Enough with the soup, already! The snow was melting; the sun was shining; and the birds were back. My blood pressure had also begun to head back into normal range. It was time to do some creative cooking.
Whenever we have bananas that are past their prime, I throw them into the freezer. When I get tired of having the black torpedoes falling on our feet from the freezer, I make banana muffins. This time, I could make them extra special because I could add the black walnuts that Richard had so meticulously shelled and picked. While these baked, I could turn my attention to the supper menu.
We had leftovers with a new spin. Artichoke rice was already prepared, and I had a pork tenderloin partially cooked and frozen. The challenge is to figure out what we already have in our pantry, refrigerator, under our bed, and in various other food-storage places to complete the menu.
I found a jar of marvelous gourmet mushrooms in the pantry, along with two varieties of sun-dried tomatoes – one dry packed and one in oil with Italian seasonings. The artichoke rice has a Mediterranean thing going on, and is pale green with flecks of carrot orange. I thought a bit of tomato would complement it nicely. But would sun-dried tomatoes be too powerful for the delicate pork?
I set the seasoned sun-dried tomatoes on the counter next to the stove, and put the mushrooms in with the pork. This way, the liquid from the mushrooms would help in keeping the pork moist while the meat defrosted in a slow oven. Every time I walked by the stove, I’d stop and mentally blend the flavor of the tomatoes with what was already in the oven.
I was having second and third thoughts about the addition of the pungent tomatoes when Richard walked in. He confirmed my suspicion that he’s not a big fan of the leathery little strips of tomato jerky, so I went to plan B. What goes with gourmet mushrooms when you want something acidic and colorful, yet relatively mild?
A trip under the bed and in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator saved the day. I had everything I needed for Chasseur sauce. With a clove of garlic, a bit of red onion, a splash or two of white wine, a sprinkle of flour, and a jar of Richard’s tomatoes from last summer, we had the perfect accompaniment to make leftovers new again.
It was quite tasty, and Richard gave the meal his highest compliment, “It’s a keeper.” He also ate three banana muffins for dessert, so I guess he found them acceptable.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Chicken Bone Chatter
Here we had this not very well-prepared rotisserie chicken in our refrigerator, along with carrots and celery that were partially frozen from our thermostatically challenged refrigerator. There was still snow on the ground, and the pressure cooker hadn’t whistled for a couple of days, so it seemed like soup time to me. The soup du jour was chicken and brown rice.
Richard is fond of purchasing rotisserie chickens when he goes grocery shopping, but very rarely thinks to eat them. This is because the mainstays of his diet are store-bought pastries like honey buns, toast, and English muffins. He knows he has high triglycerides, but doesn’t seem to get the low-carb concept. Since carbs are about the only vice left to him, I don’t say much on that subject, as long as his doctors are treating the condition caused by his addiction with medication.
A pressure cooker does wonders for poultry carcasses. All that collagen that holds the bones together simply melts into a velvety rich consommé. Mama’s mama used to pressurize turkey necks, and pick the meat for a turkey version of hog’s head cheese. She’d mix the turkey meat with lots of aromatic vegetables and several other seasonings, fold it all into the bodacious broth, and chill for several hours. This shimmering delicacy was served on crackers as an hors d’oeuvres. Talk about good!
Most people making anything with poultry stock, boil the bones, pick the meat, and discard the clean-picked carcass. But my mother had a more “circle of life” way of chicken bone recycling.
My youngest brother Albert, God rest his soul, had two yap dogs named Poopie and Buster, and a mutt named Henry. My mother loved to cook for these beasts, but had heard that the sharp ends of chicken bones could cause intestinal problems. Never one to waste anything, Mama picked the pressurized bones for family food and threw the bones back into the Presto for another round of high-pressure heat. When she’d re-open the lid to the pot, the bones would have transformed themselves into bone meal. Mixed with the shavings from various vegetables and some cereal source, this would make a fine feast for Albert’s menagerie.
We always knew when Mom had been feeding her special brew to Albert’s dogs; the next day their droppings would dot the landscape with bright white landmines. I don’t think these dogs ever lacked calcium in their diets.
