Porch Potatoes

Will I ever get finished pampering these potatoes. Sweet? -- my hind leg! Our Irish potatoes know how to behave. We dug them when we were ready. With very little dusting off, we put them in mesh bags on a lower shelf in the kitchen. Here, they patiently await our dining pleasure. And there are so many ways to serve potatoes of the Irish variety. I can think of less than a dozen ways to fix these roots. Why can’t the sweet potatoes be as versatile and well-behaved as the Irish spuds?

First, the little darlings can’t stand to have soggy vines left on them after the first frost. Then, they demand that we pull them up in short order or they’ll spoil because they don’t like wet feet. Of course, they didn’t like being covered in wet clay out of the ground either. We carefully separated them into trays that allowed air flow for them to dry. Apparently, they found the temperature and barometric pressure in Mamie’s garage to be less than ideal. When we started moving them to Mamie’s laundry room, we found that many of them had already rotted. Oh joy! Another opportunity to interact with our “sweet” spuds.

I hauled our share home -- residual mud, rotten babies and all. I sorted them, yet again, into edible versus compost-ready. The still-good potatoes, I laid out on our metal mesh table in the sun on the porch. Hopefully, a little sunbathing will get them ready for their long winter’s nap. I didn’t know where they’d go after that, as the root cellar is too damp for them.

Mamie suggested hiding them below our bed, but the jams have claimed that space. I told Mamie that I was reluctant to move the jams for fear that they were the origin of our sweet dreams. She reminded me that these potatoes are, after all, sweet potatoes, so I should move the jams to the RV and allow the potatoes the under-bed option. Mamie also reminded me that I could go ahead and cook and freeze them for later consumption. I’d love to do this, but then I’d have to invest several hundred dollars in another freezer to store several dollars worth of potatoes.

Very few of our crop made it to the big-boy stage, which greatly disappointed Mamie. I told her that we shouldn’t be too worked up over this, as there was a real market for fingerling potatoes in gourmet foods. Crop failure is probably what led some genius to create demand for “baby” vegetables. If only we were raising potatoes for sale, we may have made out better this way. Even with all the waste, we did end up with several bushels of sweet spuds, fingerling and otherwise. Shirley gratefully accepted some, as did Leal when she dropped by for a chat.

Having washed, peeled and prepared the damaged potatoes that had some salvage value, I must admit that whipped with a little syrup, butter and cinnamon they were quite a nice accompaniment to our pork chops and mixed greens.

Hard Workin’ Women

These mountain women are real worker bees. The town of Tellico Plains was in danger of losing their Christmas Candlelight Walk, so the Cherokee Women’s Club jumped into action. Josie invited me to come with her to a planning meeting at Center Presbyterian Church. I accepted because I like Josie and because I’m already invested in the event’s success in that Jack is signing and selling books there. Josie and her Jeep picked me up at my house in the holler, and off we went.

This group was a wonder to behold. I’m so used to volunteers with no business experience that it was a new treat to listen to these women run their relay race. Each committee member gave her report in a concise manner and passed the baton to the next runner. This committee person ran with the baton and handed it on. This went on until all issues were addressed; then the meeting was adjourned.

Someone made coffee, but it was most definitely not a coffee klatch. If you wanted coffee, you could get your own. Anyone who wanted lunch brought their own. This was definitely a focused work meeting. I came away thinking the candlelight walk would continue to be a success if these women had anything to say about it.

It’s always a joy to be with Josie; she exudes adventure and creativity. Every time I admired a piece of wearable art on one of the women at the meeting, it turns out that Josie either made it or taught the wearer to make it. You name the artistic medium, Josie is into it. She quilts, sews, knits, paints, and she never goes anywhere without her camera. It seems that in all the media she attempts, she excels. I feel positively artistic just being around her, and I can’t even color inside the lines.

Neither Josie nor I brown-bagged our lunches, and both of us are always hungry. So, after the meeting, we headed up the Cherohala Skyway to my favorite spot on the river, Tellico Kats -- I’ve become addicted to their paninis. My policy is that if Josie drives, I buy her lunch. This pays great dividends for me.

Even though Josie was very clear during lunch that she intended to head straight home for a nap, she must have gotten a second wind as we stepped back into her Jeep. Instead of pointing the nose down the Skyway, Josie headed up and hung a right at the ranger station. We wound around in the forest, through gurgling streams and dancing waterfalls until we came to a bit of heaven – a sweet cemetery at the top of a bluff overlooking all of creation. There, a picnic pavilion and meditation benches awaited the families that may want to spend some time with their loved ones who have passed over to the next life. Josie called this “homecoming.” I had never heard this term in relation to a cemetery, but it’s certainly a soothing thought.

