Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Fun With Our Freezer

Richard was really my hero yesterday. He went out to our large freezer that we keep in the “cat house” (so named because, when we had two cats, they claimed this outbuilding as their own). One of the great losses of our lives in Coker Creek was silently creeping into our reality, and we would not have known it until it was too late without Richard’s foraging for fish in our freezer.

Our freezer was in the process of a mysterious meltdown! My twenty-five pounds of head-on Gulf shrimp, months of Jack’s banana peppers that we had so lovingly pared and blanched for use in interesting hors d’oeuvres, gallons of greens and Buffy’s beans all at the edge of annihilation. Richard was clearly on the verge of panic – I don’t know if this was because he could see all of these culinary creations of the past year being hauled to the dump, or because he really feared my meltdown, along with that of the freezer. Richard never really panics, but he does get close occasionally.

It seems that all this winter’s rain and snow not only dampened the earth and her inhabitants, it also shorted out the electrical cord connecting the freezer to the source of its power. This should have been a simple, fast fix – plug in another extension cord, right? This is easier said than done when the freezer in question is several hundred feet from the closest electrical outlet.

Not only is that, but the power to the cat house is in a daisy chain from the house to the RV to the cat house freezer. Nothing that hooks up to an RV is of the household variety; therefore, no maintenance or repair parts are available anywhere near locally. This would be the case even if we lived in a major metropolis, but it is even less likely that we’ll find parts within a one hundred mile radius living on a mountain top in the forest in South East Tennessee.

Richard was able to locate enough power tool extension cords connected to his various projects to temporarily get juice flowing back into our treasure trove of frozen foods while he went in search of heavy duty electrical cord repair parts. All the while, there was nothing I could do but stay at my computer avoiding the issue. I just couldn’t bear to face the freezer facts.

With great trepidation, after several hours of denial, I finally determined to go see if I could do some damage control. Richard had said that there was still ice on some of the shelves even though the food felt defrosted to him. There was some slim hope that I could carefully salvage at least a bit of our bounty by immediately cooking it and inviting all our neighbors over for a food frenzy feast, like we’re used to doing after the freezers defrost in the power outages connected to hurricanes.

I took a garbage bag with me on the hundred yard walk; I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. I slowly opened the freezer, expecting the worst. My eyes went immediately to my treasured jumbo shrimp. They were not only still solidly frozen; they hadn’t even melted and refrozen into a great glob. If the shrimp were still individually frozen, the rest couldn’t be too bad. I looked for reasons for Richard’s report of impending dietary doom. A couple of sugary sauces were indeed still soft, but they never get solidly frozen. Our friends will just have to wait for their food fantasies to be sated, one dinner delight at a time.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Rummaging in the Refrigerator

It really all started with Josie saying she was tired of chicken, and that Adam was going to, hopefully, (if it didn’t keep raining) grill some good burgers. This put hamburgers into my mind – not new ones, but the ones leftover from the previous night’s supper. Nether Richard nor I had been terribly impressed with the quality of the meat, so I wasn’t looking forward to eating them reheated “au natural.”

It was a chili kind of day, one of those damp days where, whatever the thermometer says the temperature is, your toes don’t believe it. Time to take out the chili ingredients, which, in my case almost never starts with a trip to the grocery store. It usually starts with rummaging through the refrigerator to see what leftovers I can re-imagine as a new dish, in this case it started with those hamburger patties.

As I rummaged, I found a bit of a jar of salsa, several onions that had long-since spouted green tops, some chopped jalapenos that I had frozen several months ago, and a few cloves of garlic that were getting a bit past their prime. I also found two beautiful, crisp bell peppers, one yellow and one orange that Richard had bought for his sumptuous salad-making.

I did want some bell pepper in the chili, but I had two challenges in using these peppers. The first is that these peppers probably cost as much as everything else in my refrigerator combined. The second is that Richard would have to drive a minimum of twenty-three miles each way to replace them. Our local grocery store (only eleven mile away – one way) doesn’t carry such “exotic” ingredients. I opted for a jar of roasted red peppers from our pantry.

It was a bit of a challenge unearthing all these ingredients, as both our refrigerator and freezer are regular sources of avalanche activity. But, in these matters, I’m much braver than Richard; and a woman’s sometimes got to have mercy on her man. The only thing I asked of him is that he fetch the tomatoes that I had canned last summer.

He was happy to do so, and inquired as to how many jars I needed and where he would find them. He was a bit incredulous when I told him to look under our bed -- until I informed him that the reason our marriage was so fruitful is because we sleep on top of so many of the fruits of our labors. At this point, he just went to get the tomatoes, but still looked surprised that they were actually where I said they’d be.

While I was busy stirring my witch’s brew, Deborah called asking which day we wanted her and Charlie to come over for dinner. It seems that Richard had invited them over, but didn’t give them a date. How nice that I was already cooking enough for company (like I even know how to cook for only two.)

The chili got Charlie’s seal of approval, but since Deborah prefers not to eat meat I did a bit more rummaging and came up with the ingredients for spaghetti squash tossed with sun dried tomatoes, a bit of feta cheese and a sprinkle of sunflower seeds. We all loved Richard’s salad, and had a grand old time talking at our table.
See what can happen when we’re open to anything…

Monday, March 29, 2010

"Deep-Doo"

If you’ve ever heard two cats fighting, you have a pretty good idea of what’s been happening I my head recently. I’m a rather impassioned speaker even if I’m reciting my grocery list. Okay, maybe that’s not a good example because we all know how passionate I am about food. Anyway, Rachel agreed to come up to the holler for a “just us” visit. She has known me for almost thirty-nine years, so she knew what she was signing on for. She refers to my favorite conversational topics, things like “the meaning of life,” as “Deep-Doo.”

It had been a couple of years since we had this much “just us” time, so I had kind of stored up the “Doo;” it was pretty deep. Not to mention that I’ve lately been torn between two “lovers,” Coker Creek and New Orleans. Rachel understands my struggle because she’s often longing for the Louisiana lifestyle. I also am sorely distressed by the climate of fear in our political discourse in the country. We took on all these topics, and then some, including religion – you know all the things we’re taught not to discuss in polite society.

Poor Richard; he must have thought there were two tigers in a big sack in the living room. As we talked, my voice got louder and louder, which is, I think part of having grown up in a family of eleven passionate people. First, he retreated to the kitchen, then he headed to his office, and finally he closed the office door – all the while suffering in silence as Rachel and I took on all the problems of the world.

In the early days of our relationship, quiet spoken Richard would stop my arguments with, “Just because you can talk louder than me doesn’t make you right.” Even when I’m in agreement with a person, the greater my feeling for whatever the topic, the louder my voice gets. My daddy used to call me “Mighty Powerful Woman, “probably on the strength of my voice. He also called me “Y” –because I always wanted the “why” behind every statement of rule or belief.

When Rachel went back to tell Richard good-bye, Richard came out of the room shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m glad you had a good time,” he said, rather quizzically. “If you call that a good time, which I don’t understand.” Rachel replied, “I wouldn’t call it a good time, but it was fulfilling.” “Yeah, I’m full to overflowing,” I said.

This was only partially true. I did feel filled with Rachel’s love for me, but I felt empty of all the grief and anguish I’d saved up. I don’t know how Rachel felt when she left, but I felt purged, and utterly exhausted.

Richard is a brave man to have two matriarchs in his house at the same time. He seems no worse for the wear; in fact, he calmly proceeded to the kitchen after Rachel departed and made sumptuous salads and burgers. What a man!

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Crazy Cajun Catholic

It’s very important to folks around here that people profess their faith, and they distrust anyone not attending a church. They’re not particular which church you attend (as Mamie says, “It’s all the same Bible,” as long as it’s a Christian church. I’m not sure how they’d feel about attendance at a synagogue or mosque because we don’t have any in these parts.

This was made very clear to me when I offered my (and by extension Richard’s) services to a recently widowed woman. When she seemed reluctant to take me up on my offer, I told her that, since Richard and I don’t attend church, she could help us to salvation -- not that I think that simply through good works will I be saved. I was just trying to get past the natural reluctance of the independent mountain people to ask for help from outsiders.

She rather quizzically replied, “I don’t know that that’s how it works.” Without stopping to think, I answered, “I’d rather try to live like a follower of Christ than to sit in church and listen to somebody talk about Christianity. But the real truth is I just can’t sit quietly that long. If there was a Black Baptist church with all the shouting of ‘Alleluias’ and ‘Amens’, I might be able to attend that church.” I didn’t mean to imply that all the people sitting in churches weren’t walking the walk of Christianity; I hope she didn’t take it that way. It did leave her speechless -- but much that I say and do leaves a lot of people speechless.