My grandma didn’t believe in coddling any cur or kid, so I’m quite sure she discarded the bones when my mother wasn’t looking. That probably explains why Grandma waited until Mama was out of the house to do most of her cooking.
Richard is fond of purchasing rotisserie chickens when he goes grocery shopping, but very rarely thinks to eat them. This is because the mainstays of his diet are store-bought pastries like honey buns, toast, and English muffins. He knows he has high triglycerides, but doesn’t seem to get the low-carb concept. Since carbs are about the only vice left to him, I don’t say much on that subject, as long as his doctors are treating the condition caused by his addiction with medication.
A pressure cooker does wonders for poultry carcasses. All that collagen that holds the bones together simply melts into a velvety rich consommé. Mama’s mama used to pressurize turkey necks, and pick the meat for a turkey version of hog’s head cheese. She’d mix the turkey meat with lots of aromatic vegetables and several other seasonings, fold it all into the bodacious broth, and chill for several hours. This shimmering delicacy was served on crackers as an hors d’oeuvres. Talk about good!
Most people making anything with poultry stock, boil the bones, pick the meat, and discard the clean-picked carcass. But my mother had a more “circle of life” way of chicken bone recycling.
My youngest brother Albert, God rest his soul, had two yap dogs named Poopie and Buster, and a mutt named Henry. My mother loved to cook for these beasts, but had heard that the sharp ends of chicken bones could cause intestinal problems. Never one to waste anything, Mama picked the pressurized bones for family food and threw the bones back into the Presto for another round of high-pressure heat. When she’d re-open the lid to the pot, the bones would have transformed themselves into bone meal. Mixed with the shavings from various vegetables and some cereal source, this would make a fine feast for Albert’s menagerie.
We always knew when Mom had been feeding her special brew to Albert’s dogs; the next day their droppings would dot the landscape with bright white landmines. I don’t think these dogs ever lacked calcium in their diets.
My grandma didn’t believe in coddling any cur or kid, so I’m quite sure she discarded the bones when my mother wasn’t looking. That probably explains why Grandma waited until Mama was out of the house to do most of her cooking.
Monday, February 1, 2010
A Winter Wimp
Maybe people can be divided into seasonal stalwarts and winter wimps. I’m definitely a winter wimp. Now that the sun is out, I feel somewhat hopeful. But I’ve already been informed b y Richard that the snowmelt will freeze on the roads with our expected arctic overnight temperatures. I suffered from seasonal effective disorder when we lived in subtropical Louisiana. What did I expect real winter to feel like?
Now, I do have to admit that the sun glistening on the crystal white snow is a sight to behold, and watching the snow showers off pine needles was a magical sight. I don’t even like to be out in cold weather, but I hate knowing we can’t go anywhere in an emergency.
Charlie called as soon as the roads iced to let me know that his all-wheel Mariner could get us anywhere we needed to go, no matter what the weather. And Adam has assured me that if we had an emergency, he could come rescue us. It is grand to live where there are still gallant knights that their gracious ladies will lend to others in distress.
Mountaintop Mary called to remind me that I should fill the bathtub with water, in case the electricity goes out, which is a rather common occurrence when you combine winter storms with pine trees and above ground utility wires. Of course, it follows that if the power goes out, the electric well pump won’t pump water to the house. This means that it won’t be long before the toilets stop flushing. I hadn’t thought of that. I knew we had several gallons of drinking water, but that wouldn’t give us many flushes.
I was in such a state that I immediately filled both tubs, forgetting entirely that one of the safety features of our property is that we have two creeks that run with high volumes of water whenever we have snow or rain. It’s a good thing, too, because the stoppers in our tubs must not have good seals. The tubs were empty when we awakened.
I’m trying to think like a survivalist. I have food stored all over the house, including under our bed. We have canned fuel for our chafing dish for cooking, and a fireplace with lots of wood for heat. Richard brought in the sub-zero sleeping bags from Morrissey Manor. I’m considering having Richard carry in the heavy duty batteries from the non-movable RV and the converter from the van, so that we can continue to work on our computers, and he can watch TV. We may even consider investing in a solar collection panel like Jack’s been using. I know he gets several hours of running a light bulb off a solar charge.