Perfect Day in Paradise

If Coker Creek became a monarchy tomorrow, Charlie would be King of the Mountain and Deborah would be his beautiful and kind Queen. In order for kings to conquer foreign lands, they had to be great adventurers.

Charlie came from Florida and created a kingdom in the hills that he loves to share with all his loving and loyal friends. King Charlie holds great feasts with much music and mirth in his dining hall with many round tables. He also invites noblemen and their wives from surrounding kingdoms to share in the wealth of the land. He is a fearless leader, and all who know him love him and the Delightful Deborah.

King Charlie took upon himself the sharing the enjoyment of God’s cloak of many colors that is draped across this fall landscape. This being a very small kingdom, the king and queen have no men or ladies-in-waiting. They spent many hours planning this adventure and sending word to all area noblemen, many of whom spent their youth in defending their families and country, to mount their steeds with their fair ladies and follow him on an adventure to brighten their failing eyes and gladden their still-young hearts.

When all the knights were assembled in the sight of those who have become infirm, King Charlie allowed the infirm time to enjoy the spectacle of the noble steeds in full parade dress. This gave joy to those less fortunate folks.

At last, it was time to mount up and ride through the land. King Charlie and Queen Deborah led the way with the great warrior, Lord Adam, directly behind him to assist in keeping the royal entourage on course. This being a modern fable, Lord Adam’s Lady Josie led the steed on which they road, so that Lord Adam could ride shot-gun. This gave Lord Adam easier access to dismount and guide the followers. My king and I, with King Richard’s faithful Bronco, were blessed to be part of this following.

What beautiful sights abound in Monroe and McMinn Counties – miles and miles of rolling hills with contented cows and laughing llamas grazing in pastures surrounded by hills of fall fire! In the midst of this beautiful cattle country there lies a dairy farm that was beset be hardship when the patriarch fell ill. The daughter, a fair maiden living in a far-away land, took pity on her mother, and began a new life at the family farm. This new life is the company called Good Fortune which makes natural products for soothing and cleansing the body and spirit.

Many bought products knowing that their purchases help sustain, not only the family farm, but also part of the proceeds will help others to begin similar new life enterprises. Others took away nothing but photos and memories of the incredible view of the surrounding vista. This was a perfect place to see the mysterious mounds that cross the counties like scoops of clay planted by a playful potter.

King Charlie and Queen Deborah plan their adventures with resting places for the steeds where the noblewomen of the group will find enjoyable activities. Leaving Good Fortune behind, we traveled on through the lovely landscape to Englewood and honored the heritage of women working in the textile industry by stopping for a visit at the Englewood Textile Museum. We were then led to a great banquet at Nut ‘n Fancy back in the kingdom of Tellico Plains where King Charlie thanked the presidents and members of the attending chapters of the Antique Automobile Association of America for joining him in his grand adventure.

King Charlie and Queen Deborah could then retire to their kingdom of Coker Creek, tired but happy to have been able to share their blessings.

Halloween Hilarity

Every other Saturday, Charlie and Deborah go all out to make sure their friends have a good time at Bluegrass pickin’ sessions in their Coker Creek Saloon -- and all without the help of alcoholic lubricants.

How they manage to provide food and fun so many days of the year is beyond me. Charlie seems to never stop building and restoring his property. This, in addition to their very active involvement in the Antique Automobile Club of America in which Charlie is a Grand National winner and judge would make the average couple too pooped to pop. It all energizes Charlie and Deborah; they redefine country hospitality and work ethic. They play hard and work even harder.

Musicians, young and old, come from miles around just for the love of playing, and play their hearts out for three hours. We pay them in food cooked by the attendees, but most musicians also contribute what they’ve cooked. It’s like what we used to call a fais do-do on the bayou, just good clean family fun. The youngest musician is fifteen; I don’t even want to hazard a guess as to the age of Charlie Harper, named “Mr. Bluegrass” by the governor of Tennessee because of his many years’ commitment to the art of Tennessee Bluegrass.

