Saturday, February 27, 2010

Savoring the Soup

How awful it was to have to make soup without Richard! Chuck and Gayle wanted to spend a quiet week-end together, and we know nothing stays quiet long when I'm around. Obviously, Chuck wasn't going to be chopping my veggies for me. Time for a fall-back position.

At first, I called my nephew-in-law James, who cooks for a living, and told him I was bringing the ingredients for him to help me cut. But, since he's Mr. Mom to a two and an under-one-year old while my niece Melanie is in college, that didn't work out. The boys are just too adorable to ignore; besides, Melanie and James don't have a fifty-five gallon drum sized pot for the vat of soup I planned to make.

I began boiling the soup meat and soup bones when I got to Scott and Buffy's house. While they cooled enough to be refrigerated, we went to Miya's "little" birthday party. OMG! It looked like Sandra Lee had set the stage for "Semi Homemade" There was pink and chocolate everywhere. I was almost in a sugar shock coma by the time we left the housefull of squealing nine-year-old princesses. It was so nice to get back to the garlic and beef infused atmosphere I had created at Scott's.

By the time I got up in the morning, Buffy had returned the soup pot to the kitchen from where she refrigerated it overnight. Then the fun began. I defatted and deboned the meat while Buffy chopped carrots. Neither Buffy nor I fine cut anything; home cooking looks homemade when we cook. But I was a bit disappointed for Gayle's family that they wouldn't get a tiny morsel of each ingredient in each spoonful of soup. Oh, well, I guess they'll just have to use bigger spoons.

Friday, February 26, 2010

So Much For Stillness

While Richard is quite content with his hobbies and his house, I’m yearning for action – something to write about. I’ve yet to see the first sign of spring in our neck of the woods; birds at the feeder and snowflakes in the air are all that’s happening around our holler.

Winter is for waiting, but must we be still while we wait? I once tutored a child who could only read while rocking. I understood perfectly, because he reminded me of myself. My mind seems to be focused
only when my body moves, so I’m off to warmer climates where there are lots of things to do.

Scott is participating in the annual Gulf Coast Garden Show with his pool and palm business. I’d love to see his display, and watch him at his work. I may even be able to attend with Gayle who is such an avid gardener that she’s taking a master gardener class. Planning for planting is a great way to beat the winter doldrums. In fact, Mountaintop Mary has already started buying her seeds, even though planting in Coker Creek’s ground is still two months away. I should have such serenity.

Gayle has taken herself off wheat, so I want to make her some beef and barley soup. This was a favorite of her family when I used to fill in as adult-in-charge when she and Chuck lived near me. Chuck has taken up cooking, so maybe I can give him a lesson or two. Perhaps, I can entice him to cut up the mountain of vegetables the soup requires. I can compare his prep cook skills to Richard’s, if I can get him to wield the knife. And he and I can experiment with adapting pasta recipes using rice noodles to accommodate to Gayle new dietary desires.

I still owe Miya a chocolate birthday cake; I hope she’ll help me bake it. And Nicholas is playing Lacrosse six times in this one week-end. I hear he’s very good, but have yet to see him perform. This is my chance to cheer him on. I’m also hoping to use some of the time for planning the springtime retreat in Coker Creek that Gayle and I would like to host.

While Coker Creek is hunkered down I’ll be revving up with lots of tales to bring back with me. I’ve already brought back the beads. If Richard throws the party, and the beads, while I’m down south, we’ll just have to have a repeat performance upon my return.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Snow

So silently, so softly it falls to the earth;
So swiftly, it changes my heart.
Where in sunshine I make plans to conquer,
In the winter God whispers, “Wait.”

As He lays this blanket across my breast,
He holds me tight and says,
“Stop! Hear Me! Do not worry.
All that is meant will come to pass.”

As I wait the snow begins to dance,
A Russian ballet in white --
No longer whispering, but flying
Inviting my heart to take flight

Teasing, taunting,
To play or to pray?
Both are avenues
To Peace and Joy.

Heading Home -- Part Two

I had been having a bit of sinus pressure for several days, but who doesn’t have sinus pressure in the winter? It turns out I had a temperature of 102; I was actually sick. This may help explain the coughing that had kept me awake for several nights.

