best ideas come in that twilight, almost-asleep period. But bed-rotting? It’s an awful term.

Sleep tight, pleasant dreams—but no rotting. (Do you know how hard I’m resisting a play on words here?)                                                                                     

A French recipe and an Italian one—and not a lot of difference

 

It’s summer, and my thoughts run to cold soup (nobody here will eat it), main dish salads, and sandwiches, both of which are popular with my family. I was searching my recipe file for something to fix for one of my “eat everything but the unusual is best” friends and came across these two tuna recipes, one French and one Italian. I was struck by how similar they are. Both call for tuna, though I used salmon in the pan bagnat, simply because I had more canned salmon than tuna. And I adapted both to my taste, which means no peppers and no olives. Feel free to add. In fact, feel free to add almost anything you want—these recipes are more guides than specific directions.

In my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries, Irene boasts a faux French background, even including culinary training from Le Cordon Bleu. She loves all things French, despises Italian cooking. Perhaps these two sandwiches would make her rethink that.

Italian tuna sandwich (serves two)

For the sandwich:

A small baguette or crusty bread (not the skinny baguette with no room for filling)

Lettuce

7 oz can high quality chunk tuna

2 hardboiled eggs

Salt and pepper

For the salsa verde:

I packed cup Italian parsley

½ cup olive oil

1 clove garlic, minced

2 anchovy filets

1 Tbsp. small capers

Zest from 1 lemon

Salt and pepper

Olives (optional), chopped

Serrano chile (optional), sliced

To make the salsa verde, blend parsley and olive oil into a paste. Remove to a small bowl and add remaining ingredients. Mix well. If it is too thick to spread easily, add more olive oil, a bit at a time.

Split the baguette lengthwise and cut into two equal portions (if the baguette is large, you do not have to use the entire thing—cut into two servin size pieces). Spread salsa verde on both cut sides of the bread. Then on one side layer sandwich ingredients. Top with chile if using. Season with salt and pepper. Drizzle remaining salsa over ingredients, and top with second piece of bread. Press down firmly. Serve immediately.

Pan bagnat is a French classic, usually made with tuna but can also be made with just the eggs and anchovies or salmon or whatever strikes your fancy. The beauty of this sandwich is that it gets better with age—it should be made at least several hours before you serve and can be refrigerated for up to twenty-four hours. Ideally it is made in an 8-inch, round loaf to serve two, but you may also use a baguette or other crusty artisan bread.

Pan bagnat

2 anchovy fillets

1 garlic clove, minced

1 tsp. red wine vinegar

½ tsp. Dijon mustard

2 Tbsp. olive oil

Pepper to taste

Round loaf or baguette

½ cucumber, preferably seedless, thinly sliced.

1 tomato, sliced

1/2 small red onion, sliced

7 oz. tuna

1 hardboiled egg

Sliced olives (optional)

Basil leaves for garnish

Slice bread in half lengthwise and pull out some of the soft interior. Save discarded bread for another use, such as croutons.

In a bowl, thoroughly blend first four ingredients and then slowly whisk in the olive oil. Toss the sliced cucumber in the mixture. Brush both cut sides of the bread with the vinaigrette.

On the bottom slices of bread, layer half the cucumbers. Top, in layers, with remaining ingredients. Finish with remaining cucumbers and pour remaining vinaigrette over all. Cover with top slice of bread and press down firmly. Wrap sandwich tightly in foil and then put in a plastic bag. Refrigerate, weighted down. The easiest way to do that is to place a small skillet on top of the sandwich and add one or two canned goods. Refrigerate for up to 24 hours before serving. Anchovy flavors will soak into the bread, creating a delicious treat.

Bon Appetit/Buon Appetito! See? Even the languages are similar. We’ll never convince Irene.

 

 

 

All’s right with the world—or is it?

 

Oh glorious day!
Six years ago, finally getting read to leave rehab and go home.

Jordan’s home from Hawaii, the sun was shining all day and the ice melting, and Sophie got a good doctor’s report. All’s right with my world.

But we all know all’s not right with the world in general. My usual habit is to start the morning with the news and emails before I get to my own work. And today I barely got to my own work, mostly because so much is out of kilter in the world. I think I am fixated on being aware of what’s going on, particularly with our government in my state, Texas, and in Washing, D.C., because I came late to political awareness. And it was even later that I realized my voice might accomplish something, even that I had not just a wish to speak out but an obligation because I felt so strongly about some things.