This is the third Bluegrass Halloween that we’ve attended at Deborah and Charlie’s Saloon. Now, I know that some people have religious objections to celebrating October 31, but I’ve always had a special place in my heart for that date, as my son, Scott, was born on what he called “Hadoweenda.” I never could resist the temptation to make my life easier by having “trick or treating” as Scott’s birthday party activity. And the loot the kids got substituted for favors – cheap and easy. Why resist?

It’s always a challenge to find the right costume when you’re as cheap as I am. One year, I dressed Scott in pajamas to which I sewed a tail l and a towel tummy, and called him “The Diggingest Dog.” For Richard’s costume this year, I found a Gepetto outfit on deep discount because it was missing the Pinocchio companion costume. Costuming me on the cheap presents special challenges because I don’t have an “off-the-rack” body, but also on deep discount was a partial puppet costume with the marionette string rigging. We tied the strings to my arms and legs, and let Richard pretend -- just for one night -- that he was controlling me by pulling any strings other than my heart strings.

Deborah decked herself out as a darling angel and Charlie was Sheriff Schnoz. Connie came as Berl Ives’ “Most Wonderful Toy,” while Nancy arrived as an enhanced version of her favorite self, an elegantly outfitted horsewoman. Move over Big Valley’s Audra! Harriet was hilarious describing how she turned her one-dollar strawberry costume from the thrift store into the ladybug costume that she had on. Her husband masqueraded as a gorilla that walked around sticking a banana up his nose.

The music was marvelous. The crowd was happy. The food was fantastic. Richard must have been feeling somewhat Jewish when he chose the dessert he’d make. Everyone raved about his apricot kugel. He then traded his yarmulke for a sombrero to make the main dish which combined dairy and meat in a complex-flavored topping for tortilla chips.

We ate; we posed; the musicians played; and we all returned to our childhoods – for just one night of food, fantasy, and fun.

Mucking With Mary

Coker Creek is good ground for gold hunters. Richard and I are currently just more interested in garden gold than the shiny metal type. Hoping to eliminate the need for commercial fertilizer for next year’s crops, we’re enriching the soil in Mamie’s garden with product from fertilizer factories of the live animal kind. Since the garden gold has to have time to break down before next planting season, we harvest poop now in order to harvest vibrant veggies next year.

The weather finally held long enough for us to go scoop poop with Mary. When I asked if we should bring any equipment, Mary said she already had scoops and muck buckets. I didn’t know, until we arrived at Mary’s, that horse poop scoops are called muck rakes. Another piece of the American language puzzle put into perspective. And so, we officially became muckrakers.

Mary’s horses are beautiful creatures, and her foal is just as friendly as she described. As we drove up, he first ran to Mama Mary for reassurance that we were friends, and then ran up and presented his head to us for petting. Whenever we tried to ignore him, Mary's "baby" whacked us with his head or nipped at our ankles. He and Mary’s dog competed for attention, chasing each other around the yard. When the horse began ignoring the dog, the dog took to tussling with the cat. What a whacky set of playmates!

Mary of the Mountain and her husband Don live just above Jack. In fact, if I rolled down the hill from their place, I’d end up in Jack’s front yard. Because TVA keeps the power line right-of-way that runs through Jack’s and Mary’s properties mowed, from Mary’s mountaintop, you can see the adjoining mountains strung like pearls all the way to North Carolina. Mary talked about how the setting sun through the right-of-way hits this panorama in the fall, turning whole sides of the hills a brilliant gold. I could have stood all day looking at the view, but poop was our purpose -- so we got busy.

In an hour, we’d half-filled our “honey wagon,” and the yard was seemingly clear of equine land mines. I used to tease a friend about driving a shit wagon to collect all her “do-gooder” projects; Richard is now, literally, driving a shit wagon. Our motto could be, “Have poop? We’ll travel.”

Upon finishing the poop patrol, Mary invited us in for coffee and pie and a tour of their home remodeling handiwork. As we walked into the house, we were greeted by the sounds and scents of Don brewing espresso and steaming milk for cappuccino. Mary served a decadent concoction of graham cracker crumb crust filled with caramel and banana filling topped with whipped cream. Not something I expected – a ten-dollar dessert break for free in the backwoods of Tennessee.

Mary accepted from us gifts of Cajun roasted pecans and muscadine madness jam before we headed down to deliver duplicate culinary delights to Jack. Then, it was over to Mamie’s to spread our horse-grown treasures.