I had already had to see our cardiologist friend Louis to get my blood pressure under control early in my New Orleans stay. I now wasn’t sure I’d be well enough to head home without seeing our friendly pulmonologist friend Elaine. I was scheduled for testing, in Tennessee, on Tuesday to see if the Tennessee cardiologist could pinpoint the reason for my blood pressure spikes. I really had to get home for that. It was time for massive doses of Ibuprophen, Benadryl, and a good night’s sleep.

Sunday, I felt well enough to finish packing the van, making sure the ice chest was accessible. There were still New Orleans groceries to haul home. My stop at Rouse’s Super Market supplied the rest of the ballast needed for good traction on the highway home. Richard had requested muffalettas and king cake to serve our Coker Creek crowd. I knew Adam and Josie would want to accompany their king cake with cafĂ© au lait, so this required a pound of coffee and chicory.

No trip south is complete without bringing home head-on Gulf shrimp; I bought twenty-five pounds. And I couldn’t resist a few other South Louisiana originals, like Italian olive salad and Creole cream cheese. Fully loaded, I drove until dark; this got me within three hours of Coker Creek. I checked into a motel knowing that I could sleep in and still get home for a late lunch.

I’ve made this trip many times, but I’d forgotten that a rock slide had closed part of my familiar route. Our navigation system was in Richard’s vehicle, so this left me to use my own sense of direction. My father said I was the daughter of an Indian Princess and a drunken Irishman. My sense of direction was definitely not inherited from my Indian princess mother. I think it came from my drunken Irish father. I wasn’t drunk, but I could have been for all the getting lost I did within twenty miles of our holler.

I definitely took the scenic route. I saw waterfalls that I’d never seen before and went off-roading on what had been roads before our winter rains. I eventually slid into home plate before dusk, with my van covered in half the mud between here and Reliance.

All we had time to do was haul in the goodies and groceries before I collapsed on the couch. The next morning, we were off to Maryville for a day at the doctor’s. With a van full of prescription medications for our various old-people ailments, we’re ready to hunker down in our bunker to wait out the winter -- until I head back to New Orleans, that is.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Heading Home -- Part One

Finally, I’m back to the basics of being home in the holler. I began the journey home four days ago, and it has taken this long to get semi-settled. You’d think I was traveling in a covered wagon, but I traveled in my trusty Villager with over two hundred ten thousand miles on the odometer.

The complications to homecoming came about in several ways. First, because I hadn’t anticipated setting up housekeeping in New Orleans, I hadn’t anticipated how long breaking camp would take. Moving all the provisions for a party spanning five days with over fifty attendees can be a challenge even when one has a driveway. It’s particularly problematic when there’s no parking anywhere near your party place.

The meter maids are famous in New Orleans for their prompt attention to all illegally parked vehicles. I suspect that parking tickets are the major income stream into the city coffers, next to hotel taxes. If one wants to unload in a freight zone, one had better have either a commercial name on their delivery vehicle or a look-out to move the van in case of a meter maid sighting.

Setting up my apartment was done in stages, with the assistance of an army of people and vehicles, working in carefully orchestrated sequence. Breaking down was another matter entirely. After the army left with their vehicles, I was faced with the remaining air mattresses, tables, chairs, ice chest, food, linens, and everything else to continue my stay. Moving out had to be as carefully calculated as moving in had been, but with only me and my van to accomplish this. I was confident I could make this kind of move, as I had spent many years loading catering trucks, setting up functions, and breaking them down for transport back to headquarters.

I undertook a study of the parking places in and around my apartment before asking Karen to assist me in retrieving my ride from the suburbs. Upon my return to downtown, I was able to park on the street only five blocks from my temporary home. This is an easy walk, even if one is toting tons of stuff, as New Orleans is as flat as a salad plate.

Next, I devised a plan for using the massive rolling garbage can as a transport trolley. I was kind of enjoying the prospect of all the stares I’d get wheeling my household belongs down Canal Street in a hundred gallon garbage can. All the shopping cart people would have been inspired to new heights in mobile household possibilities.

As it turned out, there are a few hours per day of legal parking right next to my building -- and free legal parking all day on Sundays. In the early hours of Saturday, I was able to park in the freight zone long enough to load the things that were to be returned locally. This didn’t require the rolling mega-can, but the ice chest on wheels came in mighty handy as a transport trolley.