I was driving to Maryville when I found my faith, and I began laughing so hard I had to stop the car and call Gayle, who wasn’t home – but Chuck was. I can’t remember what I said to him, but I knew he wouldn’t “get” my elation. I had been a Catholic all along – I wasn’t Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodox Catholic; I was what we are taught is the true meaning of the word “Catholic,” which is to say, “Universal.”

At first I thought it was a Cajun thing, so I labeled myself Cajun Catholic. (I seem to have a lot going with the whole CC thing: Coker Creek, Crazy Cajun, Cajun Catholic.) I wasn’t brought up on the bayou, even though I spent summers there, but I’ve always felt that my nature is very molded by my Cajun family. They are very “live and let live” people.

Now, this isn’t to say that they allow you to do whatever you want in their homes. My Cajun grandma used to make the rules for her home, and then say, “If you don’t like it, there’s the door.” My aunt (my Cajun grandma’s daughter) is much the same way, but much more soft spoken about it. Her husband is the one who shows you the door if you break the house rules.

It’s just that, on some basic level, they have always understood that the church is there to support them in their journey through life, not the other way around. They’ve always had a healthy skepticism for anybody’s teachings that came from books without any life experience to back it up – much like mountain folk. Somehow, I can’t imagine my grandma or aunt going to the parish priest for marriage advice, or advice on raising their children.

I live by words; the words spoken to me affect every aspect of my being. I’m a firm believer in the saying popular with psychiatrists and social workers in the seventies, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can make me crazy.” The words of the creed, “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church” are said in (I think all) Christian churches. Now, by the commonly held definition of Catholic in Christian churches, catholic means universally Christian. So I looked up the definition and the origins of the word catholic. This is what I found:
catholic adj
1. universal; relating to all men; all-inclusive
2. comprehensive in interests, tastes, etc.; broad-minded; liberal
[from Latin catholicus, from Greek katholikos universal, from katholou in general, from kata- according to + holos whole]

Source: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/catholic

This may not be earth-shaking to most people, but to me it was life-changing. As soon as I find the church that’s truly catholic, I may join the congregation. Now, why did it take me so long to read the dictionary?

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Putting the Puppies Away

I know that in the cities, the young women run around “half-nekkid” with their bellies hanging over their britches, and the young men have half their boodies bared, but that dog just won’t hunt in the holler. Since nothing else in such a small community can be kept secret for long, folks here try to at least keep their body parts hidden. Besides, between the cold weather in winter and the yellow jackets and copperheads in summer, there’s little incentive for baring your body on a farm.

One reason many of us move to rural areas is for the privacy it affords us. For we women this can give us the opportunity to let our bodies breathe. We all know that there used to be rules for what women wore and when they could wear it, like no white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. And we never, ever, let a man not our husband see us without our undergarments. I’m of the age that took these things seriously growing up, and our husbands were raised with women covered-up, unless we were cover girls or on the beach.

There’s a bit of a problem with making the transition from close-quarters city life and drop-in-anytime rural routines. Most of us women don’t like to be up-tight while we’re hanging (literally in some cases) around the house. We have to insist that the husbands call before coming over so we can, as Adam says, “Put our puppies away.”

Well, Mountaintop Mary’s husband Don was coming by to borrow some computer software. I knew I was getting into the shower, so I hung the software in a plastic bag on the front door knob. Several hours had gone by with no sign of Don. When he finally arrived, Gypsy met him at his truck and wasn’t looking like letting him past her. It didn’t seem right to have him hobble all the way past our ninety-six-pound “pet-me” machine—what with knowing he’d been knocked down by one of their four-hundred-pound “pet-me” machines (one of Mary’s horses)just last week, and is still limping from his bruises.

My puppies weren’t in their pens, even though I was fully clothed, and it was long past lunchtime. I was in the kitchen, so the first thing I saw when looking for something that would sub for a burka was my aprons hanging on a peg. I grabbed one, and tied it on. What a perfect solution to our ongoing girl issue! Now I know why the maw-maws used to wear aprons, whether they were cooking or not. Why, oh why did June Cleaver have to mess it up for all of us?

There are some women who are always dolled up every time I see them. This is not at their houses, but at the grocery or drug store. For all I know, they may be fully dressed for only an hour a day; even I could stand being controlled for that period of time – I think so anyway.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Princesses and Professions

Many mamas might understand this, but many may not. My daughter is coming for a visit, and I’m so excited I’m like a girl waiting for her first date. I guess this needs some explanation…

My daughter and I spent her life doing everything together. I used to try to get her to go outside and play with someone closer to her age, but she insisted on staying with me. I never knew what she found so interesting about me, but we sure were attached at the hip.

Fast forward to her entry into adulthood.

First there was her boyfriend that she met at McDonald’s. Then there was college – with her boyfriend. The trip that started at McDonald’s progressed to marriage. As soon as she finished college, she conceived her first little angel – a very high-strung child. Just when her first was looking like her weaning was a permanent condition, along came her second daughter, a very intellectually demanding delight.
Her children became the end-all and be-all of her existence, so we never had a moment alone. (Well, almost never –the alone moments were always subject to interruption with one childhood or husband emergency or another.)

Then, Rachel heard the call of her other vocation. She became a teacher, as her University of Georgia degree decreed she should be. But, being just a teacher wasn’t enough for my little matriarch; she had to sign on with a Title One school, with a predominantly non-English-speaking population. Imagine the extra hours it takes to grade third-grade papers from children who have no English-speaking parents at home to help with editing their homework!

Rachel’s daughters are now almost fifteen and almost twelve. They have trained their daddy to be a sensitive and caring dad of the twenty-first century – or else. (Remember the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”) Now Rachel is free to come see me – without husband or children in tow. I guess the girls gave her a hall pass to come see their granny.

I’ve warned Rachel that Richard is incapable of cooking without a menu plan, a recipe, and a targeted trip to Ingle’s and other good grocery stores. She says, “It makes me no never mind” – this from a third grade teacher! I told Richard that we’ll be happy foraging for our food; I hope this keeps her happy, as she also said she doesn’t want to “run the roads.”

It won’t surprise me if Rachel and I end up in the kitchen. I like to think that her reverence for experimentation began with our kitchen capers. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to learn that so many of our pre-Women’s Lib domestic skills sowed the seeds of our princesses’ professions?

Richard has agreed to make himself scarce, as there’s no telling into which part of his house we may wander (wonder-braless, at that.) I’ve informed him that we may want to watch “chick flicks” or other emotion-provoking episodes, like the series on our nation’s national parks. He may just move into the RV and suffer in silence.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

A Wonderful Lot of Ladies

I spent the morning with the Dorcas Ladies of Center Presbyterian Church in Ballplay. What a busy bunch they are. It was quite remarkable to be in the center of all this celebration. As each woman arrived, she set up her sewing machine and took out her quilt-in-progress. Each woman’s work was much admired by the rest of the seamstresses as part of their greetings. The church hall was a kaleidoscope of colors and textures; each woman’s vision coming to fruition in her artwork-in-progress.

There was a garden quilt, and sacred sayings quilt, and a quilt with little heart appliqués among the many works-in-progress. I’d be hard pressed to say which one I’d want given the opportunity to choose just one. This is folk art at its finest.

There was much sharing of ideas and methods, as well as some serious teaching of technique going on. These are women with a mission; the group leader asked each one, in turn, what she was going to do with her finished quilt. Mostly, the quilts go either to needy families, families in grief, or perhaps to families accepting new members (I’ll have to ask Josie or Eda about that.) A few are auctioned off to raise funds for other causes these ladies support. What a wonderful lot of ladies!

Adam taxied Josie to the meeting and entertained Eda in the kitchen while she got the goodies ready to share. Ninety-year-old Eda had made a decadent-looking chocolate dessert and another member of the group contributed lemon squares. When Eda announced that coffee was ready, the sewing machines became silent, and my favorite part of any celebration started – the eating part.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to eat these sweets, as I’m on the Atkins plan, but Richard was certainly happy to receive my share. He is most definitely not into low-carb eating, so I also stopped at Tellico Bakery to further surprise him and tempt his taste buds. The bakery closes for part of every winter; it seems like it was closed for longer this year than last, and Richard has been sorely missing their pastries and breads. This is about his only guilty pleasure.

He was like a little boy at Christmas when I presented him with the baked goods bounty. His only problem now would be choosing which to eat first, the Dorcas delights, the apple turnover, or the blueberry and cream cheese Danish. He began with the Dorcas delights, but I’m sure that not a full day will go by before he has the bakery treats.

I retreated to my writing room to type out recipes from Helen, an eighty-one-year-old member of Dorcas, and from Mamie, my ninety-year-old mountain mama. Eda had already shared her biscotti recipe. These will go into the Coker Creek Elementary School cookbook as soon as I get them to Judi, who is coordinating the Coker Creek Heritage Group’s input. If recipes from one eighty-one-year-old and two ninety-year-old cooks aren’t part of this area’s heritage, I don’t know what would be.