When we moved from Louisiana, we were tired of evacuating for the most common emergency, hurricanes. Little did we know that hunkering down came with its own set of problems, which we now have to learn to address.
Now, I do have to admit that the sun glistening on the crystal white snow is a sight to behold, and watching the snow showers off pine needles was a magical sight. I don’t even like to be out in cold weather, but I hate knowing we can’t go anywhere in an emergency.
Charlie called as soon as the roads iced to let me know that his all-wheel Mariner could get us anywhere we needed to go, no matter what the weather. And Adam has assured me that if we had an emergency, he could come rescue us. It is grand to live where there are still gallant knights that their gracious ladies will lend to others in distress.
Mountaintop Mary called to remind me that I should fill the bathtub with water, in case the electricity goes out, which is a rather common occurrence when you combine winter storms with pine trees and above ground utility wires. Of course, it follows that if the power goes out, the electric well pump won’t pump water to the house. This means that it won’t be long before the toilets stop flushing. I hadn’t thought of that. I knew we had several gallons of drinking water, but that wouldn’t give us many flushes.
I was in such a state that I immediately filled both tubs, forgetting entirely that one of the safety features of our property is that we have two creeks that run with high volumes of water whenever we have snow or rain. It’s a good thing, too, because the stoppers in our tubs must not have good seals. The tubs were empty when we awakened.
I’m trying to think like a survivalist. I have food stored all over the house, including under our bed. We have canned fuel for our chafing dish for cooking, and a fireplace with lots of wood for heat. Richard brought in the sub-zero sleeping bags from Morrissey Manor. I’m considering having Richard carry in the heavy duty batteries from the non-movable RV and the converter from the van, so that we can continue to work on our computers, and he can watch TV. We may even consider investing in a solar collection panel like Jack’s been using. I know he gets several hours of running a light bulb off a solar charge.
When we moved from Louisiana, we were tired of evacuating for the most common emergency, hurricanes. Little did we know that hunkering down came with its own set of problems, which we now have to learn to address.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Fungus on a Futon
How much soup can one make? How much material for writing can one find when one can’t get out and about? How much reading can one do in a day? How many hours can one hold the phone to one’s ear? Solitude doesn’t agree with me, although Richard believes he thrives on it.
I figure that I’m as much of a butterfly as I’m ever going to be. Staying in a cocoon all winter won’t make me beautiful or graceful. In fact, I’ll emerge that much older and uglier from the passing of time and the pull of gravity – not to mention what the dry heat does to one’s skin. Of course, dry heat does beat cold and moldy.
Maybe if I spend the day entering and organizing the photos I took during the holidays, I’ll be in a better frame of mind. But, then again, maybe I’ll start pining for my family that is back at their homes far from me. Richard’s fond of pointing out that even good stress is still stress. And he’s said that I should avoid all emotional moments until my blood pressure is under control. Who does he think he’s dealing with?
Feeling is my fuel for everything; I don’t even get out of bed until I feel like it’s time. I know other people are motivated by something other than their emotions, but I just don’t seem to be able to reach that level of maturity. The closest I can come is to reframe my feelings to make me do things I wouldn’t, otherwise, be willing to do. Sometimes, once I convince myself that I’m willing to do something, I can also enjoy doing it. The next time I’m faced with the situation, I may even want to do whatever I was previously avoiding.
I have paperwork to do, and paperwork to file. I should be able to do those things without any emotion, but, no. Anything that has to do with money makes me extremely nervous, and most of our paperwork has to do with finances. I’d delegate this job to Richard, but it would make me and him very tense for me to try explaining my filing system.
I could begin interviewing for the book I’m helping a grieving mother write about her police hero son, but that’s bound to get me all emotional. Even reading about current affairs seems to spike my pressure, and I don’t enjoy romance novels. Face book is full of other people’s tales, but then I tend to get emotional about our correspondence.
Since we don’t have a hot tub or a Jacuzzi to bathe away the tension, maybe I’ll peddle my way to peace on Richard’s stationary bike while reading about Greg Mortensen’s school building in Afghanistan, as told in Three Cups of Tea. I’ve gotta find something to do other than sit. Otherwise, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be a fungus on our futon by spring.