I was feeling pretty good about my progress, so I set out to visit Gayle and Michelle. After several hours with Gayle, I began to feel feverish. I attributed this to our impassioned conversation; we do tend to discuss deeply spiritual matters. When I hadn’t cooled down by the time I got back to New Orleans, I decided it was time to take my temperature. Michelle tucked a blanket around me and popped a thermometer in my mouth.

Friday, February 19, 2010

At The Corner of Canal and the Quarter

We could have had more food and more fun, but I don’t know how we could have fit more into just five days. We definitely could have fit more family and friends into the apartment, if I had only known ahead of time that we’d score this coup.

I was awakened with a call from Roger, our Atlanta attorney friend. Our party is on the front page of the New Orleans Times Picayune. Even in a city with millions of revelers, we somehow managed to stand out. Of course, it’s rather difficult to keep a low profile when you’ve snagged the best corner in the Crescent City -- for Mardi Gras, at that. Now, all our New Orleans family and friends will know that the bawdy broad came back.

This corner is never quite quiet, but it does take a very brief siesta between the hours of four and five a.m. This is when the party people have finally been herded home by the police with bull horns and the street sweepers are still asleep. There is still the occasional sound of a siren, but not as much as when the Charity trauma unit was the emergency clinic of choice for all traffic accidents, broken fists and faces, and other wounds inflicted during inebriation altercations.

Before dawn, the mountains of trash have been bulldozed and swept off the sidewalks and the streets have been washed down. In a city where the success of the season is measured in tons of trash, it is truly amazing to see not a dot of debris once the street cleaners come through. It’s as if a huge zamboni has resurfaced the city for the beginning of a new day.

Everything important in New Orleans comes by the corner of Canal and the Quarter. Everywhere you want to go is accessible with one of the street cars or buses, the St. Charles streetcar for uptown and university sections, and the Canal line for downtown and the quarter. And if your business is in the ‘burbs, cab rides are less than ten miles from the center of the city. The historic Algiers area is a short ferry boat ride away.

It was a joy to have a number of grocery outlets available, with easily obtainable ethnic ingredients. We were so busy cooking and carousing that it left little time for restaurant reviews. All manner of manna is available in New Orleans’ uncountable restaurants, ranging from mom and pop shops to world-famous chef’s tables. One regret about this trip is how little local cuisine we consumed. We’ll correct that next time.

Another thing that we’ll prioritize next trip down is strolling through the many antique stores and art galleries that line the streets of the city. With so much local artwork rolling and strolling by the windows, there was little need to leave the building for more exposure to this wonder of the world called the Crescent City.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The New Orleans That I Know

The last Mardi Gras I saw in New Orleans was the first after Hurricane Katrina nearly wiped New Orleans off the map. It was also the first for my Atlanta granddaughters. It was easy navigating the streets, as there were very few folks in town. The locals had not yet been able to get re-established, and the tourists were unsure that there was anything to see outside of the destruction.

We were able to position ourselves at front and center for every parade, with our granddaughters having little competition for the treasures thrown by the many maskers on the Mardi Gras floats. Although it was sad to see the city so sparsely populated, it was a grand way to introduce these Bible Belt Babes to the pre-Lenten Catholic Craziness called Mardi Gras.

This was four years ago; this year, New Orleans is back! And we have the best seat in the house for reigning like royalty over the city of soul.

Mark and Susan, as did we, lost their home in Katrina. They relocated to Florida, and again to Louisville, leaving their flooded home to their son who wanted to reclaim it. They also left behind a French Quarter building that had been in Mark’s family for decades. I knew they had French Quarter property, but I’d never heard anything about it other than that it housed a touristy t-shirt shop. As I pined for New Orleans, I don’t know what made me ask Susan if they still had the property, but I did ask.

I was informed that, above the t-shirt shop, was an apartment that had been vacant for some time. Susan also let me know that they hadn’t seen the property for many years, and it was probably in bad shape. The main reason I had continued interest in seeing if the apartment had short-term parade rental potential was its location at the corner where all the downtown Mardi Gras parades pass.

As the realtor opened the dirty street-level door to a dingy hallway containing a set of very steep stairs, I was not encouraged. But, I still figured that even a roach motel could be useful as a safe family parade viewing stand – as long as it had a working flush toilet. When the key was turned in the lock at the head of the stairs, I stepped into the French Quarter version of apartment paradise.