I was richly rewarded by Richard. He made me one of his gorgeous salads and a baked omelet with sautéed onions and wild mushrooms for dinner. For this, I’ll forego the desserts.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Running the Roads

I ran the roads on Tuesday. One of my stops was to ask Mamie for more recipes for the Coker Creek cookbook, but Mamie was also out running the roads. Mountaintop Mary and I met at Jack’s to swap tales with him, literally. We have a system going where Jack writes his stories on his manual typewriter; Richard or I pick them up from him for first reading. I hand them off to Mary who scans them into her computer. She then emails the scanned images to our editor and returns the original to Jack. This requires a bit of back-and-forth to Jack’s, so Mary and I decided to meet there and visit Jack before tearing up the tarmac together.

Mary and I are conspiring to combine our kids and create a “Granny Camp.”Mary’s mountaintop is paradise for her grandchildren in the summers. Richard and I also anticipate many more summers of nieces, nephews, and grandkids swinging from our trees and fishing in our fish pond. Last summer, a friend in Florida, Terry Sue, came to visit with her eight-year-old daughter, Theresa Ann – this was just part of the parade of friends and family members who come to enjoy the cool mountain temperatures.

Theresa wrote that her visit with Jack -- drinking from his spring and typing on his typewriter were two of the best parts of her whole summer. She has since made me a list of suggestions for future fun things to do, including cooking classes, finding gold, and gardening. T. Ann also suggests that she and my granddaughter Sarah set up a shelter for stray cats and kittens. Imagine how ecstatic she’ll be if she gets to bake bread, make paper and pet horses at Ms. Mary’s house!

Josie’s down with her back again, so I delivered red beans and soup to her. Adam can make a pot of rice, after he gets home from being a Sweetwater policeman, if he wants New Orleans style red beans and rice. I also gave them some corn and chorizo pudding; I’m always looking for feedback on my culinary creations.

I really have to take off some flab after all that partying down south; either that or invest in a new Lane Bryant wardrobe. I started the Atkins diet, and I’m eating my weight in eggs. The only diet I’ve ever stayed on is Atkins low-carb plan, probably because it allows me to have all the hollandaise I want on all the fish and beef I can eat, and still lose weight. My cholesterol is also lower on that diet than on any other. Go figure!

Richard baked biscotti to send to Gayle while I was out with Mary and used a number of eggs in the endeavor. Now I have two missions to accomplish at Mamie’s, along with a visit. She will hopefully be willing to lend more of her recipes to the school’s fundraising project, and I sure need some more of her pampered-pet-produced eggs.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Scaring the Snow and Sharing Our Strengths

Gypsy Woman had a very busy morning barking at the snow invading her territory. Great Pyrenees are bred to protect their flocks, and she’s not so sure what all these cold, white aliens are doing falling on our ground. She knows our cat Buster has no need for this stuff, and she probably has picked up that neither does her mama.

I had recipes to type for the Coker Creek Elementary School/Coker Creek Heritage Group cookbook project, so the snow didn’t much bother me. I was so excited that each of Coker Creek’s ninety-year-old cooks agreed to have one of her recipes submitted. Eda wrote out the biscotti recipe and Mamie shared her daughter-in-law, Louise’s, squash casserole recipe. I had to type and email them; and since I type two-fingered at a blazing sixteen words a minute, it kept me occupied for a while.
Mountaintop Mary graciously gave me access to her Mary Mac’s Apple Cake recipe, already neatly typed. I know Richard will want to try this one when apple season rolls back around.

Eda has asked me to attend the next Dorcas meeting at a nearby church. Josie drove me to one of their meetings before the Tellico Plains Christmas Candlelight Walk. This is the ladies circle that organized the last candlelight walk when it was in danger of being discontinued. Since the Cookie Caper is a major source of their funding for their good works in the community, and there would have been no Cookie Caper without the Candlelight Walk, they simply took charge of the whole thing. Sounds like potential candidates for One Million Matriarchs to me.

I did want to know exactly what mission the Dorcas group supports, so I Googled “Dorcas.” Come to find out, Dorcas was a dressmaker who made clothes for the poor in her village. She is considered by some to be a saint, which I strongly suspect she may be. I’ve heard that we’re not saved by good works, but I’m hoping this will give me access to a group of women who focus on positive progress and problem solving. I did belong to a couple of these in Louisiana before Hurricane Katrina, even though I’m definitely not sorority sister material. I also have no sewing or other craft skills, so I’m not sure what part I can play. Only time will tell.

The poverty and social inequality issues in the rural mountainous pockets of Appalachia are being brought to the fore again with the slump in the world economy and the high unemployment rate. Mamie well remembers how bad things used to be. Her dreams of a community garden got us started on gardening with her.

Coker Creek Village has now begun plans for a community garden utilizing church mission groups attending their summer camp programs to support the food bank for the local families fallen on hard times. I know the children attending our “Granny Camp” this summer will be only too happy to help.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Allegorical Alice In Wonderland

Alice was magical,
Stupendous, fantastical
The three-D was most radical
Especially in Imax format.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Saturday Supper

Sarah had a soccer game, and it had been too long since I’d seen her play. Richard had long-since finished framing Holly’s photos with various celebrities she’s fed in her position as chef for the Georgia governor’s mansion, but still hadn’t had the opportunity to hang what Holly refers to as her “wall of shame.” I’m wanting to pick up some ingredients from Whole Foods (called Harry’s in Atlanta) that we just don’t seem to be able to find in the south eastern-most tip of Tennessee. We had nothing scheduled for the week-end anyway, so away we went to Atlanta.

We were spending the night at Holly’s, and didn’t want her to have to feed us. We also wanted to see more of Rachel’s family. After the soccer game and the hanging of the gallery of famous folks’ photos, we took the grandgirls, their parents, a friend of Rebecca, and Holly and Don to a restaurant near the Marietta square.

I have long said that since I can cook, as can Richard, I don’t go out to eat just to eat; I go for the restaurant experience. This was quadrupley true with this table, as Rachel is also a good cook. And did I mention that Holly is a professional chef? Her husband cooks for her at home. I’ll admit that our standards may be a bit on the high side.

Well, this restaurant failed on so many counts, I lost count. This is quite a shame because their recipes were very good. The service was seriously sad; the food was cold; and the first of us to get our food was finished eating before the last entrée arrived. All of this, and the owner said, “Well, at least the food was good.” He didn’t even offer a coupon for a repeat attempt or a cup of coffee on the house. He also didn’t credit any of our substantial bill, to which was added a mandatory gratuity. We won’t soon repeat that restaurant, but we did have a lot of fun.

Eda has given Richard her “Top of the Line Baker” seal of approval, and Gayle has requested biscotti, having read about it on my blog -- but I know she shouldn’t eat wheat. In addition to ingredients for our own food fantasies, I think Harry’s would be a great place to find exotic alternatives to wheat flour for Richard to bake into biscotti for Gayle.

We’ll brunch with Holly and Don, feasting on their corned beef hash and eggs; maybe make it to a movie; hop on into Harry’s; and then head home to the holler. It’s nice knowing that we’re so conveniently and centrally located in a triangle consisting of three major metropolitan areas: Atlanta, Chattanooga, and Knoxville. We just need to take better advantage of their offerings. Perhaps we’ll create a routine of Saturday suppers in the “big cities.”

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Appalachian Artistry

It wasn‘t just biscotti that Richard was baking in my absence. I went to a Coker Creek Heritage Group pot luck supper and meeting, and was regaled by many with tales of Richard’s prowess in the kitchen. It seems that half of Coker Creek experienced baked goods that he had created.

There was the banana cream cake that he made for Betty, and another that he shared with Mountaintop Mary, Don, Mamie and Jack. The Ruritans were the lucky recipients of his own creation of a mandarin orange cake. It’s a good thing I came home when I did to let everyone know that I still like Richard to cook for me. A woman just can’t be too careful if she has a man that can cook.

Josie and I had a lovely lunch, thanks to the efforts of my man. While I was away, he made a large batch of meatballs and an equally sufficient supply of spaghetti sauce, and put both in the freezer. When Josie agreed to come to lunch, all I had to do was slice some of Wal Mart’s answer to French bread, pile on the meatballs, cover with some sauce and top with feta cheese. While this warmed, I cut a cucumber, diced some red onions, sliced a few Greek olives, and tossed it all with a bit of Greek dressing. We then sat down and chatted while we chewed.Richard had run downtown for building supplies, so it was just us two ladies doing lunch.

I had been anxious to show Josie my recent art purchases. Josie is such a multi-talented artist, I knew she would appreciate all the work that went into the textile arts I brought back from Womenspeak. I’m never sure which medium of her work is my favorite, and I don’t know if there are any art media that she hasn’t tried.

