Thanksgiving Plenty

Up until about the time I got married, I spent most Thanksgiving Days at Mom and Dad’s house. In or around 1992, when I got my “instant, just add love” big family, and, more importantly, a house with two ovens and a sizable dining room, we began spending Thanksgivings here.

My sister who lives in Fort Collins (about an hour north of here) and her family would generally come to celebrate with us. My other sister and my brother both lived far away. For a couple of years my mom and dad would join us. With Mom’s help, we could put out a pretty good feast. But after she died in 1995, I recall my sister and me sort of standing in the kitchen looking at each other like the oft-mentioned deer in the headlights, saying, “Holy cow, what do we do now?”

We muddled through the first couple of holidays, and then it became easier. And it also began growing. Kids started bringing friends to the table. Family members from afar would join us. At the same time, Jen and I were getting in the swing of things and handling it all quite well. We put a pretty good meal on the table and everyone enjoyed the holiday festivities.

There have been some memorable Thanksgiving dinners at my house. Somewhere around 1999, for the first (but not only) time, my entire family was present at my table. That meant siblings and nieces and nephews from as far away as Arizona and Northern Virginia, with a few friends thrown in, as well as the usual suspects. I don’t recall the exact number, but it was at least 30. I said earlier that I had a sizeable dining room, but seeings as my name isn’t Mrs. Astor, my dining room isn’t that sizeable. And my table only stretches to fit 12, and that’s only if we are really good friends.

We borrowed banquet tables from the company where I worked, as well as 20 or so folding chairs. We moved furniture out of the living room and set up the tables in that room, in a U shape. We managed to all fit around the table, with my dad at the center of the bottom of the U. He led us in grace, and as I looked around at my amazing family, I really felt gratitude to God. Since then, we have had several large gatherings, and have always found room at the table for everyone. The year before my father died, much of my family from Virginia and Arizona were able to celebrate with us. I recall that year we had a very light snowfall the day before Thanksgiving, and the Arizona gang couldn’t have been happier. That was the year, perhaps, that my now-10-year-old granddaughter asked to lead us in grace, and she stood on her chair so as to make sure we could all see her!

But inevitably, the torch is passed. Last year Thanksgiving moved from our house to a son’s house. It’s not something I think you plan, but at some point it just feels right to let the kids take over. We don’t desert them; everyone brings our fair share of offerings. This year our Vermont family is joining us, and so the gathering will be near 25 people or so, nearly half who are kids. There will be room for everyone at their table as well.

I am thankful for so many things for I have been truly blessed over the years. But this time of year I am most thankful for my family – our four children, their spouses, and all nine of our grandchildren.

And, I learned recently that in May, we will be blessed with our 10th grandchild! Now that’s something special for which to be thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!

Abbodanza!

I have told you how much I love Thanksgiving, but I’m aware that this holiday isn’t as happy for some people. Perhaps, for example, they live far away from home and are looking at the grim prospect of eating a turkey TV dinner in front of their television, all by themselves.

It is for that very reason that I have often included non-family members at my holiday table. Perhaps one of our kids’ college roommate who can’t make it home for Thanksgiving, or a newly-divorced friend facing their first holiday alone. When it comes to our holiday table, anyone who lands there is part of the family.

When Bill was much younger, he was faced with the prospect of a Thanksgiving alone. For most

of the time that he was in the Army, he was stationed at Frankfort Arsenal in Philadelphia. It was too far for him to make it home to Chicago on that first Thanksgiving that he was away. He was kindly invited to eat Thanksgiving dinner with the family of a friend who was of Italian descent.

Bill says he sat at the enormous table surrounded by the raucous and joyful family, and he really felt at home. The first food to come out of the kitchen was a huge antipasto plate filled with roasted red peppers and salami and cheese and tomatoes and spicy peppers and artichoke hearts and olives. Delicious, he recalls. He filled his plate.

Soon after, his friend’s mother brings to the table a huge platter of spaghetti and meatballs. Bill says he clearly remembers thinking, “Well, this is certainly not the traditional Thanksgiving meal that I’m used to, but boy, is it ever delicious. I’m just going to enjoy it.” He commenced loading his plate with a big helping of the delicious pasta, and eating and loving every bite.

He was really getting going on the spaghetti when he hears his friend say to his mother, “Mama, how is the turkey coming?” Bill said he laughed out loud, amused at the joke about having turkey after all of the food they had already eaten.