The whole front and side of the building is made of windows looking out on the Canal Street parade route on one side and Royal Street on the other. The floor plan is mostly open space, perfect for partying. There are two buffet bars, one in the parade viewing room and one adjacent to the fully equipped kitchen. The immense master bedroom connects to a beautifully appointed bath, and the miracle of all French Quarter miracles, a laundry room with washer, dryer and mud sink.

For five days we’ve hosted friends, family, and their friends and families. We’ve feasted on regional delicacies of Rachel’s chicken and sausage gumbo, Buffy’s red beans and rice, French bread, king cake, stuffed artichokes, and my shrimp and ham stuffed mirliton, and dirty rice. We’re also sharing our summer bounty from our mountain home freezer: field peas with snaps, mixed greens, chicken and cornbread dressing, beef and barley soup.

All of this and barrels of beads -- It don’t get no better than this.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Aunt Mabel’s Table

New Orleanians don’t allow anyone to remain a stranger for long. In other cultures, it’s considered impolite to look at someone on an elevator. Here, whoever is first on the elevator becomes the elevator operator with, “What floor, Dawlin?” This person is just as likely to ask, “Who you goin’ see?”

It’s very common to be in line at the grocery store and have the person behind you inventory your basket and ask for your menu and the details of the function you’re planning. Many times the maw-maws at the registers will offer up recipes for you purchases, whether you ask for them or not.

If you’re not family when you arrive in the Big Easy, you’ll be family before you leave. Everybody is always looking to shrink the degrees of separation. They’ll find something that connects you to someone they’re connected to, if you stand next to them long enough.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I grew up in this area with an honest-to-God Cajun daddy. My summers were spent with my daddy’s mama and sister on the quiet bayou and on the plantation property of my mother’s sister’s family. There could hardly be two more opposite experiences of rural Louisiana living within a couple of hours of the pulsating rhythms of New Orleans.

I still have a sultry sister who’s a singer in the city and my daddy’s eighty-year-old baby sister on the bayou. Aunt Mabel and I are working on a book of her family’s Cajun cooking. She’s asking her kids and their kids to collect their memories, their photos, and their food interests into a memoir of their good times on the bayou.

Aunt Mabel, like her mama before her, has passed down family values with every spoonful of gumbo she’s fed the many who have eaten at her table. Uncle Roman presides at these meals, bringing up topics of interest to him, while Aunt Mabel monitors the conversations for their effects on the enjoyment of the time at the table. She allows very little talk that causes stress during the meal. These are topics to be taken up after dessert.

I, like Aunt Mabel, am concerned that, with so many mamas working outside of the home, the recipes for family meals and family living will be lost unless we make a concerted effort to preserve them. Has there ever been a better way to create strong family bonds than preparing a meal together, consuming the meal around a common table with civil discourse flowing, and cleaning together in the afterglow of the gift of good food made with loving hands and shared with loving hearts?
It may be old fashioned, but Aunt Mabel’s table is still the heart of her home.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Passionate Pulse of New Orleans

I love the passionate pulse of New Orleans where you never know if the person next to you is going to laugh with you, cry with you, hug you, or hit you. Where rituals aren’t only about religion; they’re about belonging to a tribe -- right now, the Who Dat Nation. Where the chant, “Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints “begins at one end of the city and travels as a wave down the length and breadth of the throngs lining the parade route -- miles and miles of chanting believers.

This is a city that embraces God and fears nothing; where people dressed like the pope parade with signs saying, “Bless you boys” about their favorite football heroes. New Orleans believes in the power of group prayer and the power of group play. Hurricanes are coming, gather and pray; Saints are playing, gather and pray; Saints are champions, get your group and make a joyful noise unto the lord.
New Orleanians mock the powers of Zeus and Toth and the other mythical gods in their Mardi Gras. They mock the power of death with their voo-doo and their cemeteries called “cities of the dead.” They know the difference between adoration and admiration; they cheer for their team and bow to their God.

Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras) marks the beginning of Lent, forty days preparing for spiritual rebirth. “Dat Tuesday” (also dubbed Lombardi Gras) marks the end of over forty years preparing for the city’s rebirth.

