Leak

“It’s a cook’s instinct, Mom,” Squints explained, sprinkling a pinch of sugar over his pizza sauce.  “Kind of like a Jedi fighter going after Darth Vader.”  It was this same cook’s instinct that led him to add vinegar to his homemade ranch dressing last night. 

“That’s going to taste funny,” I told him. “The vinegar is going to separate the fat in the buttermilk.” 

Of course I was wrong.  The dressing was delicious.

But I noticed that Squints’ cook’s instinct failed him on the second night of our pizza bakeoff: His instinct didn’t tell him that that night he would blow up the pizza stone in my oven.



Read more »

Pizza Cookoff

“Listen to this recipe, Squints,” I said.  “No-knead pizza dough that keeps in the fridge for days.  Tastes like sourdough.”  I began reading from the recipe printed in my Mother Earth magazine. 

He wrinkled his nose and grabbed his Bon Appétit.  “My recipe sounds better.”   He listed the various toppings: bacon, some cheese I’d never heard of, arugula, Brussels sprouts…

Squints has gotten to the point in his cooking where he considers himself an expert—certainly he considers himself a better cook than I: He’ll offer to add some spices to a soup I’ve been working on all day or he’ll tell me that I might add a bit of salt to the lentils.  Sometimes I find this endearing.  Often it irritates me. 

“Well, we should just have a pizza cook off,” I said.  “All week.  Then we’ll know who’s got the better recipe.”

Read more »

The Company of Strangers

Summer is still such a recent memory, I’d forgotten what it feels like to be cold.  But we’ve had no heat for over a week and I suddenly remember.  I wear double pairs of socks and shirts.  I wear a scarf and a hat and gloves in the house.  I’ve become like our fat orange cat who moves from window to window searching for a patch of sunlight slanting in through the window.  The tea grows cold in my mug before I’ve finished it and at night, the dogs pull the blankets from our beds and lie beneath, curled up into tight little balls of fur. 

* * *

Squints was in a cooking contest the other day.  Four groups of people received an identical basket of food and cooked it according to their time period:  The 1940s group used camp stoves.  The Revolutionary group cooked over an open fire. 

Visitors had to pay an entrance fee and, for an additional sum of money, could purchase one of a very limited supply of orange wrist bands that entitled the wearer to taste small samples of the food.  There were tiny Dixie cups, dessert-sized paper plates and a handful of plastic forks and spoons set out for that purpose.

The weather was cold and raw.  Besides my family—we were more or less obliged to be there—only one man showed up.  He wore a green down vest and a checked shirt and baggy blue jeans and boots.  His orange wristband was displayed prominently.  But nobody checked for it anyway.

Our money refused, we were invited to eat.  The small, limited samples of food became enormous.  Instead of a teaspoonful of chicken soup and half of a Brussels sprout, we ate the equivalent of two meals there, moving from century to century with abandon, tasting a bit of chicken cooked in a reflecting oven and moving on to chicken and dumplings.  We tasted squash and scalloped potatoes and Johnny cakes and biscuits.  We ate cabbage with sausage and apples; we ate eggs and sausage; we ate an apple and onion tart.

Besides their obvious love of cooking, historical cooks love to talk: They want to educate the public; they want to talk about the methods historical cooks used.  Food historians like to connect the past to the present.  Most of all they like to connect to people.  Having no one else with whom to talk, they talked to us: Staffers talked to us about the weather and the history of the place; a husband of a staffer, dragged along to help, talked to us about sports; a tag-along husband of a woman from the 1600s plopped down in the folding chair next to my husband and talked about trying to sell his house and moving to Kentucky, absently scratching his knee beneath his woolen pants.

In that room heated only by cooking fires, we ate the food of strangers and listened to the cooks exchanging ideas.  We learned how a turkey feather makes a superior baster; We learned how to make a whisk from twigs; We learned how to tell the temperature of roasted chicken by touch; We learned how to cook rice inside a pumpkin. 

The caretaker came from his apartment with his own plate—a large wooden plate—upon which he heaped chicken and sausage and potatoes.  A cat jumped into my lap and started knitting.  “That there’s Albert,” the caretaker said.  “Just showed up one day.  He’s real friendly.  Not like Yellow Cat.”  He put a piece of chicken in his mouth.  “Yellow Cat’s been here two years and still won’t let me get near him.”

Someone set a plate of chicken on the floor.  Albert jumped from my lap and began eating. 