I figure that I’m as much of a butterfly as I’m ever going to be. Staying in a cocoon all winter won’t make me beautiful or graceful. In fact, I’ll emerge that much older and uglier from the passing of time and the pull of gravity – not to mention what the dry heat does to one’s skin. Of course, dry heat does beat cold and moldy.
Maybe if I spend the day entering and organizing the photos I took during the holidays, I’ll be in a better frame of mind. But, then again, maybe I’ll start pining for my family that is back at their homes far from me. Richard’s fond of pointing out that even good stress is still stress. And he’s said that I should avoid all emotional moments until my blood pressure is under control. Who does he think he’s dealing with?
Feeling is my fuel for everything; I don’t even get out of bed until I feel like it’s time. I know other people are motivated by something other than their emotions, but I just don’t seem to be able to reach that level of maturity. The closest I can come is to reframe my feelings to make me do things I wouldn’t, otherwise, be willing to do. Sometimes, once I convince myself that I’m willing to do something, I can also enjoy doing it. The next time I’m faced with the situation, I may even want to do whatever I was previously avoiding.
I have paperwork to do, and paperwork to file. I should be able to do those things without any emotion, but, no. Anything that has to do with money makes me extremely nervous, and most of our paperwork has to do with finances. I’d delegate this job to Richard, but it would make me and him very tense for me to try explaining my filing system.
I could begin interviewing for the book I’m helping a grieving mother write about her police hero son, but that’s bound to get me all emotional. Even reading about current affairs seems to spike my pressure, and I don’t enjoy romance novels. Face book is full of other people’s tales, but then I tend to get emotional about our correspondence.
Since we don’t have a hot tub or a Jacuzzi to bathe away the tension, maybe I’ll peddle my way to peace on Richard’s stationary bike while reading about Greg Mortensen’s school building in Afghanistan, as told in Three Cups of Tea. I’ve gotta find something to do other than sit. Otherwise, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be a fungus on our futon by spring.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Winter White
Snow coming down in fleece blankets;
Pines and hemlocks frosted in white.
Buster is huddled on blankets,
As if were already night.
The squirrels must have hidden in their
Nests filled with our sunflower seeds.
Bird feeder’s guaranteed squirrel proof --
A warning the rodents do not heed.
Finches feeding in our branches
Stopped eating when the snow began.
Being outside in this weather
Isn’t fit for beast or for man.
Gypsy in Pyrenees heaven,
Covered in snow white as her coat.
The cat is not having much fun;
It is good that dogs cannot gloat.
The driveway was graveled today;
We’re lucky the good weather held.
The mud will only get worse as
The snow blanket begins to melt.
Richard made deliveries of soup,
Thinking the roads would be okay.
He arrived home very impressed
How much snow fall had come to stay.
Oh, winter! It’s surely winter
On our mountain in Tennessee.
As we peer out the windows we
Have no place we would rather be.
Pines and hemlocks frosted in white.
Buster is huddled on blankets,
As if were already night.
The squirrels must have hidden in their
Nests filled with our sunflower seeds.
Bird feeder’s guaranteed squirrel proof --
A warning the rodents do not heed.
Finches feeding in our branches
Stopped eating when the snow began.
Being outside in this weather
Isn’t fit for beast or for man.
Gypsy in Pyrenees heaven,
Covered in snow white as her coat.
The cat is not having much fun;
It is good that dogs cannot gloat.
The driveway was graveled today;
We’re lucky the good weather held.
The mud will only get worse as
The snow blanket begins to melt.
Richard made deliveries of soup,
Thinking the roads would be okay.
He arrived home very impressed
How much snow fall had come to stay.
Oh, winter! It’s surely winter
On our mountain in Tennessee.
As we peer out the windows we
Have no place we would rather be.
Friday, January 29, 2010
What, Me Worry?
I’m not really complaining, I just saying…
Josie’s right; one of the worst things about getting older is how much time we have to spend seeing doctors. Now, it’s not that I have anything against doctors; some of our best friends are medical practitioners. It’s just that all this focus on our bodies leaves little time to develop our souls.