This is a city that celebrates all of their blessings and graciously accepts their sorrows. It’s loud in its joys, and prayerful in its pains. A common response to tragedy is, “Oh, Dawlin’ What you gonna do? I’ll be praying for you” as friends and families roll up their sleeves and begin doing for one another.

Even everyday meals here are small celebrations. The restaurants are full of locals embracing the gift of great food and the talents of the people who prepare them. It’s quite common to observe everybody at any table eating off of each others plates for the sheer joy of sharing good food with their friends.

We’ve cried for New Orleans for over five years, even as we all rolled up our sleeves to help them keep the faith. Many times it has seemed that we were caught in a rip tide, and the harder we fought the current, the less progress we made. There’s a new energy in New Orleans, a renewal of their basic belief in the power of the positive. There’s a new mayor to lead them; their VA hospital is being rebuilt; their beloved Saints are Super Bowl champions. New Orleans is, once again, smiling from one end to the other.

Let the good times roll.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Now -- On to New Orleans

I'm moving on to New Orleans to cheer the Saints back home. The party hasn't stopped in the French Quarter since the beginning of the week-end; it's sure to continue until Mardi Gras day. I'm planning to "be there in that number when the Saints go marching in" -- back into New Orleans.

I'm hoping to rent an apartment for the duration of the week, so my family can celebrate the Crescent City rebirth in comfort and style. For those who have never experienced New Orleans in parade mode, a bathroom is worth its weight in gold, and a kitchen is simply a dream come true. if you're lucky enough to have a flush toilet on the parade route, you're lucky enough.

Monday, February 8, 2010

What's Natural In New Orleans

Who Dat Family?

I have a son
Who is the most fun
He lives to throw parties.
He has some friends
Who are so close
They’ve combined their names
And are now the Yardies.

When Dave returns
With his new son
And his girls – all three
The family name
Won’t be the same
It will then be become
Family Mayardy.

Dave has always been
With them in spirit
While stationed in Italy
He’ll serve our nation
Where duty sends him
But with the Yardies,
He’d rather be.

Scott and Sam, their kids
And the wives
Buffy and Michelle
Are waiting with breathe
That is baited
To welcome back
Dave and Joelle.

New Orleans has long been called "the city that care forgot." Only people who have never survived in a mosquito infested, hurricane prone swamp,in one hundred percent humidity and one hundred degree temperatures could think that care bypassed New Orleans. It's not that New Orleanians don't have cares; it's that it takes some powerful celebrating to erase the pain of ever-impending catastrophic loss.

New Orleans is a predominantly Roman Catholic town. No matter what religion you start off with, if you live in New Orleans long enough, you become a little bit Catholic. It's in the blood and the water; New Orleanians work hard, pray hard, play hard. Mardi Gras is actually the beginning of Lent, the season of self-denial. Nobody celebrates like Saints fans.


There's a huge system of archdiocesan parochial schools. It's an accepted part of the cost of living that middle class families send their children to Catholic schools. The archdiocese cancelled school for the day after the Superbowl,and cancelled evening church services on Superbowl Sunday so that the fans could properly celebrate the Saints. The priests were also given permission to wear Saints jerseys over their ritual vestments.
There was even a rumor going around that the pope flew the New Orleans Saints flag in place of the pope's coat of arms in Vatican City.

There is no way I'd have ever forgiven myself if I hadn't been here for this moment in history. Richard and I spent three years after Hurricane Katrina helping our Louisiana and Mississippi friends lick their wounds and crawl back to having a sense of home. I just had to be here for their victory party. It almost erases the pain of having lost our homes.

We've been criticized for leaving, but someone needed a serene place to process the pain that we all felt. We lost our stuff, our neighbors, our jobs; but we still had our family -- and they were not whole. Now they feel whole.

I knew we were going to win the Superbowl. God promised he wasn't ever going to flood the world again. He flooded our world over four years ago, and this was His way of making it up to us. Anyway, that's my take on our win.

Who Dat say they gonna beat them Saints?

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Gone Pecan

Richard created a sensational salad,
And a marvelous malted milk cake.
I went to collect Jack’s stories,
In which we all have a stake.

Mountaintop Mary made pizza dough,
While Richard and Don stoked the fire.
We had hours of laughter and fun --
My need to celebrate was dire.