But he laughed too soon, because Mama got out of her chair, went into the kitchen, and began bringing out all of the traditional Thanksgiving food – a great big turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, and so forth. Poor Bill; all that food and not much more room in his stomach!

The meal, he recalls ended with Mama bringing out platters of dates and candied fruit and nuts in addition to the traditional Thanksgiving pies. The meal concluded with cigars and Bushmill’s Irish Whiskey for the men, and washing many, many dishes for the women. Some things are the same in all cultures!

His story always reminds me that every family has its own traditions, even if they aren’t quite as unique as Bill’s meal with the Italian American family. We all have our own dressing recipes. Some families have a special cranberry salad; others open a can of jellied cranberries. Sweet potato casseroles can be sweet or savory. Jello salad or no jello salad?

But what is generally the same, no matter the traditions, is the family and friends gathered together, thankful for the gifts they have been given over the past year. The sound of children playing and noisy kitchens. Football games as background noise. Leftovers somewhere around 9 o’clock. Even if the leftovers are warmed up spaghetti and meatballs.

Now for another Thanksgiving recipe…..

My mother never, as far as I recall, made her gravy any way except from the little packets. I don’t know why this was so, though it perhaps had something to do with the fact that she mostly prepared the meal all by herself. Perhaps making turkey gravy from scratch just felt to her like the straw that broke the camel’s back. All I know is that I grew up thinking that gravy must be really difficult to make, so for many years I did the same thing – gravy from the little packets.

Now I know that making gravy is really very easy, and I do so often (though I must admit that I still occasionally use the packets if I am making something just for Bill and me). But a number of years ago, I found this recipe for gravy that you make ahead, and it is such a cinch that I have done it every year since.

Make-Ahead Turkey Gravy, Women’s Day Magazine, November 15, 2005

Ingredients
4 turkey wings (3-4 lbs.)
2 onions, pulled and quartered
8 c. chicken broth
¾ c. chopped carrots
½ t. dried thyme
¾ c. flour
2 T. butter
½ t. freshly ground pepper

Process
Heat oven to 400 degrees. Have ready a large roasting pan, a 5-6 qt. pot and a 3 qt. saucepan. Put wings in a single layer in the roasting pan, scatter the onions on top. Roast 1-1/4 hours, or until wings are browned.

Put wings and onions in the pot. Add 6 c. broth (refrigerate remaining 2 c.), the carrots and thyme. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer uncovered, 1-1/2 hours.

Remove wings and allow to cool. When cool, pull off skin and meat. Discard skin; save meat for another use. Strain broth into saucepan, pressing vegetables to extract liquid. Discard vegetables; skim fat.

Whisk flour into remaining 2 c. broth until blended and smooth.

Bring broth in the saucepan to a gentle boil. Whisk in the flour mixture and boil 4 – 5 min. to thicken gravy and remove floury taste. Stir in butter and pepper.

Freeze up to one month. When serving, add pan drippings from the turkey to the hot gravy.

Makes 8 cups.

Nana’s Notes: I frequently have been unable to find turkey wings, so I substitute turkey legs. Also, since I am generally cooking for the mighty hordes, I have to at a minimum double the recipe. That has always worked fine. Finally, make sure you strain out the grease from the pan drippings if you use them at the end. Making the gravy ahead is just one less thing you have to do at the very end when it seems so chaotic getting the food on the table, and the gravy is really very good.

Thanks for the Memories

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. I like that it’s all about food and family. No need to worry about gift buying for a few days yet. At least, there’s no need to worry about gifts in my world. I recognize that there is an ensuing controversy about stores opening on Thanksgiving. I’m not going to weigh in. I would never choose to shop on Thanksgiving, and never have been one to shop on Black Friday. I would rather watch football any day.

This week I’m going to reminisce about three Thanksgiving memories. I will be taking the remainder of the week off to spend with family and football!

The week of Thanksgiving was always a really busy time at the bakery when I was growing up – probably the busiest time of the year. I can’t even begin to think how many dozens of Parker House rolls we sold the Tuesday and Wednesday before the holiday. And bread. And pumpkin pies. And sweet rolls to munch on for breakfast before the great feast.

So Mom and Dad were very tired by time Thanksgiving Day hit. Nevertheless, my mother put on one heck of a spread each year, and set a beautiful table. If we ever ate elsewhere, it was only once or twice throughout my entire childhood.