It doesn’t help that all of our doctors are over an hour’s drive each way. We do try to make it more pleasant by stopping for a meal either on the way there or the way back. Sometimes, we do a little shopping, and we’re considering taking in a movie on our next medical excursion.
We had a pleasant enough visit with the primary care doctor that we visited, but we know that good bedside manner doesn’t always translate to competent care. I hope that we won’t have a need to find out how competent he is anytime soon, but we do have someone to call next time we’re in need.
This should have been very calming news, so why did I end up at my cardiologist the next day with high blood pressure? I just had my annual visit with my gynecologist less than a week before, and my blood pressure was normal.
Could it have been all the thoughts of New Orleans that put me into such a state? Or did I really get that excited over the pressure cooker soup project? Maybe it was the anticipation of Richard’s first foray into bread making…
Whatever it was, it changed our rhythm for the day. Rather than cocooning with Jack’s stories, we were once again running the roads.
The cardiology triage nurse and nurse practitioner were both very cautious, which I certainly appreciate. In making the decision to bring me in, they took into account the length of time since my last appointment, the winter weather heading into our area, the length of time it takes us to make the drive, and the proximity of my call to the week-end.
Now, I’m officially an old person. I’m on beta blockers for a racing heart and blood pressure regulator to keep me from feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode. And I have to take another road trip to the cardiologist’s office in another week.
Richard is insisting that I take it easy until my blood pressure medication kicks in. This won’t be difficult to do if we get iced in again. All of this medical muck and winter storm mud is certainly slowing my life down. I can either keep straining at the bit or go with the flow. God certainly has His ways of showing me whose boss.
He even sent our firewood provider to make sure we had enough firewood for the coming storm the night before my blood pressure episode. With a pot full of soup, an oven full of bread, and a fire in the fireplace, what’s to worry about?
Josie’s right; one of the worst things about getting older is how much time we have to spend seeing doctors. Now, it’s not that I have anything against doctors; some of our best friends are medical practitioners. It’s just that all this focus on our bodies leaves little time to develop our souls.
It doesn’t help that all of our doctors are over an hour’s drive each way. We do try to make it more pleasant by stopping for a meal either on the way there or the way back. Sometimes, we do a little shopping, and we’re considering taking in a movie on our next medical excursion.
We had a pleasant enough visit with the primary care doctor that we visited, but we know that good bedside manner doesn’t always translate to competent care. I hope that we won’t have a need to find out how competent he is anytime soon, but we do have someone to call next time we’re in need.
This should have been very calming news, so why did I end up at my cardiologist the next day with high blood pressure? I just had my annual visit with my gynecologist less than a week before, and my blood pressure was normal.
Could it have been all the thoughts of New Orleans that put me into such a state? Or did I really get that excited over the pressure cooker soup project? Maybe it was the anticipation of Richard’s first foray into bread making…
Whatever it was, it changed our rhythm for the day. Rather than cocooning with Jack’s stories, we were once again running the roads.
The cardiology triage nurse and nurse practitioner were both very cautious, which I certainly appreciate. In making the decision to bring me in, they took into account the length of time since my last appointment, the winter weather heading into our area, the length of time it takes us to make the drive, and the proximity of my call to the week-end.
Now, I’m officially an old person. I’m on beta blockers for a racing heart and blood pressure regulator to keep me from feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode. And I have to take another road trip to the cardiologist’s office in another week.
Richard is insisting that I take it easy until my blood pressure medication kicks in. This won’t be difficult to do if we get iced in again. All of this medical muck and winter storm mud is certainly slowing my life down. I can either keep straining at the bit or go with the flow. God certainly has His ways of showing me whose boss.
He even sent our firewood provider to make sure we had enough firewood for the coming storm the night before my blood pressure episode. With a pot full of soup, an oven full of bread, and a fire in the fireplace, what’s to worry about?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Beef, Barley, and Bread
If this isn’t soup weather coming on, I don’t know what is. My favorite winter soup to make is beef and barley, so rich with beef, so creamy with barley, so healthy with all the vegetables included in the mix. Time to take out the pressure cooker.