I don’t know if the way I speak out—this blog and Facebook and occasionally Twitter—is effective or not. I’ve read statistics that claim you’re not going to change anyone’s mind on social media, and some days I’m really afraid that’s true. On Facebook, I stumble across people whose minds are held captive by conspiracy theories. They truly believe that Biden is out to destroy the country, and it does no good to ask them why he would want to do that. Here's a man who has devoted a lifetime to American politics, who has risen above personal tragedy to put the good of the country first, who generally by those who know him is considered a genuinely good man. Remember what Lindsay Graham said (before he was held in thrall to trump): “God never created a better man than Joe Biden.” And now, Biden has saved us from the brink of recession, created programs to bolster not just the infrastructure and the economy but the lives of ordinary Americans—and created new job numbers that are so good they confound the experts. But yeah, he’s out to destroy the country.

Today as in many days I was captivated, not happily, by the antics of House Republicans: Jim Jordan claiming that Biden is intentionally flooding the country with dangerous immigrants; MTG defining CRT as a theory that teaches grade school kids that their white skin is not as good as another kid’s black skin; Texas representative Chip Roy announcing that the armed forces should be out with lethality killing people and blowing things up (yeah, that’s for sure what I want our country known for). Don’t even ask about the debt ceiling which they are deliberately conflating with the budget. I wish more Americans would educate themselves about the way our government works.

Mondays and Fridays are also busy days on two writing listservs I follow—on Mondays in one group, we commit to our work plans for the week and on Fridays, in both, we brag about our accomplishments and praise others on what they’ve done. If you read everybody’s posts, as I feel I should, it takes a lot of time. But if I want people to comment on what I post, I must return the courtesy.

As you can see, it was a busy day, and I barely got to Irene and her Texas adventure. But yesterday I sent the manuscript off to the mystery editor I use and to the man who has been my mentor (he hates the term) for fifty years. I am still left with putting together front matter, a recipe section, and a blurb. Didn’t get to it today, because in addition to keeping up with our out-of-kilter world, I cooked a big dinner to welcome Jordan home—an herb-stuffed sheet pan chicken on a bed of onion, potato and carrot, with a lettuce wedge dressed in a blue cheese sauce.

And that brings me to recipes, which also take up a bunch of my time. I subscribe to the New York Times cooking column and America’s Test Kitchen and perhaps my favorite, the online “Kitchn.” Sometimes I find recipes that really speak to me; other days, not so much. Today what I found included a recipe for creamed kale pizza—uh, no thank you. And in the Times, a recipe for white soondubu jjigae, which is described as a tofu stew.

I’m out of here on that note. Need chocolate and wine.

 

Is it midnight yet?

 

Jacob at three
but the cookbook has some 
of my favorite reciipes

Ever have those nights when you feel at eight o’clock that it surely must be midnight already? That’s how I feel. Although I am constantly trying to rid myself of obsessive schedules, I’m pretty much tied to my own routine. I don’t want to go to bed at eight or nine, because I don’t want to wake, sleepless, in the middle of the night. I try to sleep from eleven to eight, the Lord and Sophie willing. But tonight I’m sleepy, worn out by some conflicts swirling around me. I tell myself—and others—I don’t want to be involved in intrigue, but sometimes I can’t remain aloof. And so it is tonight.

To soothe my soul, I began to do some menu planning, always an activity I enjoy. For instance, I found a recipe tonight for rosemary pot roast. Between now and the holidays, the calendars around here are full, and I foresee meals on the at-home evenings of leftovers or heavy hors d’oevres. But it’s never too early to stash things away in my “never tried” file, which is bulging. Periodically, I go through it and firmly say to myself, “It sounds great, but you’ll never fix it” or “You like this, but your family wouldn’t.” And, plop, it goes in the trash. I waste a lot of printer ink and paper that way, but I haven’t gotten sophisticated enough to keep my recipe collection online. And if I did, I’d just have to print each recipe out as I cooked it. As it is, I do that with recipes from the manuscripts of my cookbooks. But I foresee rosemary pot roast on the January menu—see how I’m jumping ahead?

Tonight, looking through appetizer recipes for our neighborhood ladies very small happy hour next week (Jordan wants to make my salmon dip), I came across my mom’s pickled shrimp. She always said it would keep a week in the fridge. In early adulthood I developed an allergy to shrimp—made me break out, so I was afraid to try it for fear the next time would be anaphylactic shock. Allergies come and go, and I might well be able to eat shrimp now, but the fear lingers. Still, for nostalgia’s sake, I’d like to fix that. We do still as a family treasure Mom’s cheeseball recipe. This year, sixteen-year-old Morgan said she would make it, although she pointedly said she would not eat it.

Funny what one person will eat and another won’t. For our four-person neighborhood event, I said I would buy a small jar of pickled herring—one of the ladies and I both love it; the other and Jordan turned up their noses. But when Jordan suggested goat cheese log with wasabi, the pickled-herring friend said, “I don’t eat wasabi.” I’ll probably make it pesto instead of wasabi, but it’s good quick appetizer. Just split a log, small or large, of goat cheese lengthwise, put wasabi (be cautious, not too much—a wavy “S” pattern) or pesto down the middle, put the two sides together again, and roll the log in toasted sesame seeds. So good. Are you like me and have to toast two batches of sesame seeds because you always burn the first one?