Our home was small – probably 1,200 square feet. It had three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen with room for a small table, a living room and a dining room. The dining room was formally used three times a year – Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Informally, that’s often where I did my homework.

My mom and dad earned a modest living. They ably supported their family, but I doubt there was a lot left over. Nevertheless, I recall my mom had nice dining room furniture, all a light colored wood. She had a table that had several leaves which would come out on holidays, and a matching buffet. The room was pretty, with a big window that faced our back yard, and a blonde spinet piano on which each of the girls learned to play (some better than others – sigh). The piano stool had a secondary use as a spare chair on holidays.

Mom didn’t have fancy china. However, one of the grocery stores in town, as part of a promotional effort, offered pretty Currier & Ives dishware. Spend a certain amount and you earn a dinner plate, or a cup and saucer, or a salad plate, and so forth. Over a long period of time, Mom completed a set of 12, and that became our “good china.” She used it only on those same three holidays. One of my sisters has the set. It’s funny; I have a lovely set of Royal Doulton china, but I’m ever so happy when I go to my sister’s house for a holiday and see the Currier & Ives laid out.

We had no surprises as part of our Thanksgiving meal. The feature item was an oven roasted turkey, with traditional sides of mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower in a cheese sauce, and her delicious dressing, with the recipe below. Every family has their favorite. For my family, it’s not Thanksgiving without Mom’s sausage dressing. No fancy cranberry salad – just sliced jellied cranberries from the can, and Mom smeared hers with mayo. Yuck. For dessert, pumpkin pie and freshly whipped cream. (By the way, we always used granulated sugar – and lots of it – for our whipped cream. To this day, if I can’t feel a little bit of sugar between my teeth when I eat whipped cream, I’m disappointed. No powdered sugar for me!)

And no Thanksgiving memory is complete without mentioning that the Nebraska v. Oklahoma game back in those days was almost always held the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Man, now that was a rivalry.

As I recall Thanksgivings over the next couple of days, I would love to hear from some of you about your Thanksgiving memories.

Mom’s Sausage Dressing (exactly as written on the recipe card)

Ingredients
1 lb. pork sausage (not hot)
½ c. chopped onion
1 c. chopped celery (some leaves)
7 c. dry bread cubes
½ c. milk
1 can Golden Mushroom Soup
1 T. parsley (dry will do)
½ scant t. salt
¾ t. poultry seasoning
½ t. leaf sage

Process
Brown sausage. Add onions and celery. Cook until tender. Add 3 c. bread cubes. Cook until moistened. Stir frequently. Combine soup and milk. Heat, do not boil. Stir until smooth. Add seasonings to remaining bread cubes. Combine mixtures.

Nana’s Notes: That’s how my mother’s recipe ends. However, I place the mixture in a large aluminum pan and put it in the oven for 30 to 45 min., depending on the amount of dressing and whether or not it was prepared earlier and refrigerated. If that’s the case, you might want to bring it to room temperature before putting it in the oven. Remember, it is completely cooked, so you only are aiming to heat it through. I think my mother ended her recipe where she did because for many years she would then stuff the turkey with the dressing, leaving a bit for a separate casserole dish. She stopped doing that when they began warning about the possibility of food poisoning.

Kids' Whimsical Cooking: Flourless Deep Dark Chocolate Cookies

Hey everyone, this is Addie. I just made deep dark chocolate cookies. These are a great snack and dessert for everyone. They also are gluten free. Actually the reason I made these cookies is because my aunts from Vermont are coming for Thanksgiving and one of them is gluten free. The last part is fun and messy when you roll the sticky dough into balls. The only ingredient you may not have is chocolate chips. I hope you will try making these as well as some of my other recipes.

Deep Dark Chocolate Cookies adapted from the Divine Baker

Ingredients
cooking spray
1-1/2 c. bittersweet chocolate chips
3 large egg whites, room temperature
2 c. powdered sugar, divided (plus 1/2 c. for cookie coating)
1/2 c. unsweetened cocoa powder
1 T. cornstarch
1/4 t. salt

Process
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray 2 large baking sheets with nonstick spray. Set aside.

Melt 1 c. chocolate chips in glass bowl in microwave, stirring frequently, about 2 min. Set aside and let it cool slightly.

Using electric mixer, beat whites in large bowl to soft peaks. Gradually beat in 1 c. powdered sugar. Continue beating until mixture resembles soft marshmallow cream.