There’s nothing like a pressure cooker for tenderizing beef. My mother could get dinner for eleven on the table in less than an hour with the use of a pressure cooker. This was very important, since my mother was what my daddy called a social butterfly. We always ate supper at six, so if she flew in at five, she could still serve dinner promptly with her Presto.
Richard had a pressure cooker when I met him. This pleased and surprised me; how many single men know what to do with such a pot? That pot bailed me out of more than one tight spot, like the New Year’s Day that seventy-five people came to our open house and stayed all day. Twice, I ran out of black-eyed peas and cabbage, the traditional fare for New Year’s Day in New Orleans (The peas for luck, and the cabbage for money). Neither time was noticed, as I saved the day with the help of friends in the kitchen and my Presto.
The mermaids took our magic pot, along with everything else in Hurricane Katrina. That was okay with me, as long as we lived in an RV, but not so much after settling in Tennessee Mountain Home. Our chef friend Holly came to the rescue for our first Coker Creek Christmas. She didn’t even have a pressure cooker of her own, but she knew how much mine had meant to me. She gifted us with our current cooker, and has since become a fan of the Presto method of meat preparation. When Holly and I spent too much time getting our hair cut and shopping last week-end, her pressure cooker and her husband Don saved the day, and her short ribs.
I love the soothing sound of the pressure valve rocking while my beef becomes fork tender, and the onions, barley and garlic become silky and soft. As supper time draws closer, I add Richard’s perfectly diced carrots and celery and a bit of Worcestershire sauce. When the vegetables are just tender, a bit of salt and black pepper seal the deal. With a nice bread, supper is served.
I had been considering purchasing a bread machine for Richard, especially since I found out that our cooking-challenged friend Chuck had taken to making bread with a machine. I’ve been hesitant to give up the kitchen space for a machine that Richard may not use, so it’s wonderful that Mountaintop Mary lent us her bread maker. We have the flour and the yeast…
I can’t wait to have the combined scents of beef and barley soup and fresh yeast bread wafting through the house as I sit at the computer with Jack’s latest tales.
There’s nothing like a pressure cooker for tenderizing beef. My mother could get dinner for eleven on the table in less than an hour with the use of a pressure cooker. This was very important, since my mother was what my daddy called a social butterfly. We always ate supper at six, so if she flew in at five, she could still serve dinner promptly with her Presto.
Richard had a pressure cooker when I met him. This pleased and surprised me; how many single men know what to do with such a pot? That pot bailed me out of more than one tight spot, like the New Year’s Day that seventy-five people came to our open house and stayed all day. Twice, I ran out of black-eyed peas and cabbage, the traditional fare for New Year’s Day in New Orleans (The peas for luck, and the cabbage for money). Neither time was noticed, as I saved the day with the help of friends in the kitchen and my Presto.
The mermaids took our magic pot, along with everything else in Hurricane Katrina. That was okay with me, as long as we lived in an RV, but not so much after settling in Tennessee Mountain Home. Our chef friend Holly came to the rescue for our first Coker Creek Christmas. She didn’t even have a pressure cooker of her own, but she knew how much mine had meant to me. She gifted us with our current cooker, and has since become a fan of the Presto method of meat preparation. When Holly and I spent too much time getting our hair cut and shopping last week-end, her pressure cooker and her husband Don saved the day, and her short ribs.
I love the soothing sound of the pressure valve rocking while my beef becomes fork tender, and the onions, barley and garlic become silky and soft. As supper time draws closer, I add Richard’s perfectly diced carrots and celery and a bit of Worcestershire sauce. When the vegetables are just tender, a bit of salt and black pepper seal the deal. With a nice bread, supper is served.
I had been considering purchasing a bread machine for Richard, especially since I found out that our cooking-challenged friend Chuck had taken to making bread with a machine. I’ve been hesitant to give up the kitchen space for a machine that Richard may not use, so it’s wonderful that Mountaintop Mary lent us her bread maker. We have the flour and the yeast…
I can’t wait to have the combined scents of beef and barley soup and fresh yeast bread wafting through the house as I sit at the computer with Jack’s latest tales.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)