This morning I was productive. I’m trying to clear the decks as it were as I prepare for the holidays and try to focus more on my writing projects. The trouble is that I’m programmed—there it is again, that routine I can’t let go of. I do this every year, get so efficient about Christmas and all my projects that by about December 10 or 12, my desk is clear and I wonder what I should do next. Too close to Christmas to start a new project—but I have old ones in limbo I can work on.

At any rate, back to clearing the decks. Yesterday I wrote my December column for Lone Star Literary Life. The schedule is changing so I’m not sure when it will appear, nor when the January column will. But today I wrote the January column—I was on a roll, with good material, and it flowed easily. So I wrote the publisher and said I’d just written the most interesting column I’d ever sent her. And then I said I’d send it in a few days, which made her laugh. But it was fun—two women who team up to write fiction, and a woman who decided she didn’t need a super sleuth but needed a team. If you don’t subscribe to this weekly free literary newsletter, you might consider it. Just go to Lone Star Literary Life

Enough. I’m written out. Going to calm myself with a book. Sweet dreams of sugar plums and all thinks good.

No use crying over spilt—water!

 

My thrown-together dinner

A picture I’m glad no one saw. About one o’clock in the morning last night, I crawled into bed, flung the covers over me rather over-dramatically—and heard a great crash. I had just knocked my water tumbler off the nightstand with the comforter. And it was full because I always refresh the ice and add new water on my way to bed. So there I was, using my kiddie broom—it works well from my walker—to sweep up an army of ice cubes and then rushing for towels to soak up the water. Meantime, my feet were wet and cold, and Sophie was looking at me as if to ask, “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?”

I got it all cleaned up, turned around to look, and saw more ice cubes, so a second sweeping was in order. When I finally got back in bed, I was wide awake and afraid I would be that way all night but sleep and pleasant dreams came. And when I next got out of bed, the floor was dry. Sophie slept in a corner of the bedroom—I think she thought that I was so accident prone, she’d best keep an eye on me.

Fortunately, that did not set the tone for today. I wrote over a thousand words, though I am trying to write not by words but by story told. I may be backing myself into a corner though—I’ve constructed a plot that has to take place in seven days, but I’m already at day five and only have a word count of half a novel. I may be writing a novella. Still, I felt good about the part of the story I got down today.

And I was ambitious in the kitchen, making myself egg salad for lunch. I’ve always made egg salad the way I do chicken, tuna, ham, whatever—mayo, mustard, chopped green onion, a bit of salt and pepper. Sometimes I get it too runny, too much mayo. But I’ve found a recipe that helps me measure precise amounts—for three eggs, two Tbsp mayo and a half tsp. Dijon mustard. No onions but a Tbsp. dill pickle relish. Forgive the pun, but I am relishing that salad.

Tonight the neighbors—Mary and Prudence—came for happy hour, so we heard about Mary’s trip to Hawaii. It was not a happy occasion—the death of her older brother—but she still loved being in Hawaii, where she says the air is so sweet. And from the pictures she posted, she had some good food. And Prudence had stories of shopping for a first communion dress for her second-oldest daughter. Fun to catch up with them.

No dinner plan tonight, so I made myself what one Scottish acquaintance calls a thrown-together supper. I opened one of the last cans of my good salmon from Oregon, sautéed a green onion in olive oil, added the salmon, some capers, some halved cherry tomatoes, salt, pepper, and oregano; removed it from the heat and stirred in some sour cream and lemon juice. Meanwhile I cooked some fettucine, drained it, spooned the salmon mixture over it, topped with generous Parmesan—and there was my thrown-together dinner. You can do almost whatever you want with this, depending on your taste and what’s in your fridge and pantry. Like black olives? Throw some in. Love the heat of peppers? By all means, add them. Let your imagination go wild. I think the key is, though, to start with really good salmon as a base—and no, I don’t think tuna will do the same.

I’m a fairly devoted reader of The New York Times cooking column (and also a follower of the Facebook page they have detached from that is now called Not The New York Times Cooking Community). But sometimes cooking editor Sam Sifton gets a bit too far out for me, especially with Middle Eastern and African recipes—sorry, I know I should have more of an international palate, but the truth is I’m a big advocate of American cooking. So here’s what I found the other day that I am NOT going to cook: cauliflower ceviche with avocado, seaweed, and soy. There are several elements wrong there—just don’t ask me.

Happy dreams, everyone. Dream of loving your neighbor.

Lots of cooking, a Zoom reminder, and the wine bar of my dreams

Lamb Ragu

We had a domestic invasion of sorts this past week. Some critter died either under the kitchen in the main house or in the wall. The result was an insufferable odor that lingered for days. And made Christian reluctant to cook when he came home in the evening. So I’ve fixed dinner several nights, fixing one old favorite and trying out three new recipes.