Whisk 1 c. sugar, cocoa, cornstarch, and salt in medium bowl to blend. Then, on a low speed, add these dry ingredients into the marshmallow cream mixture.

Next, add remaining 1/2 c. chocolate chips to lukewarm chocolate mixture (dough will become very stiff).

Add chocolate mixture to cream mixture and blend well. Place remaining 1/2 c. powdered sugar in bowl. Roll 1 rounded tablespoon dough into ball; roll in sugar, coating thickly. Place on prepared sheet. Repeat with remaining dough, spacing 2 inches apart. Bake until puffed and tops crack, about 10 min. Cool on sheets 10 minutes, then transfer to rack.

Nana's Notes: The cookies really are very good, light and chewy. I didn't have bittersweet chocolate chips on hand, so we used semisweet, and they were delicious. This particular recipe required a bit more adult supervision because of the egg whites. Still, easy enough!

Friday Book Whimsy: Tell the Wolves I'm Home

I enjoy reading debut novels. Perhaps it’s my longing to have one myself. I’m conscious that many debuts have what I always jokingly call first-bookitis. That doesn’t necessarily make a book unenjoyable. I just am aware that the author needs a little bit of book-writing experience under his/her belt.

Tell the Wolves I’m Home, by Carol Rifka Brunt, gives no indication that it is the author’s first novel, though it is. Brunt’s characters are believeable. The plot was compelling. The dialogue was realistic. The book made me laugh and it made me cry. What more could you want in a good read?

Brunt tells the story of a family living in a community just outside of New York City in the 1980s dealing with the death of a beloved brother/uncle from AIDS. But it’s not particularly a story about AIDS. In fact, in many ways Finn could have died from anything. It’s a story about family dynamics, family relationships (particularly between sisters), and learning about the varying aspects and kinds of love.

The main character is 14-year-old June, who deeply loves her Uncle Finn – her mother’s brother. Finn was an accomplished and successful artist, gay, and lived with his partner of many years, Toby. June can hardly bear her sadness at the loss of this uncle whom she so deeply loved. And to make matters worse, her sister Greta, with whom she has always been very close, seems to be slipping away from her emotionally and June doesn’t know why. June’s mother harbors a great anger at Toby, whom she purports gave Finn AIDS, thereby causing his death. She calls him a murderer.

But Finn has left a message for June that she discovered upon his death: please take care of Toby because he has no one else. Her anger at Toby initially makes this difficult.

I don’t want to give too much of the plot away, because the way that Blunt develops the story is amazing and beautiful. But page after page, the reader watches June grow up before our eyes.

I am impressed at how well Blunt made June’s character realistic. I felt as though I was actually seeing the world through the eyes of a young teenage girl. I’m also impressed that the author was able to make Greta so mean and angry, and yet when it came right down to it, likeable. I like the way she developed all of the characters as the book went on. By the end of the book, we come to really know and understand all of the characters, save perhaps June’s dad. But we even get a snapshot of him that sticks with the reader.

I have mentioned in previous book reviews that I find it refreshing when stereotypes aren’t strongly in place. I liked that none of the main characters, at least, were terribly upset by Finn being gay. They were horrified by his sad and terrible death, and angry at the partner who they blamed for Finn getting AIDS. But the fact that he was gay didn't change the way they thought about Finn, nor change their love for him.

This book was read by my book club, and our discussion was lively and interesting; that is the sign of a good book.

I will definitely be on the lookout for Brunt’s next book.

Impatiently Waiting for Patience

We’ve had a really pretty and fairly warm autumn. My heavy winter coat still hasn’t seen the light of day. But this morning we all woke up to snow and the temperatures probably won’t get out of the mid-teens. Thankfully Bill got most of the leaves picked up during the warm weather last week, and the snow will make certain the rest will come down this weekend. Our daughter and her family will be making their way from Vermont on Friday, and this weather, which is supposed to last the next few days, won’t be anything new to them.

As you can see, I don’t really have much in the way of a theme this morning. Yesterday Bill had his semiannual checkup with his neurologist/movement disorder specialist. He is always calm; I, on the other hand, am always a wreck. Having survived yesterday, my mind is kind of weary.

I’m happy to say that his appointment went well. His progression remains slow, and he was put on a different medication which is purported to be practically magical in how well it treats the symptoms! Keeping my fingers crossed.