We’ve been plotting to have me take some of her work on the road when I go to craft shows representing Jack. Ideally, Josie would be able to accompany me on some of these trips. I know I like to watch her at work; I’m sure her presence, and her wonderful work, would help to draw people to our booth.

Eda has offered some of her recipes for the upcoming Coker Creek Elementary School cookbook. Since I can’t find her recipe for biscotti that I must have filed under “S” for “Somewhere,” I’m hoping one of Eda’s offerings will be instructions for baking her biscuits. I think Mary’s going to share a recipe for one of her special cakes. If the rest of the contributing cooks are anywhere as good a Richard, Eda and Mary, this cookbook will be worth whatever is the cover price.

I’d love to start a Coker Creek version of a craft school. With all the wonderful Appalachian arts available here, and the fact that I’ve already been approached to teach cooking, we may be able to get a group going as early as this summer.

Friday, March 19, 2010

The Best Biscotti Ever

I came home to a lovely surprise from Eda and Richard. It seems that my reminder to Eda that she promised to teach me how to make her best-ever biscotti prompted her to invite Richard to her kitchen to create a coming home surprise for me. I’m now munching daily on cranberry-almond biscotti that’s truly incredible.

Eda has gifted me with the recipe, but I wanted to learn the tricks of the trade from the master (or mistress, as the case may be.) Eda’s had ninety years of bisotti baking experience, assuming she was exposed to her mother or grandmother’s baking of biscotti as a baby. Now, however, I think I’ll just let Richard be the master baker, as baking is detail oriented, and I like to wing things.

Not only do I have a bounty of biscotti, I also have an orchid in bloom. This orchid plant was a gift from Rachel’s family four birthdays ago. I’ve never had an orchid re-bloom even once, and this one is on its fourth show. Maybe it’s the love they put into the gift that keeps it in copious colorful bloom.

There are some signs of spring in our front yard; the daffodils are beginning to bloom, and the hyacinths are never far behind them. I must make it to Jack’s soon, as I’ve heard from several sources that his banks are bursting with blooming daffodils. Jack’s yard in bloom must be the most photographed cabin-scape in Coker Creek.
Mamie and I had a nice visit with cup of spiced cider and her favorite snack of cheese and crackers. We saw each other again at the Coker Creek Heritage Group meeting and pot luck supper. I hadn’t seen Mamie in over a month, so it was nice to get two doses of her in a day.

I brought a chocolate-filled king cake to the supper, which had been in the freezer since my return from the Mardi Gras trip. Along with the cake, I brought Mardi Gras beads for everyone. This seemed appropriate, considering the fact that the evening’s speaker was the director of our county arts council. I also brought the incredible embroidery pieces from Africa and the quilted potholder from Tutwiler Quilters in the Mississippi Delta that I purchased at Womenspeak. I thought that the programs using the arts to build economic security that these represent could be replicated in Appalachia.

Betty overheard me talking about the joys of my travels and suggested that I don’t like Coker Creek. It was time to explain that I’m just not ready for the extreme quiet of this ice-bound heaven quite yet. And besides, like Betty, I have grandchildren down south.

We’re due for a second day straight of sunshine and springtime temperatures. It would be wise to spend some time soaking up the sun because rain is returning tomorrow. Richard spent the full afternoon and evening doing outside chores. He stayed in Coker Creek most of the winter, so he’s really into seizing the springtime.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

My Hold on Here

I’m so excited! A professional journalist friend, the editor for Jack’s book, Susan scored tickets for the two of us, plus her magical mother and delightful daughter to all go hear Maya Angelou speak in Louisville in April. As a writer, I’m on cloud nine that I’m receiving these opportunities to hear such very accomplished writers speak. First, at Womenspeak 2010 and now Maya Angelou! I’d much rather meet good writers than just about any other “celebrities.” Actually, I do have a well-known weakness for artists of many genres.

I’m missing the Tennessee Williams/ New Orleans Literary Festival in one week. (I’ve gotta see Richard and My Mountain Mama Mamie, and check in with Jack sometime.) But next year, I hope to be in that New Orleans number. It’s been twenty years since I attended, but I still remember the thrill of having actress Anne Bancroft critique a piece that I wrote and read.

Jack is slowly amassing enough finished work for his second book. Mountaintop Mary stands at the ready to scan that body of work in preparation for final edits. Meanwhile, I’m working on getting all my recipes in order to publish my blog as a cookbook. I have a freelance editor, another Sue – Suzanne this time -- working diligently to get the entries in some semblance of order.

As good practice for writing my recipes, I’m participating in a local cookbook project. Coker Creek Elementary is putting together a cookbook as a joint project fundraising effort with the Coker Creek Heritage Group. It’s always fun to see my name in print, even if it is in someone else’s book. I’ve submitted a few recipes, but I know they could use more from local cooks.

My hopes for a Coker Creek Creations’ Appalachian Arts booth at the Jazz Fest have been dashed by a member of their board. Maybe it’s time to research mountain craft shows with my baby sis and soon-to-be business manager. That is, as soon as she returns from her latest trip to New Orleans.

I’ll try very hard to stay put in Tennessee until my trip to see Maya Angelou in mid-April, but if that snow starts to blow, I may have to go. The next trip may be a short one to Dalton, Georgia to meet with the mother of slain police captain and drug interdiction specialist Robbie Bishop. This would (I hope) be a welcome change for Richard – having his wife home in the holler after a day trip for business, rather than every meeting meaning a month away.

I’ve decided, after much cogitation on the subject, that the reason being snowed-in freaks me out so badly is that it feels too much like what I picture as heaven: so soft, so silent – you know like the Christmas carol lyrics “All is calm; all is bright.” I think I want to be in heaven eventually, but I’m certainly not now ready to release my hold on here.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

My Man and My Plan

I finally got back to my man! After a nice nap, I got busy building my new Party for Positive Progress organizations, also known as the One Million Matriarchs (OMM) and the Mostly Righteous Men of the Matriarchs (MR MOM). Both of these organizations exist to promote peace through activism for non-violent conflict resolution. This was in response to the request by Dr. Jean Shinoda Bolen that Womenspeak2010 attendees assist her in pressing the UN to create international law making it a crime (on an international basis) to rape women and children, and to include women in UN policy setting. How could I not sign on?

Without going into dramatic detail, I thought I could get everyone up to speed by giving you the link to Dr.Bolen’s website that contains a link to her work with the UN and a UN petition, http://www.jeanshinodabolen.com.

With me being such a party animal, I thought it would be best to form a group that could party for this cause. If there's enough interest, my first mission will be to New Orleans for the Jazz Fest. I believe I can secure the same unfurnished apartment that we used for Mardi Gras, which ended us up on the front page of the New Orleans Newspaper, The Times Picayune. We were very comfortable with my cooking, camping chairs and air mattresses (although the noise level in the location at the corner of Canal Street and the French Quarter required heavy-duty ear plugs for sleeping). This apartment is located very conveniently to the Fairgrounds site of the Jazz Fest.

My favorite tent at the New Orleans Jazz Fest has always been the Gospel Tent, not only because of the marvelous music, but because it’s in the shade. The food at the fest is beyond compare, from crawfish bread to bread pudding to beignets. Music and arts from Congo Square feature original paintings, sculpture, clothing, jewelry, musical instruments, and an array of handcrafted artworks.

Contemporary Crafts</i>, is a nationally recognized showcase of alluring handcrafted clothing, beautiful leather goods and handblown glass, along with a brilliant array of paintings, photographs, sculptures and irresistible jewelry.

In the Louisiana Marketplace, the state’s finest traditional and contemporary artists display and sell hand-colored photographs, pine needle baskets, whimsical jewelry, and other creations that evoke the state’s unique cultural history.

LOUISIANA FOLKLIFE VILLAGE Like its signature dish, gumbo, Louisiana is a spicy stew comprised of many distinctive elements — African American, Cajun, Native American, Isleño and practically everything in between. To experience this unique culture firsthand, visit the Louisiana Folklife Village and discover many of the state’s generations-old traditions.

Here you can see musicians meticulously handcraft accordions and guitars, and papier mâché artists create whimsical sculptures for Mardi Gras floats. Watch as an Isleño woodcarver transforms indigenous cypress into lifelike reproductions of Louisiana waterfowl right before your eyes. These are only a few of the traditions featured in the Louisiana Folklife Tent that bear witness to our state's unique cultural history.
–From the website http://www.nojazzfest.com.

I think I could also make this a mission to promote Appalachian Arts (especially those from Coker Creek) if I can secure a booth at the Jazz Fest. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to sell Jack’s book and other Coker Creek Creations at such a well-attended venue?

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

A Day of Driving

With a day of driving there’s little to say,
Unless excitement happens on the way.
When behind the wheel, excitement’s bad;
This was the least eventful trip that I’ve had

I got to Rachel’s, making good time,
Where she gave a Sarah Boynton book of rhyme.
She fed me chili and we had a chat.
As usual, my bed was off limits to their cat.