Richard’s got his dog tag on;
Charlie and Deborah checked in.
The snow flurries are beginning;
Time for good-byes to begin.

I’ve got all my ducks in a row,
With Adam and Josie on call.
It’s was time to head down south
For a Saint-sational “Who Dat” ball.

I’m gone pecan;
See you later alligator.
Take care of each other;
Dinner’s in the ‘frigerator.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Flip Flopping

Richard got his dog tag, and I got the okay to travel. Now, I have to start making decisions about my itinerary. The deceased policeman’s mother and widow plan to be at the conference in Sandestin, so I need to coordinate with them before creating my calendar. Miss Miya won’t be with her dad on her birthday, but she will be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras with her Atlanta cousins.

I could probably survive another winter week in Coker Creek while I get my project plans perfected. Then my trip down south will be carefree and kid friendly until I get o the conference. But that would preclude me seeing so many other people I want to see.

When I went to Wally World, I bought myself some Saints plates and napkins, so I could have my own Superbowl party with Richard. Our friend Chuck in Mississippi will be glued to his mega screen TV watching without a party of people. I could call him every time the Saints score, and pretend we’re watching together.

Mountaintop Mary is making pizza and has promised to show us how she does it. She’s also offered to make extra for Richard to eat while I’m away. We’ll be cooking as we scan Jack’s work into Mary’s computer. I’m thrilled that Mary has chosen to work with me to make sure that Jack’s work is secure.

Officer Adam has promised to check on Richard as long as promise to make him some more artichoke rice and banana muffins when I return. He’s anxious to have a place to put his banana torpedoes other than his own freezer, as it can be pretty painful when they fly out onto your feet. I told him that he could use bad banana storage as an excuse to come keep Richard company, as long as he stores his torpedoes in our outside freezer. I want Richard to continue being able to walk.

The other consideration is that our air ambulance company has us store our medical information in the kitchen freezer. How ironic would it be to have the EMT become the patient because a banana broke his or her toe?

As soon as Richard wakes, I’ll get my suitcase packed; then I’ll be ready whenever I decide to head south. And maybe I’ll put my suitcase in the car before we go to Mary’s, just in case I want to head out from there. I’d hate to get trapped until the spring thaw…

Friday, February 5, 2010

Satan, My Son, and the Superbowl

What a dilemma! I’m chomping at the bit to head to New Orleans. I’m dying to see the Saints in the Superbowl with fellow “Who Dats?” My blood pressure is in normal range, and more winter weather is predicted for the next week.

Add to this that I found out the annual conference of police officers that I need to interview for a book project is scheduled for Mardi Gras week in Sandestin; and my granddaughter Miya in Mississippi will be turning nine at the end of that week. Like that’s not enough temptation to head south to avoid two weeks of winter, my daughter’s family will be in Louisiana for Mardi Gras.

Get thee behind me, Satan. Richard still doesn’t have his medical dog tag, and I swore I wouldn’t leave him in the holler without it.

My son just built a new party hut in his back yard – with a wide screen TV and everything needed for a proper Superbowl party. He’s called twice to see what time I’m arriving. If I did go, I could videotape the proper way to party, and use it to help Scott sell his backyard designs. He is, after all, in the pool, deck, and palm tree business.

Unfortunately, for me – not her—Elaine (our pulmonologist friend who introduced me to Richard) is attending the actual Superbowl, so she won’t be at Scott’s to administer emergency care should my brain start to explode at Scott’s. I could just double up on my blood pressure pills as an appetizer before the game.

I can’t find folks here who even know what a “Who Dat?” is. “Who Dat say they gonna beat them Saints; Who Dat? Who Dat?” How can I possibly miss celebrating the biggest event in New Orleans history with other New Orleans fans? If the Saints win the Superbowl, we’ll forgive God for Hurricane Katrina – at least, I will – almost…

Maybe my problem will be solved when I see the nurse practitioner. Maybe she’ll tell me that I’m not stable enough to travel – physically, not mentally – we all know I’m never mentally stable. Maybe she’ll tell me that I can’t even watch the Superbowl without being in a hospital, in case I stroke out from the excitement.

I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Domestic Duties

I was so darned domestic I can hardly stand it. Richard has a favorite winter jacket that he wears every day that’s even moderately cool. It’s black and reversible, so he can wear it a long time before I insist on throwing it into the washer.