There is no point in dwelling every day on why Bill has Parkinson’s. The reality is that no one knows why anyone gets it. I’ve never believed, certainly, that God sits up on his big white throne in heaven and points at people and says, “You’re going to get cancer, and you’re going to be in a car accident, and you’re going to get PD.” He put us on earth and we have free will and the way the earth was created leads to weather events and so forth. And, frankly, yucky stuff happens to people who don’t deserve it, and nobody understands why.

What I do spend a lot of time thinking about, however, is how Bill and I can handle our life and what we can we get out of it. Bill, for his part, handles his PD with absolute grace and dignity. He pretty much just ignores the fact that he has PD and lives his life, perhaps doing things different ways or asking me or others for help with no embarrasment. I am telling you, the man NEVER, EVER COMPLAINS.

I complain a lot, I’m afraid. Maybe not to others, but to myself, through impatience. But I believe that I am slowly but surely learning to be more patient. The other day I was walking down a narrow aisle behind a woman with a slight walking impairment who was moving quite slowly. I found myself getting so impatient, though I had nowhere I had to be. The good news is that I recognized my fault. She is clearly unable to walk faster, I reminded myself, and she likely wishes she could. Get a grip!

Patience is a virtue, isn’t it? It’s hard for me to wait to gain that particular virtue! (Wow. I crack myself up.)

I was tired after the appointment and knew I wouldn’t want to cook, so we made a stop at the grocery store and I bought the fixings for a really cheating dinner. I bought a half pound of ground beef, a bottle of good spaghetti sauce, and some spinach and grated carrots from the salad bar. At home I browned the ground

beef and added the vegetables to the browned meat to soften. I added the sauce and served it over spaghetti. A one-pot meal! I didn’t even have to bother with making a salad.

Far Away Places (With Strange Sounding Names)

One of my best friends is currently working in the Middle East country of Qatar. I only vaguely know the whereabouts of Qatar, but I know it’s very far away from Denver. She has been away since last June, and will be away for a much longer time. I’m trying not to think about how much longer she will be gone.

She is here on a visit, and we had breakfast together yesterday morning. Well, breakfast that ran into lunch, really, because there is a lot to talk about with a good friend when you haven’t seen her for a long while, and she lives in a country where I couldn’t even begin to read the street signs.

Really, it’s one thing to have a friend move away to, say, Boise, Idaho. It’s even conceivable that a friend could move away to London. But Qatar? A country with a name I can’t even pronounce? She, by the way, tried to teach it to me yesterday morning. That took about half of our time together. Something about having to use the back of my tongue. Whatever. I can say Boise, Idaho.

Anyway, we did a pretty nice job of catching up. We talked about my life (grandkids and blogging). We talked about her life (work and trying to figure out how to stay entertained in a country that Netflix doesn’t serve). We talked about what she missed most (pork, with her husband a close second). We talked about getting used to a life totally different from the United States, or even western Europe (e.g., weekends being Friday and Saturday).

Afterwards, I stopped at Steinmart to return a sweater I had purchased for my husband. Handing the cashier my receipt, I anticipated smooth sailing. He asked me for the credit card onto which I had charged the sweater. I dutifully handed my credit card over to him. “No, Ma’am, I need the card ending in 0087,” said the man pleasantly. Surprised, I told him that was the card, knowing that it’s the only card I ever use. He handed it back to me, suddenly looking very suspicious, and said he was sorry, but that isn’t the right card. I looked at the card, and discovered that though it was exactly like my card – Chase Preferred Sapphire – it indeed bore the name of the friend with whom I had breakfasted/lunched. We had split the tab, as we always did, each giving the server a credit card. We each ended up with the wrong card.

Why is it that when something like this happens, I feel compelled to explain every detail to the cashier? There can be no question in the young man’s mind that I was using a stolen card because I instantly began telling him about having breakfast with my friend who is visiting from Qatar and we had split the tab and each of us had given the server a credit card and can you believe her card was exactly like mine and I’d better call her as soon as possible so that we can get our own cards back. I’m sure I was sweating. My only saving grace was that there was no one behind me in line. That, and they didn’t have a security guard to lead me away in handcuffs.

Anyway, I called her and told her about our mix-up before she was placed in an embarrassing situation as well. As we speak, she is probably doing her Christmas shopping on Amazon using my Chase card!

Onto cooking….