“We got a cat needs adopted out—a drop off,” the caretaker said.

 “We have a cat,” I said.

“Tried to take him to the shelter, but he’s just a little bit of a thing.  They told me that at his size, they take ‘em in the front door and haul ‘em out the back.”  He shook his head.  “I’d hate to see that happen.  He walked to the door and paused there.  “Wanna’ see him?” 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see him.”

“Cat likes to sleep on yer head,” the caretaker said.  “Keeps me warm all night.”

Perhaps it was the thought of warmth that made us do it: We took him home. 

* * *

We’re having tile installed in the basement this week.  We had to remove everything and bring it upstairs.  It’s disheartening to see how much stuff we’ve accumulated.  It’s embarrassing, seeing it stacked up around the perimeter of each room.  We’ve reacquainted ourselves with things we’d forgotten.  We’ve made plans to get rid of things we don’t need. 

The tile guys showed up and I led them the basement.  I split up the animals: One dog is relegated to the garage; another to a cage.  There’s a cat locked in one bedroom; the second in another.  The hamster, displaced from the basement, is now in the dining room, running a hundred miles to nowhere on his wheel. 

I apologize to the tile guys for the lack of heat.  I show them the bathroom and offer coffee, which they refuse.   

They prop open the screen door and leave the front door open, which I keep shutting when I know they’re done cutting tile for a while, not to be rude but because there’s a chill in the air and a wild cat with her four kittens roaming the neighborhood.

I do not speak the language of these men.  I wonder, listening to their easy laughter, their chatter, their occasional singing along to the radio they blast in the basement, what they’re talking about.  Yet, I cannot bridge the gap that divides us.

I feel I’m in their way.  I hide off in a corner, try to be unobtrusive.  For the moment, this house is theirs.    I take my lunch in the dining room so they do not see me eat.  They eat their lunch in the van, the ignition turned on for the radio and the heat.

I look forward to having my house quiet and in order again.  But even more so, I look forward to the heat.  Because a little patch of sunlight in the window is only so warm, and eventually, it disappears. 

Besides, the cats have already taken the best spots.

Liebster Blog

Spent the afternoon freezing several quarts of local vegetables for the winter: broccoli, cauliflower, the last of this year's corn.  Made a couple of loaves of banana bread and several quarts of my sister's potato-leek soup, using local potatoes and the chicken stock I made last weekend.

There's something about tucking things away for the winter, knowing that, as the snow begins to blanket the ground and the roads get icy, delicious food is just a few steps away.  So far, I've frozen over twenty quarts each of strawberries, peaches and blueberries; several quarts of raspberries; too many peach pies; chicken stock; soup; and vegetables of all sorts--greens, onions, celery for soup, carrots, soybeans, corn.  My only disappointment this year was the failure of the blackberry crop, which prevented me from getting the thumb-sized berries that grow at an orchard just down the street.  In a week or so, I'll make my applesauce and apple pies; and if I get my courage up, I may just try my hand at grape jelly as well--That same orchard sells concord grapes.

It's been a good season.

And it's a good time to thank Elizabeth at The Garden Gate for awarding me a Liebster.  Originating in Germany, a Liebster (meaning beloved) attempts to attract new readers to blogs with fewer than 200 followers.

To some, less than two hundred followers may seem an embarrassment.  But I consider myself lucky, even blessed, to have each of you.  Because, eight months ago, before I mustered the courage to share my writing here, I had no one following; I had no one reading. 

One of my characters, Lilly Jean Jacobs, recently said, "half a man is better than no man at all."  And while I'm not so sure I agree with that sentiment, I do firmly believe that 60-some readers is better than no readers at all.

Writing is a lonely occupation--in my case it could hardly be called an occupation--and I often wonder if anyone cares what I have to say.  Seeing my list of followers tells me that you do.  And so I thank Elizabeth for this lovely award.  And I thank you, beloved readers, for choosing to spend some of your precious time here.  I appreciate your readership. 

And I pass on this award to the following blogs:

1. Two Kinds of People - From Susan's blog: "There are two kinds of people in the world: those who garage sale and those who don't. And, of course, the subset of those who do—buyers and sellers."
2. What I Saw - I'm actually not clear how many followers Melissa has, but she deserves every one of them.  Inspiration for writing.  Gorgeous photography and nature.
3. Coming East - Another Susan! Lovely essays and memories here.
4. Lit Endeavors - All things reading and writing.
5. Meandering Homeschool - Hampchick writes of her adventures in homeschooling.