On his recent trip to the emergency room, he wore that jacket with the quilted side, what I consider the work side, of the jacket on the outside. As I sat with him, I noticed that there was a rip in a pocket seam. I didn’t want the staff to think we were vagrants who would stiff them for the bill, so I turned the jacket to the smooth, dressier side. To my horror, three of the seams of that side were in shreds. I turned it back to the “better” side, and decided that that jacket was getting downgraded to painting wear as soon as we got home. I had bought the jacket at a thrift store, so it’s not like it was a huge investment.

Well, Richard really gets attached to his beloved things. His twenty-year-old Bronco II is testament to that. I’m not complaining; it’s to my advantage that he doesn’t like to part with his old raggedy things. I’m not getting any younger or less raggedy. He implored me to fix his favorite outerwear. I couldn’t refuse him; he had already suffered the loss, in Hurricane Katrina, of his favorite down vest, given to him by our friend who introduced us. Besides, how many of my disasters does he rescue?

I set to work sewing, but you know how difficult remodeling can be. Before I could repair the seams, I had to rip more of them. And because the jacket is reversible, all the sewing had to be done by hand. What would have taken thirty minutes on a sewing machine became a two-hour project.

In the infinite regression of steps, I was searching my fabric stash for fusible webbing to back a rip, when I came upon a pair of Richard’s shoes that he’d asked me to save months ago. This pair of shoes he’d worn while roofing the root cellar. As he pointed out, the shoes were still good; he only broken the stitching on one shoe as he dragged his feet across the shingles. He really believes in “Waste not; want not.”

I figured, “What the heck. While I’m being domestic, I just as well go full bore into good wife mode.” Upon Richard’s return from his errands, I had managed to repair his jacket and his shoe. His real reward isn’t the repaired items of clothing; it’s a much calmer wife. I found the sitting and sewing very relaxing, and with my recent bout of pressure cooker blood pressure that has to be a good thing.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Livening Up Leftovers

Enough with the soup, already! The snow was melting; the sun was shining; and the birds were back. My blood pressure had also begun to head back into normal range. It was time to do some creative cooking.

Whenever we have bananas that are past their prime, I throw them into the freezer. When I get tired of having the black torpedoes falling on our feet from the freezer, I make banana muffins. This time, I could make them extra special because I could add the black walnuts that Richard had so meticulously shelled and picked. While these baked, I could turn my attention to the supper menu.

We had leftovers with a new spin. Artichoke rice was already prepared, and I had a pork tenderloin partially cooked and frozen. The challenge is to figure out what we already have in our pantry, refrigerator, under our bed, and in various other food-storage places to complete the menu.

I found a jar of marvelous gourmet mushrooms in the pantry, along with two varieties of sun-dried tomatoes – one dry packed and one in oil with Italian seasonings. The artichoke rice has a Mediterranean thing going on, and is pale green with flecks of carrot orange. I thought a bit of tomato would complement it nicely. But would sun-dried tomatoes be too powerful for the delicate pork?

I set the seasoned sun-dried tomatoes on the counter next to the stove, and put the mushrooms in with the pork. This way, the liquid from the mushrooms would help in keeping the pork moist while the meat defrosted in a slow oven. Every time I walked by the stove, I’d stop and mentally blend the flavor of the tomatoes with what was already in the oven.

I was having second and third thoughts about the addition of the pungent tomatoes when Richard walked in. He confirmed my suspicion that he’s not a big fan of the leathery little strips of tomato jerky, so I went to plan B. What goes with gourmet mushrooms when you want something acidic and colorful, yet relatively mild?

A trip under the bed and in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator saved the day. I had everything I needed for Chasseur sauce. With a clove of garlic, a bit of red onion, a splash or two of white wine, a sprinkle of flour, and a jar of Richard’s tomatoes from last summer, we had the perfect accompaniment to make leftovers new again.

It was quite tasty, and Richard gave the meal his highest compliment, “It’s a keeper.” He also ate three banana muffins for dessert, so I guess he found them acceptable.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Chicken Bone Chatter

Here we had this not very well-prepared rotisserie chicken in our refrigerator, along with carrots and celery that were partially frozen from our thermostatically challenged refrigerator. There was still snow on the ground, and the pressure cooker hadn’t whistled for a couple of days, so it seemed like soup time to me. The soup du jour was chicken and brown rice.