One night we had chicken pot pie, mostly because I remembered Jacob liked it so well once before that he used a strawberry to wipe up the sauce. When we told him that this time, his response was predictable: “That’s gross.” Another night, chicken piccata. Jacob loves his dad’s version, and I was hoping he would like mine as well. Actually I ignored the recipe I’ve used for years and tried one I found online. Because I can’t fit four chicken tenderloins into my skillet at once and because I was afraid the amount of meat was a bit skimpy, I cut it into chunks and browned it in two separate batches, then combined it to reheat in the sauce. Jacob liked it well enough to claim the small bit leftover.

One night we had a quick and easy lamb ragu—that’s what the recipe said, but when I cook these days, mostly seated in my walker, nothing is quick. And things get spilled a lot. But the recipe was fairly straightforward, so the easy part was true. And it came out with a velvety texture that I really liked.

My tour de force was a deviant version of skillet spanakopita, and if you read last night’s blog, you know about it. If not, you can check it out at https://gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com/. I don’t want to repeat myself. I posted the picture of it on the Facebook page for the New York Times Cooking Community and so far I got 170 likes and about 20 comments. I am in danger of getting the swelled head, except I probably have to credit Jordan’s photography as much as my cooking.

Tonight’s potato salad is already in the fridge, and Christian will grill our salmon.  One thing about quarantine—we are eating well, and so blessed.

Last night was leftovers or, as we call it, dinner on your own, because I wanted to Zoom attend a 6:30 meeting of the Tarrant County Historical Society. I connected to the meeting without a problem—I really am getting better at this—but couldn’t figure out why my picture didn’t show. A few minutes in, I was gobsmacked—isn’t that a wonderful word?—to realize I hadn’t pulled out my laptop. There’s obviously no camera on my remote monitor, so to participate I have to open the laptop so the camera can see me! It’s a bit of a problem with my new computer set-up, but I will figure it out and remember this learning lesson for when I’m on a panel next week for a big national mystery fan convention.

And the bar—I’ve not been to many bars in my life. Back when I was single and head over heels about my first love, they were still called cocktail lounges. I can still see one in my mind—dark, soft music, leather booths with high backs for privacy. But bars? The crowded, raucous kind authorities want to keep closed these virus days? Not for me, though my grown kids more than once suggested I might meet an eligible man in one. Eligible? At any rate, I’ve found online a bar that intrigues me. It’s the Bookbar in Denver—a wine/book bar. When you belly up to the bar, you find yourself at a long, chest-high bookcase crammed with books. My idea of heaven—books and wine. I tried to copy the picture, but the internet didn’t cooperate. So here I sit with a new book on my Kindle and a glass of wine at hand. Almost Heaven. (My friend Linda will get that if she reads this.)

 

Meal planning—not what you think

Cashew Chicken - dinner last night
thanks to Christian

In the “to do” stack on my desk—and in the back of my mind—is an essay on the temptations of quarantine. You see, I am sort of enjoying quarantine, even while I’m horrified at the illness and death ravaging our country (don’t let me digress). Of course I miss restaurant meals with my friends and the like, but now I have an excuse to sink into the bubble that my wonderful daughter, Jordan, has created for me. I can write, read, nap, and cook—a purely self-indulgent life. And I do see friends—a few, who we know are also quarantining, come by for a BYOB, distanced, masked happy hour occasionally. And I don’t have to do the few things in this world that I really don’t want to do, although I did go to the dentist.

But last night I discovered another plus to quarantine, and I think it will have to go in that essay, should I ever finish it. Jordan and I spent a companionable hour and a half going over recipes and choosing our dinners for the week to come. Yes, we had glasses of wine at our elbows.

When we first started this communal living—Jordan and family (the boys, as we call the father and son) in the house and me in the cottage—we gathered for family dinner on Sunday nights in the house. Other than that, we were on our own. All of us frequently had outside dinner plans; sometimes Christian’s work happy hours kept him out late; Jordan had happy hours for work and pleasure; I had weekly dinners with friends. it was just easier to each cook for ourselves. Sometimes when Jordan would come to the cottage about five-thirty in the evening, I’d ask what they were having for dinner, and she’d shrug and say, “I have no idea.”

But with quarantine, all that changed and the meal planning sessions gradually developed. None of us went anywhere—no more restaurant meals or happy hours. With grocery delivery, it was easiest to pool our lists and place one or two orders a week. These days, masked and gloved, Jordan ventures to the grocery, but we pretty much order from Central Market and pick it up at curbside delivery. A friend goes to Trader Joe’s and always checks with Jordan to see what we need. We do order take-out occasionally, but with a few exceptions we find what we cook at home tastes so much better.