The Gathering Time

Tonight

Night falls gently as my husband and I walk the dogs this evening: The last of the lightning bugs flash lazily.  Clouds gather thick and close.  Water rushes along the sides of the street, but for now, the rain has passed.  From the trees, the katydids sing and respond; sing and respond a harsh percussive three note tune while the crickets offer a gentle lullaby from tall grasses.

Autumn is a time of gathering up: a time for the bringing in of the harvest.  It’s a time for shaking the sand from one’s feet and for folding up the beach towels; a time for exchanging flip flops for sturdy shoes and backpacks. 

Autumn is a time to gather in one’s family; to sit extra long at the dinner table, exchanging stories of the day; a time to see the yellow glow of lights in the windows of other houses and know that they, too, have gathered together.

The sun reels in her arms of gold a bit earlier every day; lazily casts them out a bit later; a bit closer every morning.  But it’s too early in the season to tire of the darkness: the change is welcome; comforting; new.

Read more »

Two Miles and Twenty Cents a Gallon

I saw him behind plate glass as I exited the bank: one-third of the way up the window, a four-inch long praying mantis.  Perhaps he was checking on interest rates.  Or maybe he was just grasping on for dear life, still in shock from the earthquake or in preparation for the upcoming hurricane. 

He must’ve been reading the papers or listening to the radio: Everywhere, people are being cautioned to ready themselves; to have food and water and travel plans worked out.  I have made no such preparations, although I did fill up the gas tank at the local—expensive—BP yesterday.   My usual trick is to just put a couple of dollars into the tank at the pricier place then limp as quickly as I can into the station two miles and twenty cents a gallon away.  I told myself, watching the dials spin wildly behind the glass, that I ought to fill the tank now, just in case.  But the truth of the matter is I’m too lazy to stop for gas again so soon.

* * *

Thanks to the library book sale, Squints is the proud owner of thirteen cookbooks.  He’s got one on desserts featuring Cool Whip in every recipe; a casserole book that employs Campbell’s Soup on each page.  And, although we have no pot, he picked up a book on fondue.  But there are a couple of promising books: Street Foods shows how to make food popularized on the city’s streets: Philadelphia cheese steaks, corn dogs, pad Thai.  And the sandwich book looks interesting: For lunch yesterday, Squints made me a double-layer banana peanut butter sandwich with cream cheese and an interesting concoction of brown sugar and cinnamon topping.   While I proclaimed it delicious, I decided to split it with V.  Filibuster eschewed it entirely, claiming to be full, despite the fact that she hadn’t yet eaten.

Read more »

'Fessing Up

Well, Filibuster and V are at work.  Squints is in the kitchen making chocolate chip cookies, fiddling with the recipe—adding a little of this and a little of that—experimenting to see if he can improve it or, perhaps, make the recipe his own. 

I’m OK with this tinkering. My only requirement is that he run the new ingredients past me first.  Sorry, but I cannot tolerate cilantro in my chocolate chip cookies, even if it is organic. 

Read more »

Preserving Memories

I drive to the school and pick up my daughters after their final exams.  Over lunch, I tell them I want to pick strawberries.  They sigh.  Summer has just started for them.  They want to relax. 

Just an hour, I tell them. 

They tell me they hate summer.  All this picking, picking, picking. 

I tell them it’s a short season—Strawberries don’t last. 

The room grows heavy with silence and resentments.  We eat our sandwiches without speaking.  The jubilation marking the end of the school year has passed.  No words are exchanged on the drive to the patch.  No radio plays to cover up the tension.  I find myself wondering why I bother.  Is it worth all this?

Read more »

Dolly Derby

Well, Squints and a friend are making a devil’s food cake with butter cream frosting and trashing my kitchen as they try to separate the eggs.  Perhaps I should give them a hand, but I won’t.  The cake may be delicious.  Quite possibly, it will be a disaster.  But, short of a fire, I will stay out of their way, acting only as consultant.  I will allow them to own this project because of a lesson my parents repeatedly taught my siblings and me years ago, a lesson that said that in order to succeed, we must first fail.

* * *

A gigantic cardboard box waited in the center of the main room at the K of C Hall.  A gaggle of girls crowded it, some kneeling on the grimy chipped tiles, others standing and leaning forward, watching the proceedings.

Read more »