Sarah practiced piano while her sister complained.
My enthusiasm for the conference was poorly contained.
I got downright giddy as I showed them my buys
Of pieces of needle art that are quite the prize.

My children both think its good I’m going home;
They feel I need some time on my own.
Richard is soothing, that is quite true
And I have much work still left to do.

Monday, March 15, 2010

"My Boys" Michelle and Buffy

I’m making my way back to my honey in the holler, but first a stop by my boy and his Buffy at the beach. I did have to backtrack over an hour to get back to the beach, but it was certainly worth the effort. I not only got to see my boy and his Buffy, I got to see all of “my boys.” I like to call Michelle’s husband Sam and Melanie’s husband James my sons. And I tell the three Yardy boys that I always wanted five sons, so I’m adopting them and Melanie’s two babies as “my boys.”

James, who has been cooking professionally since he was fourteen, has been offering to cook for me for well over a year. With his work schedule, Melanie’s school schedule, and them having two boys under the age of two, it hasn’t been easy to coordinate the effort. Sam and Michelle picked the three older boys up to go to Cole’s baseball game. Scott, Buffy, and I were sitting by the poolside discussing the option of taking advantage of the unheard of event of the three of us being alone for the evening by going to a restaurant for a meal.

Just then Melanie called to see where I was. She and her family wanted to drop by to see us. I jumped at the chance to offer James up as the evening’s chef du jour. It must have been all that new "woman power" I picked up at the conference that made me volunteer James.

James agreed, and said that they’d be over as soon as he could collect a few of his supplies. Next thing I knew, James was proudly walking in the door with a portable deep-fryer and several bags of groceries, including two quarts of half and half. I knew that meal requiring that much cream had to be worth waiting for.

I grabbed Gabe and Mel held onto Harold while James performed his kitchen magic, with Buffy acting as his sous chef. Sam, Michelle and their boys headed back upon hearing that James was preparing our dinner. It was quite a sight, big brown James and beautiful blonde Buffy flying around the kitchen. My-oh-my, what a feast came out of that kitchen!

As I sat at Scott’s back yard bar with Mel, Scott and the boys, James presented me with a plate full of pasta cover with fried catfish, to which he had added a creamy crawfish sauce. It was divinely decadent. I barely made it through my meal before beginning to doze off. I kissed everyone good night, thanked chef James, and entered dreamland with the theme song from the conference, “My Breath” playing in my head.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

One Million Matriarchs

It is impossible for me to sleep for more than four hours. It begins with the extreme excitement of the women’s conference. And the stunning sunrise over Mobile Bay happening in panorama outside my twenty-fifth floor bedroom window -- Who could possibly sleep through that?

The most amazing woman has proposed the most amazing concept for my next phase in life, helping to unite women in circles of power for peace. She didn’t exactly ask me to do this; I sort of offered. How could I resist when a dead ringer for a mature Mulan announces that she’s petitioning the UN to create a UNICEF for women, and I have so missed the community activism of my New Orleans days?

I remember when women in the good old USA were blamed for bringing rape upon themselves. And I had to walk away from more than one job, even though I had two children to support, because I had no recourse for sexual harassment on the job. I’ve lost a business, and very nearly lost my freedom because I was forced by a bank to have a man sign for my business loan. When the man tired of me, he gave my business to the bank and told them that I was guilty of an attempt to defraud them in order to extricate himself from a relationship with me. It wasn’t so long ago that women in America were treated as badly as women in Iran and Afghanistan. This is an issue that I can sink my teeth into.

I had thought that my next big project would be to write a book about The Feminine Face of God, but I also found a book by that name at this conference. In writing it, the authors did exactly what I had planned to do, interviewing women of many backgrounds about their incarnation of the Almighty.

I’ve been referred to most of my life as “That God Damned Warrior” and “A Mighty Powerful Woman.” I was recently challenged by one of my granddaughters with the words, “Granny, you have some good ideas. You just need to step up.” This was on the heels of my daughter admonishing me that I need to “be brave” in facing her.

And since I’m always waiting to be burned at the stake when the next witch trials are conducted, I just as well know what I’m going to be burned for: Inciting women to stand in a circle around what we hold most sacred: a peaceful place to love our families and the extended families of our world. After all, aren’t there only six degrees of separation between me and the homeless mother in the on the streets of New Orleans and the veiled Muslim mother in Afghanistan?

I’m beginning the circle of One Million Matriarchs (and their men, I hope) to march on the UN in support of the Fifth World Conference on Women. Please join me. We’ll make quite a pleasing parade.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Women's Work

Chuck gave Gayle a newspaper article advertising an upcoming event in Mobile, Alabama. He thought I might be interested in attending this women’s empowerment week-end less than an hour from Scott’s house, since I was already in the area. How sweet is that, a man who used to leave the room whenever he encountered me is now offering suggestions for getting my matriarchal mojo going?

This Womenspeak2010 conference is only the second one of its kind, ever. There are over six hundred and fifty females, mostly over forty, from all over the world, creating their identities as crones. I’ve never been one to embrace large groups of women unless I had a job, as I quickly bore of the talk of gorgeous grandchildren and horrible husbands. This conference touts itself as a way for women to connect their strengths to exponentially create more harmony across the vest span of creation. How cool would that be?

The organizer is a woman named Paula d’Arcy who has turned the pain of losing her husband and one of her two children simultaneously in an automobile accident into a passion for world peace. If the opening ceremonies were any indication of the grandeur of the vision of her organization, she may indeed be able to change the world. Cirque du Soleil could take a few lessons from this lady.

We were wowed with incredible African dances and drum beats created by choreographer Eleanor Gwynn in North Carolina. Mother and daughter Bronwyn Cooke and Heather James came all the way from Hawaii to inspire us with a plea to be kind to our earth, imparted through a most magnificent hula dance. A prayer for peace was shared with us from the gracious heart of a member of the Mennonite community, Mary Etta James, before Sara Thomsen took our breath away with her singing of the conference theme song “By Breath.”

This song seamlessly segued into a sacred scarf ritual conducted by authors Joyce Rupp and Marcrina Wiedelkehr. Grammy winner Cynthia Wilson gave voice to the grief that facing real life can bring just before dramatist Janette Scott shared the story of the Mama Moses of many slaves, Harriet Tubman. Marie Plauche-Gustin brought life to a simple slip of silk with her interpretive dancer while Cynthia Clawson sang of the river and seeing God.

Palestinian Poet, Ibitisam Barakat, opened our hearts to hear of the horrors of her homeland with humor, poetry, and passion. We were again brought out of our chairs by the power of the E. Gwynn African dancers, only to be lulled before bedtime by the perfect pitch of the only male performer, Craig Hella Johnson. All of this was interspersed with Paula’s pleas for us to unite our breath, blood, bodies, and spirits to recreate our world in peace.

The message Paula wants us to take away from this week-end is that we didn’t attend a conference, we attended our lives, and that we can use our lives to affect change. I can hardly wait to see what she has planned for us today.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Diets and Diapers

I did ask Bub for his recipe for his “corn.” He said, “I put in a little onion and bell pepper and some banana pepper that I had.” I asked, “Didn’t it have some Rotel tomatoes?” To which he replied, “Oh, yeah, some of that, too.” On to the pasta…

Me: So, Bub, what did you put in the sauce for your pasta?” Bub: “Mostly what I put in the corn, but with olive oil.” Usually, I don’t give the recipes referred to in my blog, unless someone requests them, but I couldn’t resist sharing these.

I feel honored when my friends allow me to cook in their kitchens. I’ve always really felt that the kitchen is the heart of the home, and that it isn’t just men’s hearts that have an access point through their stomachs. Many a mother and maw-maw has changed a child’s life while changing the child’s diet and diapers.

I told Kathleen that I think my need to cook wherever I go is my way of “scenting” territory. Many people have trusted me with their pots, their pans and their progeny. I have a huge bag that I’ve taken to carrying around with me. It has leopard spots with bright red trim; I call it my “bagitude.” If I could only fly in on an umbrella, I think I’d closely resemble a rather wild and woolly version of Mary Poppins.

Gayle says that she recently saw a man on a motorcycle with a skillet and spatula hanging off his bedroll, and she thought of me. I’m scared of motorcycles and heights, so I’ll probably have to keep transporting myself and my ice chest full of exotic ingredients in my trusty red van. I don’t need to carry kitchen equipment; I don’t stay with people who don’t have well-equipped kitchens.

A friend told me that her idea of heaven is to be able to eat her most favorite foods whenever and however often she wanted without suffering health consequences. For her, it was made-in-New Orleans version of Cheetos called Chee-Wees and her mother’s pecan pie. She further illucidated this heavenly vision that Jesus will be at the head of the buffet tabIe, and we (all the women, I presume) will all be a size two.