While perusing my mother’s recipe box (Oy vey! Again with the recipe box!) I found her recipe for a broccoli/cheese/rice casserole that she always made on Thanksgiving. It came from the woman who had decorated cakes at our Nebraska bakery. I only tell you this because it wasn’t in my mother’s handwriting, and my sister had to remind me whose handwriting it was. More memories. Marie decorated a pretty cake.

Anyhoo, I made the casserole, and it was as good as I remembered. Even Bill enjoyed it, and he isn’t terribly fond of rice. Perhaps its because I told him he needed to eat his vegetables to be entitled to the last piece of Candy Pie.

Cheese Broccoli

Saute 1 large onion and 1 clove of garlic (chopped fine) in butter and a little oil. Add 1 pkg of frozen chopped broccoli, 1 can cream of chicken soup OR cream of mushroom soup, 1/2 c. milk, 1 c. Velveeta cheese (1 small bar), and 3/4 t. salt. Undercook 1 cup of rice (which makes 2 c. of cooked rice. Mix all of the ingredients in a baking dish and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Nana's Notes: I cut the recipe in half and it was enough for Bill and me with a bit to have for lunch tomorrow. And,by the way, the title of this post -- for anyone under the age of 50 -- comes from a song that was sung by the likes of Dean Martin and Bing Crosby when I was a little girl. My family is familiar with the song because we had a little neighbor girl who stood at the end of our driveway one year as we left for vacation and sang that song to us. Funny memory. We weren't (as the song suggests) going to China or Siam, but only to Colorado.

Kitchen Update

Some friends of ours are selling their beautiful loft/condominium in the Golden Triangle area in downtown Denver. It’s interesting that some of the feedback they are getting is that the kitchen is supposedly in DIRE need of updating. The condo is 15 years old or so, and really lovely. The countertops are granite, the floors are hardwood. Apparently the fact that it has an electric stove and the appliances aren’t stainless steel makes it a no-go, my friends.

Bill and I recently talked about people’s varying needs to update their kitchens as we were discussing his mother’s cooking. Wilma, who is an amazing 96 years old, now lives in an independent apartment in a retirement community. Prior to that, she lived in their family home in a beautiful old neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. They moved into that home somewhere around 1952 or 1953. Envision the appliances in a kitchen circa 1952. Fast forward

to the year 2000, and imagine that those very same appliances are in that house. And they all work perfectly. We were at a museum recently that featured a 1950s kitchen and Bill said, “Look, it’s Mom’s kitchen appliances!” And it really was.

This is not particularly a commentary on how in 2013 we all need the best and coolest kitchens available. It’s really more of a testament on how well things were built years ago compared to today. For example, Bill’s parents received a toaster as a wedding gift when they were married in 1939 or 1940. Until eight or nine years ago, Wilma used that very same toaster. It would break; Rex would fix it. Can you imagine taking the time to fix a toaster today? It was with great consternation that Wilma finally agreed to buy a new toaster. I remember Bill saying to her, “Well, Mom, you could call the manufacturer and see if they have the parts for a GE toaster, Series ONE.” She, as I recall, was not amused.

Bill’s father Rex loved nothing more than to fix things. Wilma has told me that when Rex would come home from work and she would tell him that her washing machine was making funny noises, he could hardly contain himself through dinner in his eagerness to get downstairs and start taking the washer apart. I can understand because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and Bill is a fixer himself.

Occasionally I will look at my quite dated kitchen and start thinking about updating it. Bill will listen to me, and then he will say, “WWWD?” That’s our code for “What would Wilma do.” My appliances work, the marks on my hardwood floor show it’s been well used, my kitchen table has knicks in it and stains on it because kids and grandkids have colored, played with play dough, pounded their baby spoons, and otherwise been comfortable sitting there. I guess I don’t mind the weathered look of the table.

No updates to my kitchen for a while.

This week I’m not really following a cooking theme; I’m just cooking what sounds good to me. And today Beef Stew sounded good. I saw Ree Drummond make a stew with root vegetables recently, and that’s the recipe I used. It was every bit as good as it looked.