Most evenings we eat in the cottage. Christian and I do most of the cooking, while Jordan does clean-up—and Jacob gets the garbage detail. We’ve all had to make some adjustments—the Burtons don’t like some things that I enjoy. Cold summer soups and squash come immediately to mind. Christian has been slow to come to some things, but is now enthusiastic about salmon, and he liked the Dover sole we did one night recently. I’m not responsible for shaping his palate, but I do sometimes wonder where I went amuck raising Jordan. I, on the other hand, have learned to appreciate more Asian dishes—Christian’s specialty—and I am indebted to him for leaving bell pepper and hot spices out of everything he cooks.

So what took us an hour and a half last night? First of all, my gigantic folder of things I want to try—every time I go through it, I eliminate a few that I know I won’t cook. But it’s still bulging. Then a recipe for red beans and rice (I know—who needs a recipe?) reminded me of a beef and bean dish I cooked when the kids were little, and Jordan immediately wanted that. Luckily, it’s in my first cookbook—Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books, so I still have it on the computer. We’ll have it one night this week.

After our planning, we’ll also have Mongolian beef (Christian does a superb job on that), chicken with pesto and noodles, family favorite Doris’ casserole, Asian dishes so Christian can play with his new work. Tonight it’s hamburger Stroganoff, because I need a picture for a guest blog pushing Saving Grace. And Jordan and I will cook together--from my seated walker, it's hard for me to use two hands to scrape a bowl or skillet, and she happily does such for me. It's a good system, and it will be a good week.

My newest yard art
Courtesy the Tomball Alters

Chili on a chilly night

Jordan has it firmly fixed in her mind that there’s a connection between wintry weather and chili. Let there be the slightest forecast of snow, ice, sleet, even freezing rain, and she issues a call for chili. So far, today’s predicted storm has missed us, though it’s darn cold and damp. In the TCU area, we had a sudden burst of rain early this morning and a slight brush with sleet in the late afternoon. But storm or no, all the chili fixin’s are on my worktable.

Christian usually makes our chili. He’s an excellent cook and, unlike me, studiously follows a recipe. He likes to experiment to the point that I’m not sure he’s used the same chili recipe twice. But Christian is entertaining clients at the rodeo every night this week, so I am the default chili maker.

Me? I just make it the way I always have. No recipe—just onion, garlic, ground meat (I’d love to have chili-grind venison but that is not to be), diced tomatoes, beer, and chili powder. If we need more, I’ll just add some more tomatoes or tomato sauce. Oh, and beans, added just before serving but given enough time to heat.  We like to garnish it with chopped red onion, grated cheddar, and sour cream. Terlingua folks would shake their heads in despair at my chili which violates all kinds of rules.

I do know about Terlingua chili. My neighbor goes to the Original Chili Cookoff every year, even judges some events, and is a chili purist. He has criticized my chili mercilessly, calling it “stew, not chili.” But I can one-up him, because I have written a whole book about chili.

Texas is Chili Country explores the origin of chili—no, it’s not Mexican. In fact, food scholars in Mexico are fairly disparaging of it. Truth is it probably traces back to Native American cooking and the pemmican they made using what they could forage. Today’s Texas chili probably originated at some trail drive chuck wagon where the cook or cousie, as he was called, threw some peppers into the stew. The first public appearance of chili came in the 1880s when the chili queens of San Antonio sold their wares on various plazas in that city.

Chili was sold in solid bricks in the early twentieth century and was popular because it was filling and inexpensive. But it was also damned as the devil’s food in some areas, specifically McKinney, Texas. Then came canned chili. True aficionados denounce canned chili but even chili guru the late Frank Tolbert found a few brands acceptable. The most famous of them all is Wolf Brand, and the fascinating story behind it includes real wolves and the fact that a Spanish-speaking grocer saw the wolf on the label and thought it was dog food.

Chili really came into prominence in this country with the development of cook-offs, a development directly credited to Tolbert, although there had been low-key cookoffs before he planned the 1967 event at Terlingua. You see, Tolbert had a new book, A Bowl of Red, and the first cookoff was a publicity stunt for the book. It was also a circus, with outrageous characters in costume and debatable judging. It's gotten better over the years.

Cookoffs are now big business nationally, with strict entry qualifications—participants must win local contests to qualify. Two rival organizations sponsor annual events—the Chili Appreciation Society International and the International Chili Society. For fifty-four years, the Tolbert family has organized the “Original Terlingua International Championship Chili Cook-off.” The other one, they claim, is a johnny-0come-lately. 

But fully half the book is taken up with recipes that I collected from sources far and wide, and if the Terlingua folks are upset about the beans in my chili, I hope they don’t read these. Cincinnati chili is served over spaghetti; Skyline, an eastern brand that markets several prepared packages, incorporates cream cheese; one recipe includes three kinds of chiles, espresso, dark chocolate, and anchovy fillets among other ingredients. Greaseless chili is for those watching their cholesterol, and Zen chili is for those… uh, with Zen inclinations. You can make white chili, lamb chili, low-cal, vegetarian. And there are recipes for related dishes like chili pie and Coney dogs. There’s no end to the possibilities.

