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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.