Richard is fond of purchasing rotisserie chickens when he goes grocery shopping, but very rarely thinks to eat them. This is because the mainstays of his diet are store-bought pastries like honey buns, toast, and English muffins. He knows he has high triglycerides, but doesn’t seem to get the low-carb concept. Since carbs are about the only vice left to him, I don’t say much on that subject, as long as his doctors are treating the condition caused by his addiction with medication.

A pressure cooker does wonders for poultry carcasses. All that collagen that holds the bones together simply melts into a velvety rich consommĂ©. Mama’s mama used to pressurize turkey necks, and pick the meat for a turkey version of hog’s head cheese. She’d mix the turkey meat with lots of aromatic vegetables and several other seasonings, fold it all into the bodacious broth, and chill for several hours. This shimmering delicacy was served on crackers as an hors d’oeuvres. Talk about good!

Most people making anything with poultry stock, boil the bones, pick the meat, and discard the clean-picked carcass. But my mother had a more “circle of life” way of chicken bone recycling.

My youngest brother Albert, God rest his soul, had two yap dogs named Poopie and Buster, and a mutt named Henry. My mother loved to cook for these beasts, but had heard that the sharp ends of chicken bones could cause intestinal problems. Never one to waste anything, Mama picked the pressurized bones for family food and threw the bones back into the Presto for another round of high-pressure heat. When she’d re-open the lid to the pot, the bones would have transformed themselves into bone meal. Mixed with the shavings from various vegetables and some cereal source, this would make a fine feast for Albert’s menagerie.

We always knew when Mom had been feeding her special brew to Albert’s dogs; the next day their droppings would dot the landscape with bright white landmines. I don’t think these dogs ever lacked calcium in their diets.

My grandma didn’t believe in coddling any cur or kid, so I’m quite sure she discarded the bones when my mother wasn’t looking. That probably explains why Grandma waited until Mama was out of the house to do most of her cooking.

Monday, February 1, 2010

A Winter Wimp

Maybe people can be divided into seasonal stalwarts and winter wimps. I’m definitely a winter wimp. Now that the sun is out, I feel somewhat hopeful. But I’ve already been informed b y Richard that the snowmelt will freeze on the roads with our expected arctic overnight temperatures. I suffered from seasonal effective disorder when we lived in subtropical Louisiana. What did I expect real winter to feel like?

Now, I do have to admit that the sun glistening on the crystal white snow is a sight to behold, and watching the snow showers off pine needles was a magical sight. I don’t even like to be out in cold weather, but I hate knowing we can’t go anywhere in an emergency.

Charlie called as soon as the roads iced to let me know that his all-wheel Mariner could get us anywhere we needed to go, no matter what the weather. And Adam has assured me that if we had an emergency, he could come rescue us. It is grand to live where there are still gallant knights that their gracious ladies will lend to others in distress.

Mountaintop Mary called to remind me that I should fill the bathtub with water, in case the electricity goes out, which is a rather common occurrence when you combine winter storms with pine trees and above ground utility wires. Of course, it follows that if the power goes out, the electric well pump won’t pump water to the house. This means that it won’t be long before the toilets stop flushing. I hadn’t thought of that. I knew we had several gallons of drinking water, but that wouldn’t give us many flushes.

I was in such a state that I immediately filled both tubs, forgetting entirely that one of the safety features of our property is that we have two creeks that run with high volumes of water whenever we have snow or rain. It’s a good thing, too, because the stoppers in our tubs must not have good seals. The tubs were empty when we awakened.

I’m trying to think like a survivalist. I have food stored all over the house, including under our bed. We have canned fuel for our chafing dish for cooking, and a fireplace with lots of wood for heat. Richard brought in the sub-zero sleeping bags from Morrissey Manor. I’m considering having Richard carry in the heavy duty batteries from the non-movable RV and the converter from the van, so that we can continue to work on our computers, and he can watch TV. We may even consider investing in a solar collection panel like Jack’s been using. I know he gets several hours of running a light bulb off a solar charge.

When we moved from Louisiana, we were tired of evacuating for the most common emergency, hurricanes. Little did we know that hunkering down came with its own set of problems, which we now have to learn to address.