But you know what? Our plain and basic chili tonight was darn good.

Notes for chef

Girls' night dinner

Later this year I am to teach an online course for Romance Writers of America on creating a fictional chef. The mystery readers among you will know how popular culinary mysteries are, and I assume chefs pop up in romances too. But a lot of authors don’t know much about chefs, not that I know all that much. Obviously, however, food and food writing interest me, and I’ve been collecting notes and ideas as I go along. So I’m doing research and hoping to encourage authors to create realistic characters who are not all the temperamental male chefs in high-end restaurants. Maybe all this is a way of fulfilling a buried dream of mine. I’ve always said in another life I’d like to come back as a chef. In this life, my old back and knees couldn’t stand it.

Last night Jordan got to prowling through my old (1972) copy of the Southern Living Party Cookbook. I remember when once it was my bible. Jordan laughed long and hard at the directions for using a decorative ashtray. Hostesses were advised to light a cigarette, take a couple of puffs, and then snuff it out so guests would know that the ashtray was functional, not just decorative. We would no more do that today than jump through hoops. One time I’d get militant is if someone tried to light up in my house.

But Jordan liked the recipes too—we found twice-baked potatoes (which most of us do off the top of our heads) and Italian artichokes. Artichokes chilled in a sauce of Italian salad dressing, mayo, and capers. Creamed chicken, Recipes with lots of mayo and heavy cream and butter. Eggs without cooking them first shocked Jordan. Lots of dishes that could be prepared ahead and frozen or held for a day or two in the fridge. As Jordan said, it was true planning ahead. What she didn’t know was that the sixties were the era of freeing housewives from the constraints of their roles—thank you, Betty Freidan—and frozen food dinners came into vogue as a way of easing the housewife’s life. It was also the era of canned soups—in casseroles, dips, you name it. I still cook some dishes made with the help of Campbell’s and enjoy them. And I’m not too proud to admit it.

It dawned on me as we talked about this book that if an author was to create a 1960s chef, they’d have to adjust the menu drastically. I remember when friends and I had a retro potluck supper on the front porch. We had onion soup/sour cream dip, and one man looked at his wife and said seriously, “Can you get the recipe for this?” She smiled and said she thought she could.

Dinner that evening consisted of tuna casserole (I still love my recipe and make it occasionally just for myself) and orange Jell-O with pineapple chunks and grated carrots. I remember my mom making that and so did the friend who brought it that night. I honestly don’t remember what else we had, but it was a fun evening.

Tonight Jordan and I are having sort of a retro dinner. Christian and Jacob have gone to Dallas for a Mavericks game, and we’re having a girl’s night. We’re trying those artichokes, and I made twice-baked potatoes. But at Jordan’s request we’re having loin lamb chops. I salt and pepper them, sauté them to medium rare in olive oil, then finish with anchovy butter. I am finally happy with the way I cook lamb chops.At first, Jordan’s were not done enough for her, while mine, cooked at the same time, was almost overdone. The potatoes, however, were killer.

We topped our meal off with fudge hand-dipped in dark chocolate, from the Dutchman’s Hidden Valley. As she nibbled at that delicacy, Jordan said, “We have to go back there soon.”

For those of you who are “of an age,” what dishes do  you remember from the fifties, sixties, and seventies?

Busy night, busy day

This cute witch greeted trick-or-treaters

at our house

Omigosh, what a busy twenty-four hours. Halloween was hectic as it should be—lots of polite little kids in cute costumes. I had the perfect seat—inside the front door where I could see all the kids but wasn’t out in the cold. And I could snack on all the goodies laid out, mostly a re-run of the night before but I added a chili-cheese dip. When a friend wanted the recipe, I said it was awfully difficult: mix equal parts of canned chili (preferably Wolf brand, with beans) and Velveeta (get the 1 lb.box, not the big 2 lb. one). Don’t let it boil, because it will get a funny texture, and don’t let it scorch—Velveeta will burn. Serve warm and reheat as needed.

After a while, I’d had enough and retired to the cottage—one of the great advantages of my living arrangement. But maybe it was the chili, or I don’t know what. I had such a busy night. I have always had vivid, four-color dreams that stay with me in the morning. Sometimes I have a dream that persists—if I wake and want to get out of a dream that for some reason makes me unhappy, I can’t get rid of it. Takes a real effort.