I chose Bavarian cream as what I’d want to wallow in. I may also want a lot of the glazed version of lemon-flavored Hubig’s pies, New Orleans answer to fried pies. I lived on Chee-Wees and Hubig’s pies while I was in high school, but that only because there was no Bavarian cream in our cafeteria. I’ll have to get my friend’s recipe for her mother’s pecan pie.

Gayle’s super hero son is visiting, so I’m going to take him some chicken and andouille sausage gumbo to help him keep his super powers. I’ve just finished making a huge pot of it in Elaine and Bub’s fabulous kitchen, as I looked out on the waters of Lake Pontchartrain flowing past their back door. This is my idea of heaven.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

While Waiting...

I’ve been sleeping in Miya’s room on a mattress next to her bed. She announced that she heard me snoring when she was having trouble falling asleep the first night we had this arrangement. On the way to drop her off at her ballet class as I was changing my temporary address from Scott’s to Elaine’s, I asked Miya if she was going to be glad or sad that I’ll no longer be snoring in her room. She says she’ll be sad because hearing me snore actually helped her go to sleep. There’s a reason they’re called grand children.

For those of you who don’t know this: Elaine is married to Bub. Bub’s the father of my children, otherwise known as my ex-husband. I’ve temporarily moved into the apartment above Elaine and Bub’s kitchen, otherwise known as the “caterer’s suite.” I’m often the cook for Elaine, but this time Bub was cooking for us.

Here’s a major difference between me and my ex: I went down to the kitchen where he was stirring a pan of oil, onions, bell peppers, and Rotel tomatoes. I asked what he was making. “Corn,”he said. I took this to mean that the ingredients in the pan were going to be part of the corn dish known as maque choux. “You mean maque choux, don’t you?” I suggested. “I don’t know what that is. I’m making corn,” Bub insisted.

Bub has always been the master of the mundane; I’ve always fancied myself the mistress of magical reframing. I told him he’d never make a living as a caterer. You can charge five dollars for a side dish of maque choux, but try getting that for “corn.”

Bub also made a delicious variation on pasta primavera, which I’m sure he’d have called “spaghetti” – and fried a fish he’d caught off of his back yard dock. I’m going to ask him for his recipes. That should be an interesting conversation.

I’m staying with Elaine while a friend has surgery at a near-by hospital. Sitting in the surgical waiting room provided an interesting opportunity for perusing people.

An older couple came in, the man smiling, his partner impatient to get her surgery over with. As several of us commented on how bad the free coffee was, the older gentleman proudly displayed his too-cool travel cup. Not only did it keep his coffee hot, it’s actually a French press pot. He demonstrated how he can put in two scoops of his favorite grinds, add hot water, press, and presto! – a good ,fresh brew of his choice.

His wife bemoaned the fact that she was fasting, so all she could share of her husband’s beverage was the smell. Then she took his hand and gently smiled as they sat in companionable silence.

Another woman sat across from me, copiously crying into a daintily embroidered handkerchief. When was the last time you saw anyone weep into anything fancier than a Kleenex? She was waiting for her ex-husband to keep her company while their forty-something-year-old son had a kidney stone removed. I love my son, but somehow I think I’d be a tad less upset than this maudlin mom if he was having surgery for something as simple as a kidney stone. Not that Scott ever had to have surgery for anything -- broken bones and stitches, but nothing more serious than that.

The entertainment award goes to the extremely old lady in red pajamas and matching red robe accompanied by her red-haired, also red-robed niece. They apparently came in so the niece could hold court. She regaled the waiting room audience with a detailed description of how uncomfortable the sleeping arrangements are for anyone staying with a hospitalized relative.

She let us all know that there was no way she’d let her aunt stay without her, so whenever her aunt is hospitalized, she dons her pajamas, packs her pillow and blanket, and heads to the hospital with her. She also announced that neither she nor her aunt drank the bad waiting room coffee because they brewed good old Luzianne in her aunt’s room. Then, they shuffled away – presumably to refill their coffee cups.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Cuisine du Corpulence

Working at Scott’s house keeps me from feeling isolated. He’s in and out all day juggling his business, family and barbecue. His latest endeavor includes recruiting a very fit friend to act as his personal trainer. He says this is an effort to make sure he remains able to kick Nick’s butt; however, he admitted that it also has to do with his “Popeye before the spinach” arms. The fact that Buffy is so beautiful and fit may be a bit of incentive.

Buffy’s a teacher at one of the grade schools where, for the most part, teachers look like models. It’s a good thing that, by the time the boys reach puberty, they’ve transferred to a different school tier. Otherwise, I’m sure they’d never be able to concentrate on anything other than their teachers’ appearance. I’ve never known so many people obsessed with looking lean while living large. Maybe living so close to the beach does that for a body. Who wants to put a bikini over rolls of revolting cellulite?

Scott woke up and announced that we were expecting a beautiful day. When I pointed out that the last forecast I’d heard was for two more days of rain, he replied, “We aren’t going to get any more days of that wimpy drizzle that we had yesterday. We’re going to have golf ball size hail and tornadoes. We could die! It’ll be so nice for the kids and their teachers. It’s testing week, and they’ll be spending their day with threats of having to sit in the hallways with their heads between their legs. That ought to be fun for their teachers.” Scott certainly loves to generate excitement.

It seems that no matter where I am, the weather is encouraging me to stay focused on my writing. Josie emailed me that with all my blogging about what we eat, she could envision a cookbook coming out of my computer. How nice that I got this email as I sat working on adding recipes to match my blog entries.

Josie also bemoaned the change in the personality of Coker Creek with the loss of Frank Murphy, the unofficial “mayor of Coker Creek,” last October, and the change in ownership of a very popular gallery, among other unwelcome changes. The horrible winter weather hasn’t helped. It’s much easier to mourn when we’re stuck inside. She also mentioned that the first sign of spring is showing in Jack’s bank of daffodils, proving there’s always new life waiting in the wings of our despondence. Maybe a period of grief is just what we need to clear the way for a new path in life.

I’ve done plenty of cooking here in Mississippi. If I stay around much longer, Buffy and Scott might set me to cleaning – and we know how much I’d hate that. I may have to move to another area of the Gulf Coast and spread the “cuisine du corpulence” around a bit.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Liking Leftovers

Buffy has been craving Richard’s recipe for avocado soup; she told me to tell him that he needs to come down and fix it for her. Since Richard didn’t sound like he was game for making the trip, I bought all the ingredients while shopping with Miya, as avocados were on sale for seventy-five cents each.

I then had fourteen of the pimply green egg-shaped orbs, all needing pitting and peeling. My kitchen cleaners at Scott’s house had gone back to their real lives of school and work, so I took my groceries to Gayle’s. After much pulverizing with Gayle’s ancient food processor, we were able to taste the final product of the recipe, adapted for several different dietary designs.

Gayle doesn’t like cilantro and can’t have dairy. Chuck loves cilantro and dairy, but I substituted light sour cream for the prescribed crème fraiche in deference to Buffy's calorie concerns. Both Gayle and Chuck liked their versions of the vegetable puree. When Buffy returned from work, she requested a topping of tomatoes, cucumbers, cilantro, and red onion. She also decided against a dollop of light sour cream, and ate it cold -- like gazpacho.

I’m thrilled that tonight is leftover night at Scott’s party place. Spicy boiled shrimp, Beautiful Buffy’s Perfect Potato Salad, made with the potatoes boiled with the shrimp, a few barbeque ribs, a couple of salisbury steaks – what a bountiful buffet of supper choices. We can begin with the avocado soup, or we can add some of the seafood to the soup and create an entirely new decadent dish.

Scott liked Rachel’s recipe chocolate cake so much he expressed hope that it came from a boxed mix; this way he could easily prepare it. Maybe I should make him a mix with Miya’s help. Then, he could add the wet ingredients and bake it at will. Or maybe I should keep some secrets from him to hedge my bets on continuing the warm welcome I receive as a visitor.

The weather here is mild, though somewhat overcast. We know the temperature is perfect when the gnats are so thick we can barely see through them. As Scott says, “It’s too bad the gnats like the same weather we do.” Maybe I should get Richard and Jack to mail me some of Cotton’s cure for gnat attacks, horse mint from the mountains. Of course, I think it’s only a matter of time before Scott encloses his back yard in screen, like so many of the mansions in Florida. My boy’s back yard is never the same for any two summer seasons.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Luscious Lasagna

Well, we did have lasagna. Actually, we had two versions of the dish for dinner. Miya’s desire was for traditional marinara with Italian sausage. Michelle much prefers Alfredo with all manner of vegetables. Miya and I made both, the consumption of which put great pressure on my pyloric valve.

Anyone seeking to understand the mentality of their New Orleans neighbors really must read the only classic reference to one’s pyloric valve in Confederacy of Dunces. This will give you some insight into the gluttony and group dynamics that prevail in this peculiar place. Here, we gladly gorge ourselves like fois gras geese, and then empathize excessively with each other’s alimentary agony.