Henny Penny’s Sweet Spuds

Preparing pecans took a back seat to Mamie’s suggestion that the muddy sweet potatoes dug by Richard needed to be laid out to dry prior to storing. Who knew potatoes were so particular? Figuring I could handle this task in an hour and still get several batches of pecans roasted -- and possibly redeem myself for being so absent from the fields during the harvest -- I arrived at Mamie’s bearing gifts of red beans and rice and a jar of Muscadine Madness.

Mamie said she figured that I showed up because I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to avoid it. She also got quite a kick out of the jar of jam I gave her. When I shared the story of how it got its unnatural color, she said that she calls the pulp from muscadines “ugly juice,” but uses it just the way it is. She thinks it makes a pretty jelly. I guess I should have consulted Mamie before making my mess.

As I sat sorting sweet potatoes, the weather was so beautiful and the temperature so mild, I got carried away with the feelings of fall. When this job was finished, I was reluctant to return to indoor activity, so I decided to see if the second potato patch was too muddy to manage. Four hours later, I was still popping potatoes out of their mounds, and Mamie had gone off with her daughter.

By this time, I needed to use the bathroom, so I headed the two miles down to our house for a potty break. Bless Richard’s heart, he returned with me to complete the ‘tater tasks. Richard and I must have looked like two hogs hunting for truffles as we crawled around on our hands and knees harvesting our sweet potatoes.

In another three hours we were the proud parents of about fifteen flats of sweet potatoes and a half bushel of baby potatoes for next year’s seed. We were absolutely covered in crud by the time the last spud was out of the ground. As we sat on the driveway to remove the excess mud from the spuds, Mamie’s hens joined us for a look at and a nibble of our fresh-dug treasures. They must have found them acceptable, as they kept stealing the seed potatoes from our basket. What a lovely way to spend the waning hours of the day – surrounded by the sounds and sights of curious hens as we admired our harvest and rested our aching backs.

We’ve finally finished pulling the potatoes out of the patch and placing them in Mamie’s garage for the mud to dry. The sweet potatoes like to be tucked in warm and dry for the cold months ahead, and I’m not sure where we’ll store our share. I know they can’t stay under our bed, as we’re assuring sweet dreams by sleeping on all our jams and tomatoes.

As Scarlett O’Hara would say while holding up one of her home-grown potatoes, “We’ll never go hungry again.” And about roasting those pecans, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Muscadine Madness

The day began calmly enough with me putting the icing on the cake to mail to my baby boy for his Halloween birthday. Richard had gone out in the pouring rain to harvest and wash the carrots. He had then grated them for me to complete as a carrot cake. I left a bit of a mess when I went to bed, but I had finished cleaning the kitchen as soon as I got up in the morning. I ran the dishwasher and put the icing bowl and beaters aside for Richard to lick after his breakfast.

Well, just when Richard may have thought it was safe to come back into the kitchen, I started making muscadine jam. The previous grape jam that our kitchen produced has gotten rave reviews; I think it’s because I include the fruit pulp in my preparation. I decided to do the same with the muscadines. The difference is that the concord and fox grapes render royal purple pulp; muscadine pulp is more mud colored.

Not to be deterred in this kitchen caper, I added a bit of yellow food coloring. Now the pulp looked like I scraped it out of a new baby’s diaper. This obviously wouldn’t do, so I added neon green – attempting to make the pulp glow like ripe green grapes. This was too whimpy to overcome the poopy hue. It was time to bring out the big guns.

I do appreciate precision; I’m simply incapable of the patience inherent in being precise. I should know better than to attempt correcting mistakes that take incremental tweaking to achieve the desired results. Oh, why didn’t I wait for Richard to wake?

Since I usually live by the dictum that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, I really did it this time. Even though it seemed to me like I was exerting just a tiny bit of pressure on the little teardrop-shaped green food coloring bulb, I ended up with a pot of pulp the color of a Christmas tree. As we have already discussed, when the directions for jam making say, “Bring to a rolling boil,” they really mean to cook until your whole kitchen is covered in jots of jam. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in our kitchen festooned with green glop.

I’m well aware that “people eat first with their eyes,” so I may have trouble pawning this jam off as having been made with anything edible. This may be a great way to cut down on the number of Christmas packages we send. If all the food is weird-colored, people will prefer to be deleted from the list than to try getting past what their eyes tell them is in the jars. Should I color the Cajun-roasted pecans purple? And should the macaroons be maroon? Or, maybe if I name the jam “Muscadine Madness” folks will think I made it this lovely evergreen color on purpose.

It ought to give Mamie and Jack a good laugh at the latest of my city slicker stupidities.