That didn’t happen last night, but in my eight hours or so of sleep I did a lot of work on the project that I’m considering for my next after I finish the one I’m working on (I know, I should finish this one and stop thinking ahead); I wrote a juvenile story about a green dinosaur that stole a hamburger from the Star Café, owned by good friends Betty and Don Boles—somehow, dimly, I realized that here had to be more character development for a walking talking dinosaur if he was at the center of the story, and why the heck did he steal the hamburger anyway. Gave that one up fortunately. I also attended a convention of Western Writers of America—for years I was active in that group, on the board, president for a term, but I haven’t been in years, the travel having discouraged me. Finally, I dabbled in real estate—walking through large apartments in the Caverswall, a building down the street from the house I grew up in. Where that mishmash came from, I have no idea.

Instead of waking up tired, I woke with all kinds of plans for the day—and I’ve accomplished most of them. Some good work on the book I should be focusing on, stringed that pound of green beans I forgot I had in the fridge, froze the rest of the meatloaf, feeling it had lingered in the refrigerator long enough; took a sweater to the cleaners. But all my efficiency crashed when I started to make chocolate chip cookie dough—I had only defrosted half the butter needed. Now I’m waiting for a frozen stick to defrost.

Next on my ambitious list is supper. I will make shirred eggs. I could have said a baked egg, but shirred sounds so much more like a gourmet. I’ll put a slice of buttered sourdough toast in a ramekin, cover it with a bit of chopped spinach and then grated cheese, top with a raw egg and cover that in a bit of milk.

I’m worn out. Guess I’ll bake cookies tomorrow.

Here’s what’s cooking at my house this week!

I admit to being a creature of habit. One of habits that has lasted for years is to plan meals ahead on Thursday and make out a grocery list, so that I can do the actual shopping on Friday. This schedule has the great advantage of leaving weekends free for cooking, reading, and whatever. So here are my ideas for cooking this week.

One night soon, just for me, shirred or baked egg. So easy, so good1

Baked egg

1 half slice good sourdough bread

A handful of baby spinach, cooked and drained

1 slice bacon, diced, cooked, and drained

2 Tbsp. sharp cheddar cheese, grated

1 large egg

1 tsp. cream or milk

Grease a small ramekin well. Toast sourdough and butter both sides. Shape toast into ramekin until it forms a lining in bottom of dish. Sauté bacon and drain, reserving a tsp. of grease to sauté the spinach. Cook spinach until just slightly wilted. Drain and cut into bite sizes pieces. Put spinach on toast; add cheese. Carefully break egg on top of cheese, being sure to keep the yolk whole. Add salt and pepper and pour cream or milk over egg to keep it from drying out.

Bake at 350 for 12-14 minutes, until yolk is set but still runny. Before serving, top with bacon crumbles.

* * * *

For another night, a quick tomato sauce for pasta:

Quick and rich tomato sauce

2 Tbsp. olive oil

1 tsp. minced garlic

6 anchovy fillets

1 28-oz. can diced tomatoes (or whole and chop them)

            Sauté garlic and anchovies in oil. Don’t skip or skimp on the anchovies. When they dissolve into the garlic and butter, you won’t taste fish or anything strong. They just add a nice, rich earthiness to your sauce.

Drain the tomatoes and save the juice for another purpose, like a pot of soup. Add tomatoes to pan, bring to a boil, and then cook on medium until sauce is slightly thick.

Should provide sauce for a pound of fettucine or spaghetti or four average servings.

* * * *

And for Sunday supper, an easy pork roast without an oven.

Pork roast without an oven

A colleague served this one night, and it was delicious. I didn’t believe him when he told me how he cooked it, so I tried it. Now it’s a family favorite, perfect for the tiny kitchen without an oven. And uses a cheap cut of meat. Can’t beat that.

2-1/2 lb. Boston butt roast, untrimmed and cut into 1-inch cubes

2 cups water

2 Tbsp. salt

Ask the butcher to cube the roast for you, if you have access to a butcher. Their idea of cubes is usually pretty big chunks, but it’s a start. You just have to cube the cubes until you get something the size you want—about an inch

Bring the water and salt to a boil. Add the cubed meat and reduce to a simmer. Cook for at least an hour and a quarter, until all the water evaporates. The meat will look unappetizingly white, but cook it longer, stirring occasionally, and the cubes will develop a nice brown crust.

Serve with sauce below and lime wedges.

Garlic sauce:

1/2 cup fresh lime juice

2 garlic cloves, pressed.

Salt and pepper—go easy on the salt, as the meat cooked in salted water, but I suggest at least a half tsp. pepper

A do-nothing day

Sophie watching me at my desk

See those eyes?

Sometimes I have a do-nothing day. I think it’s therapeutic, because it usually signals the start of an intense work period the next day. So today I had one of those days, partly because my plans for yesterday and today fell through and left me at loose ends. I’m not sure why that’s an excuse, but it is.

So I got off to a slow start this morning and didn’t worry about it. Lingered over the morning’s email and political news, spent far too long on Facebook answering messages and inserting my two cents much more often than it was called for. Then I decided I had to study all the unread titles on my Kindle. A friend mentioned Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, and I had read the free sample last night. But in the cold light of day I convinced myself to read something I had already bought before moving on to that one. So I decided on The Chilbury Ladies Choir, mostly because it reminds me a bit of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society—how English citizens coped with World War II.