In addition to the lasagnas, Miya and I made her Aunt Rachel’s recipe chocolate cake, and Sam baked a perfect pecan pie. This was after it took us three hours of shopping for ingredients. We hit a clearance sale in the toy aisle, and I was able to do a lot of gift shopping for birthdays and our ever-increasing number of Christmas boxes.

Melanie made the decision to delay her day of organizing her closets and cupboards and join us for some family fun. I reminded her that this is consistent with her Uncle Richard’s philosophy that our homes exist for us; we don’t exist to take care of our houses. Even her husband James was able to have a piece of lasagna before heading off to his job as a casino cook.

Buffy and Scott took advantage of the absolutely gorgeous sunny day to clean the pool and, quite literally, mend fences with their neighbors. Buffy wore her bathing suit, even though it was still too cold to swim. I think she believes that this will help to hurry the summer swimming weather. Nick and his best friend Clayton practiced Nick’s present passion of lacrosse, giving a much-needed respite to his ruining of fences.

This is the good life on the Gulf Coast, which is almost considered a suburb of New Orleans by friends and family who live here. Everyone who comes to visit twice is blended into the extended family. Aunts and uncles abound, even when there is no blood relationship. Friendships are forever, even when your best buddies are thousands of miles away serving a military stint in Italy. Scott and Buffy have a “Flat Stanley” cut out of their military friend, Dave, that appears in all photos taken of parties and other family functions. Flat Dave goes to Saints games and crawfish boils, and never misses a back yard barbecue.

If it takes a village to raise children, these kids are certainly surrounded by enough protective parents to provide a safety net all the way to adulthood, and beyond. Scott’s house is even on a dead-end street, the perfect playground. He has a sign that reads, “If you’re lucky enough to live on a dead-end street, you’re lucky enough.” I sure feel lucky to be included.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Scott's Supper Club

I contend that Scott celebrates every day that ends in the letter “y”, and that he usually celebrates at least twice a day: when he wakes up still breathing and when all his people get home from work and school. I also think that Scott creates a party no matter where he is or what the occasion. Buffy took exception to my claim that every night there’s a party at the Yardy family home. She says it’s more of a supper club without all the formality. I always thought that supper clubs moved their parties from the home of one couple to the homes of other couples in succession.

Scott contended from the first improvements he made in his back yard that he was creating a showroom of sorts to display his pool and patio backyard design business. I was doubtful that he really had a plan for marketing his business, but the joke’s on me. I think he sold a pool to a former neighbor while the shrimp pot was being brought to a boil.

Today we have another celebration to create. Michelle missed Miya’s birthday party at Miya’s mama’s house, and she’s been working every time Miya was at her daddy’s house since the party. She has declared that Sunday’s celebration will be a birthday bash for Miss Miya. Miya and I will be baking her favorite chocolate cake and lasagna is likely to be Miya’s supper of choice, as this is another favorite food for Miss Miya to cook with her granny.

My niece Melanie is desperate to have a couple of hours at home without her two toddlers, so I’ve offered to take the toddlers to Scott’s where Miya and I will entertain them. Miya is quite the little mama, and calls herself the baby boys’ future babysitter. I’ve long thought that nine years old is a good age to start supervised baby sitting; it’s the age Rachel was when she got started.

It’s still too cool to swim in Scott’s pool, so maybe we’ll walk with the babies to the beach five blocks from Scott’s house. Melanie’s two-year-old, Harold, calls the gulf the “big water” and loves to go look at it. His one-year-old little brother, Gabe, is never still, so one way to keep him under control is to strap him in a stroller and move him. Otherwise, he’ll keep you moving, but in a much more random pattern.

I see very little of Nick, except in passing. Nick is obsessed with lacrosse. He practices with anybody he can recruit to throw the ball, and if he can’t recruit any players, he’s bouncing the hard rubber lacrosse ball against any handy fence. Even when not throwing, Nick incessantly twirls his lacrosse stick with the ball in the head. This earns him a quick trip outside where there are less things to break, but nothing is indestructible where Nick and his lacrosse stick are concerned.

Scott’s house is surrounded by wooden fences, all with holes and missing boards – evidence that Nick, his lacrosse ball, and stick have been there. It’s a good thing his dad is handy, and that part of his backyard business is fence building and repair.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Serenity and Celebration

Scott has perhaps the most finely tuned sense of celebration of anyone I have ever known. He grabs every day with gusto, and has since he was an infant. If I’m like hot sauce, Scott is like a whole heaping pot of boiled crawfish. A simple dinner of barbecue ribs and beans is a special occasion in Scott’s back yard paradise. He laid a fire in the fire pit, turned on the swimming pool lights, and began broadcasting good music before inviting Buffy out back for a beer. Buffy and I took our glasses of wine with us, and joined Scott. He regaled us with talk of his future plans to make the yard feel even more like a resort. He’s also considering building a cabana that I could use as my private quarters when I come for a visit. It’s a joy to have Scott as my boy.

Scott’s sister is his polar opposite. Rachel is so serene that I sometimes wonder if I was given the wrong baby when she was born. Since there were thirteen boys and one girl in the new born nursery on Rachel’s birthday, I think a mix-up is highly unlikely. I often tell Gayle that I think Rachel is actually her daughter, as Gayle is one of the most serene people on the planet. I tell Richard the same thing about him somehow being the actual father of my and Bub’s baby girl. Or maybe Rachel is so serene because I’m so not serene. You know how kids love to rebel by becoming our opposites. Scott didn’t have to worry that he’d become his mother.

I am loving the celebration station of Scott and Buffy’s household, even though Scott’s kids have been with their mother this week. Buffy and I have been able to hunker down on the couch with a series of “chick flicks” to wind down after Scott’s super suppers, while Scott continues to hold court at his back yard bar. With my regular contact with Gayle, and my living large at Scott’s, I really have the best of both worlds. I miss being with Richard and Rachel, but sometimes serenity just doesn’t agree with what’s going on in my mind.

Adam and Richard keep me posted on what’s happening in Coker Creek. Other than Richard helping Don with the stone work on his fireplace, it seems that the snow is keeping things moving pretty slow in the hollow. Maybe Mamie and Richard could begin planning our spring planting, even though the sun won’t be safely supplying warmth in our neck of the woods until after Easter.

With Jack housebound for so much of this winter, I’m sure I’ll come back to several of his stories ready to publish. Mountaintop Mary is in charge of getting his finished works scanned into the computer. I’ve hired an editor to help me get my blog ready for publication as a book. With the addition of recipes, that should be good-to-go before summer. My first Coker Creek cooking classes will, hopefully, be planned in time for first harvest at Barn of Plenty. I certainly live a charmed life.

Friday, March 5, 2010

The Ocean Springs Food Fairies

Scott and Buffy seem to be the food fairies of their neighborhood. It’s a rare supper that doesn’t include at least four neighbors. Last night, it was Salisbury steak for ten or eleven, and Scott’s kids weren’t even here. Michelle mentioned, yesterday morning, that she planned to fix hamburger steak and gravy because her youngest child, Cole, likes it. The party plan began; Scott immediately headed to Wal Mart to purchase the ingredients.

While Scott was away, I lay down for a nap. By the time I woke, the food fairies had been by to make all the beef patties. They were in the refrigerator, ready for browning and baking. The crisper drawers were full of fresh salad ingredients, and Scott had left with Michelle to meet Buffy, Sam, and friends at a new bar in town.

Former neighbors, Dave and JoElle, who are stationed at a military base in Italy, had sent Scott and Buffy several Italian delicacies. Their unfamiliarity with the items was compounded by the fact that all identification and instructions were written in Italian. Buffy asked my help in utilizing these exotic ingredients. I was thrilled to oblige, as some of the packets contained risotto, one of my favorite foods of Italian origin.

I had no clue how to read the directions for preparation, other than the term 500ml. Thankfully, measuring cups are marked in both fractions of cups and milliliters, and the packets had some pictures of the proposed process. Even though I did have to experiment with cooking temperatures, I think the resulting mushroom risotto was delicious. Maybe tonight, I’ll be brave enough to make the gnocchi.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

A Simple Soup

I got to Gayle’s with two large paper grocery bags full of food. Gayle had gone to visit a neighbor, so the job of finding refrigerator space fell to Chuck. I don’t think he knew whether to laugh or cry, so he just groaned as he shifted things in the freezer and refrigerator. He had almost completed the task when Gayle arrived and began identifying the leftovers already taking up space.

Gayle had cooked and diced some chicken breasts and made chicken broth for use in creating quick, high protein meals. Her daughter Kathleen had turned her onto coconut milk as a healthy alternative to cow’s milk for use in certain culinary creations. Gayle had a quart of the stuff, and wanted to know if I knew what to do with it. It’s not for nothing that I’m the wing-it queen.

