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…

"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!

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.