But before reading, I moved on to a delightful hour going through recipes I’ve put aside to try. Doing this is productive because I make myself take a long look at each one and admit with about half that I’ll never fix them. So the folder grows thinner. And I planned some good suppers for myself—tonight, a potato and wurst skillet, tomorrow salmon—King salmon is on sale this week, and I think I’ll make cucumber soup to go with it. Had a great debate with myself—decided I wanted lamb, but did I want a loin chop or ground lamb for burgers? Decided on the burgers because then I’ll have them all week.

Finally, after a lunch of cottage cheese over cucumber, chopped tomato, and sliced scallion, I settled down to re-read an article online that is pertinent to the book I’m working on. I’ve read it before, but now, with much research and background behind me, I find new meaning in it, new facts that take on significance.

And then about two, the day suddenly and unexpectedly darkened, the sky turned gray, and the wind blew hard. Well, of course, nothing would do but that Sophie and I curl up in the bed for a nap. First time in a long while that she’s actually stayed on the bed, pretty much motionless—a blessing. Even now, with the day brighter and the rain seemingly stopped, she is reluctant to let me out of her sight. If I go to the bathroom, she accompanies me; if I do something in the kitchen, she lies in the bedroom doorway where she is close.

Guess it’s time for me to fix that supper of knockwurst, potato—I’ll add a bit of kraut for good measure.

Rain, writing, and food, always food

Weathermen (and women) will tell us this is not the wettest spring in Fort Worth, and of course I believe them. But it seems the threat of rain hangs over us all the time. Today it was sunny and lovely—until occasional clouds came. But no rain. Still we are to expect it tomorrow. Sure puts a crimp in Jacob’s fishing plans.

I got busy about my new project today and wrote—whoohoo!—a big 443 words. No, folks, that’s not a good show for a writer for a day’s work. I usually aim for a minimum of a thousand words. But these were the first words on paper (except for the prologue, and that’s another story) and they came slowly, with hard work, and are still not right. It’s like I have to find the rhythm of the book before I can really get into it, and I haven’t gotten that yet. So I have books spread out on my desk and internet sites open, and I’m struggling. It will come, and I am not yet panicky. It is, as my mentor says, early days.

I did admit defeat. I spent yesterday trying to clean up the formatting problem embedded in a manuscript by the conversion form PDF to Word. I could do most but not all of it. At the end of a very long day, I had semi-cleaned up three chapters and still had spots I would have to ask the professional formatter to fix. I simply decided it was not worth my frustration, and by the time I finished I would still not have a perfect product. So I sent that entire reprint to my favorite formatter and started on a new project—and it went slowly.

Otherwise, no excitement in my day. Friend and neighbor, Mary, came for happy hour. I always enjoy exchanging news with her and, particularly, cooking news and ideas. She is a devotee of InstaPot and air fryer, while I am a resistant Luddite. We discussed a recipe I love which involves boiling two chickens. She said it can be done in the InstaPot in an hour or something. Skeptically I asked if it made broth, and she assured me it did. I remain convinced that I will boil an old hen to make my chicken loaf, a recipe I was given a long time ago. I am trying not to cook so much, because I have writing projects to concentrate on. But I don’t think that will be a successful resolve for long.

Tonight I had leftover steak and potato salad—the County Line Barbecue recipe. Look it up on the internet. It’s delicious. I halved the recipe Sunday, and it still made a ton. Next, I want to try some recipes with cabbage, and tonight with my Imperfect Produce I got a large head of cabbage. Ready to experiment.

As always, the international news fascinates me. I am appalled by the number of deaths among climber of climbers on Mount Everest, and the reports of climbers who said they had to step over bodies. Pictures show them waiting in line as though they were in a grocery store. Does that not give them pause? Not being an adventuresome soul myself, I can’t imagine why anyone would continue the climb in the face of these tragedies.

And then there are the deaths in Fiji and the Caribbean. Food poisoning? Why are these happening so close together? I think I read tonight of three in the Caribbean and a couple on Fiji. I’ve been to the Caribbean—when your son works there, you go—but I am thankful that he is back stateside, and I have no need to go again. I am, I fear, not a traveler. Home is so comfortable for me.

And, of course, our traveling squatting president is all over the news today. Poor guy—I don’t think he could do a thing right to please the media if he tried—which he doesn’t. He brings all his grief upon himself, from minor gaffes with royal protocol (did he really haul his entire family and staff over there at our expense?) to big things like his attacks on the mayor of London. I would say we should keep him at home, but then he issues all those disastrous executive orders. What’s a country to do? I know—impeach. But it won’t work.

Happy times. In 2020, we’ll be singing “Happy Days are Here Again!” Just hang on. And vote.