I had placed a half bunch of scallions and a bit of a bulb of ginger in the crisper drawer, and had arrived with most of a head of organic garlic. It was time to crank up Gayle’s soup pot for my variation on one of Rachel’s favorites, Thai coconut cream and chicken soup. I had never cooked in Gayle’s Mississippi kitchen, so this was a homecoming, of sorts, for me.

When our children were small, Gayle and I were next-door neighbors. Gayle loved to grow food, but she was never keen on cooking. Her mother and I thought it our duty to provide Gayle’s family with all manner of soup and such. Gayle’s mom would cook at home and transport her food fantasies. I’d simply take over Gayle’s kitchen.

Gayle and I dreamed of retirement with both of our families sharing a large farm house with two distinct wings with one community kitchen. We agreed that I’d do the cooking and she’d do the clean-up. Even though Gayle’s Mississippi home doesn’t have two wings, it does have two stories. I was happy as a clam laughing with Gayle as I threw things into the soup pot and she cleaned up my mess.

My presence in his kitchen was actually an improvement in Chuck’s life from the first days of my friendship with his wife. When we first met, we were so enamored of each other’s philosophies that we’d forget to cook anything until Chuck walked in from work. Chuck would take one look at me, and with a look of utter despair, walk out of the kitchen. He didn’t seem to appreciate that Gayle and I were solving the problems of the world while we weren’t solving the problem of what’s for supper.

Poor Chuck probably thought he was safe from my invasion when Richard and I moved to Tennessee. I’m back, with my traveling cooking show. I hope the foods I feed them make the pain of my rather oppressive presence worth it to him.

Scott and Buffy seem to be holding up well with me in their home. Buffy has been craving Richard’s avocado soup. I may have to make that for her, since Richard isn’t here. There’s still a spot of empty space in her refrigerator.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

My Girlfriend Gayle’s Dining Delights

Gayle can’t have peanuts, dairy, or wheat; she has also sworn off of red meat and anything with growth hormones, so cooking for her family can be quite challenging. Because she has to eat a lot of protein, I spent the day concocting dishes that would delight her and satisfy Chuck.

Whole Foods provided the ingredients and Richard emailed some of his special recipes. I now have at least a week’s worth of ingredients for preparing fine cuisine for Gayle and Chuck’s dining delight. Richard shared with me his recipes for Salmon with Peppers and Leeks and for Honey Roasted Root Vegetables. Oh, how I missed Richard when faced with all that peeling, paring, slicing, and dicing!

I ended up with over a gallon of sliced fennel, yellow bell pepper, leeks, green chili peppers, and ginger. Not only did we have enough for Gayle and Chuck’s salmon, Buffy and I served it over Scott’s Asian Glazed Barbecued Chicken Thighs. And since I was making Mashed Dijon Cauliflower for Gayle, I also made some as a side dish to accompany our chicken.

The side dish for Gayle’s salmon was Mashed Butternut Squash with Orange Zest. She can serve her cauliflower with anything she desires; I made it to see if there may be some way to get Chuck to enjoy this cruciferous creation. For a bit of extra ant-oxidants in their diets, I baked and acorn squash and covered it with a sauce containing a healthy dose of tart cherries.

Richard’s recipe for Honey Roasted Root Vegetables calls for sweet potatoes, but all nightshade vegetables are off Gayle’s grocery list. I substituted fresh organic beets for the potatoes for an interesting bit of sweet flavor and creative coloration. Pink tinted vegetables may not be to everyone’s taste, but Buffy sure liked the results. Scott complained that he’s never even heard of most of the vegetables I was cutting up in his kitchen.

To make sure that Gayle and Chuck stay well-fed for at least a week, I prepared Italian Chicken Sausage with Roasted Red and Yellow Peppers to be served over rice-based pasta (I know Chuck can manage to boil his own pasta.), and I stuffed some portabella mushrooms with a savory stuffing containing rice-based Italian breadcrumbs. I even bought Chuck a package of wheat-free bread mix for his bread machine. Who knew there were so many rice-based varieties of ingredients outside of an Oriental grocery store?

By the time Buffy arrived home from work, I had every pot in the house full of food and every burner on the stove going full blast. Bless Buffy’s heart, she complimented me on all the delicious smells emanating from her kitchen, and began to wash pots as I finished with them. I couldn’t imagine a better daughter-in-law. If she was Yiddish, she’d be called a real mensch.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Supper at Sam’s

The melting pots of port cities are always more vibrantly diverse than their inland neighbors. In New Orleans, you can find anything from anywhere in the world, including any ethnic cuisine you may crave. From Appalachia to Zimbabwe, you can find their foods here. Uptown Magazine Street contains most of these cuisines.

If you really want to experience New Orleans, you must spend some time on the uptown side. Anything below Canal Street is on the "Uptown" side; above Canal Street is the "downtown" side. Magazine Street (which becomes Decatur Street on the downtown side) is maybe the funkiest corridor in the south, teaming with antique shops, specialty boutiques, uncountable restaurants, and a very eclectic variety of art galleries. Because New Orleans is so flat, all of these destinations can be reached on your own two feet.

For those who aren't up to walking the full six miles from Canal Street to the Audubon Zoo, there's always the historic St. Charles Avenue Streetcar five blocks toward the lake. You will never go north, south, east or west in New Orleans; you will go toward the river or toward the lake, toward uptown or toward downtown.

The St. Charles Avenue Streetcar travels only on the uptown side of New Orleans. At Canal Street, St. Charles Avenue changes identity and becomes Royal Street in the French Quarter. The line of demarcation is the center of the "neutral ground" (known as a median in less colorful cultures)running down the middle of Canal Street. All New Orleanians know that anything goes on the French Quarter side, but you'd better button up when going uptown.

To further guide you, should you want to venture forth in the Crescent City, the St. Charles Avenue Streetcar can drop you off in the warehouse district where contemporary art abounds, the Garden District where green space is gorgeous, and the University area, where New Orleans' version of the Ivy League lives.

I was driving in uptown New Orleans to get organic chicken sausage for Gayle and essential oil of peppermint for Pat from the uptown location of Whole Foods. After I finished my shopping, I drove due east on the Crescent City Connection bridge to get to the home of Pat and Will on the Westbank of the Mississippi River. While I visited with Pat, New Orleans was visited by only-on-the-Gulf-Coast monsoon-style rains and gale force winds. If I had the sense God gave a goose, I’d have spent the night at Pat’s, but Sam had caught a redfish and was grilling it for me. Redfish being one of the best things I ever put in my mouth, I had to get back to Mississippi.

Three hours and a hundred miles later, I was in the Clardy’s kitchen feasting on Sweet Sam’s fresh-caught fish and Bodacious Buffy’s sensational salad. I may have had to fight my way through the rains of Ranchipur to get that to that supper, but it was definitely worth the drive.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Sunday Celebration

The breeze brushed the sun-bathed surface of the water just enough to create shimmering diamonds of light as far as the eye could see. I could almost hear the laughter of my grandchildren splashing in the surf. I could almost smell the scent of salt drying on their sun-kissed skin emerging from splashing in the surf. So much to savor and celebrate.

Every day is cause for celebration because it takes a whole lot of celebration to rise above the sorrows of life. And every Deep South celebration has a sensuousness to it: sights and smells, touches and tastes that seems bolder and broader than anywhere else. You can smell the storms before you see them; you can even smell the sunlight as it reaches down to caress your skin. You can taste the tingle of the cool breeze coming off the water as it whispers across your bare skin being baked by the sun. And you shiver, as much from the pure joy of it all as it is from the breeze blowing by.

The beaches of Biloxi are more beautiful now than I ever remembered them being. With the destruction of Hurricane Katrina and the post-Katrina clean-up, many of the old fifties-era kitsch shops are a thing of the past, replaced by new upscale casinos and miles of new virgin white sand. Pristine piers lead out into the water, and brand new benches dot the boardwalks. The trees that were left leafless and without any hope of recovery have been given new life as sculptures with roots by artists with visions of vitality re-imagined.

It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing my flesh into the warm embrace of the sand and attempting to walk the diamond path all the way to the horizon. But Nick was playing another lacrosse game, and I still hadn’t seen Scott’s garden show display. So, I didn’t succumb to the siren song of the sea and sand, but I certainly enjoyed the journey from one destination to the next.

As it turns out, at the garden show, I got to watch Scott putting his best sales mojo onto a prospective pool customer before I took Buffy out to a waterfront restaurant for good salty oysters on the half-shell. After lunch, I got to watch Nick score several goals to lead his team to a win while his sister sat in my lap. Like this wasn’t heavenly enough, my niece Melanie, her husband and two little boys came to join us at the field. This may not have been Super Bowl Sunday, but it certainly was a super Sunday.