Beef Stew with Root Vegetables, courtesy Ree Drummond

Ingredients
3 T. olive oil
1 T. butter
2 lbs. beef stew meat
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 medium onion, diced
1 can or bottle beer
4 c. beef broth, more as needed
1 T. Worcestershire sauce
2-3 T. tomato paste
1-1/2 t. sugar
½ t. paprika
½ t. kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 carrots, roughly sliced
2 parsnips, roughly sliced
1 small turnip, roughly sliced 2 T. flour, optional
Minced fresh parsley, for garnish

Process
Heat the oil and butter in a pan and brown the beef. Remove the beef from the pan, throw in the garlic and onions and cook until softened, about 3 min. Pour in beer, beef broth, Worcestershire sauce, tomato paste, sugar, paprika, salt and pepper. Then return the beef to the pan, cover and simmer on a low heat until the meat is very tender, 1-1/2 to 2 hours. If the liquid level gets too low, add more broth as needed.

Add the carrots, parsnips and turnips and continue to simmer until the vegetables are tender and liquid is reduced, about 30 min.

If the stew is still too liquidy, remove a cup of cooking liquid from the pan and stir in the flour, Add flour mixture back into the pan and stir. Simmer for 10 minutes until the stew is thick. The meat should be very tender; if it’s tough, let it continue to cook.

To finish, add the parsley and stir through the stew.

I also made a batch of Kentucky Biscuits, from a recipe I found on Pinterest.

Kentucky Biscuits

Ingredients
2 c. flour
1-1/2 t. baking powder
½ t. baking soda
2 T. sugar
Dash of salt
½ c. butter
¾ c. buttermilk (Don’t have buttermilk? No problem, just add 1 or 2 T. vinegar to milk)

Process
Mix dry ingredients. Cut in butter, add milk and knead into soft dough. Do not over knead! Pat into an ungreased 6 X 6 pan. I use a pie pan. Cut into serving size portions before you cook. Bake at 400 degrees for 15-20 min. or until done and golden brown.

Nana’s Notes: I halved the beef stew recipe for Bill and me, and it worked great. Enough for two large bowls of stew. As for the Kentucky Biscuits, they were delicious; however, I’ve never made them before so I have no idea if they were the right consistency. Mine were sort of like corn bread. Also, next time I would grease the pie pan. Very good drizzled with honey.

Recipe Memory Box

As I was going through my mom’s recipe box last week, it occurred to me that today’s young cooks probably seldom use recipe cards and probably don’t own a recipe box. In this day and age of food blogs and cooking web sites and electronic cookbooks, recipe boxes probably went the way of the cookie jar.

I’m not judging. I have recipes stored on the websites of Food Network, Allrecipes, Weight Watchers, and probably others I don’t even remember. And don’t even get me started on Pinterest. But still, it was fun to see those recipe cards in familiar handwriting with notes written on the back and splotches of food all over the cards. I spent considerable time trying to figure out the various handwriting so that I could see from whom a recipe originated.

Many of my mother’s recipes are named after the contributor: Jen’s Party Pork Chops, Beckie’s Wonderful Pie Crust, Leona’s Refrigerator Pickles, Grammie’s Apple Pie. Many of the recipes were copied in one of her grandchildren’s handwriting.

It’s kind of sad that our grandchildren and great grandchildren won’t have the same opportunity to look at our recipes and try to read our handwriting and wonder if we ever actually made the Coquilles St. Jacques recipe that’s in our box. As for handwriting, do kids even learn cursive anymore?

After perusing Mom’s recipe box, I moved to mine, where I found a recipe card from my mother-in-law for “My Mother’s Cream Pie.” She gave me that recipe some 20 years ago, and I have never made the pie. I asked Bill if he remembered the pie. “Candy Pie!” he immediately said, which is what he and his siblings apparently called it. “I didn’t know you had that recipe. Can you make it?”

So I did. As it was baking, I went on the internet to see if anyone had ever heard of a Cream Pie. After some sleuthing, I found what others call Sugar Cream Pie (a sensible name since the recipe basically consists of sugar and cream). It originated in Indiana, which is where my mother-in-law, Wilma, was born and grew up. It all fell into place.

Bill took one bite of the pie, smiled, and said, “Wow, this takes me back to my childhood.”

That’s the way I felt all last week. Food memories.

Wilma’s Mother’s Cream Pie

Ingredients
1 c. sugar
4 T. flour
1 c. cream
1 T. butter

Process
Mix sugar and flour together; stir in cream. Pour into unbaked pie shell and dot with butter. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 50 minutes until you can insert a knife and it comes out clean.

Nana’s Notes: As I researched the pie, I noticed some people added vanilla and/or sprinkled nutmeg or cinnamon on top before baking. I wanted this to be just like Wilma’s pie, so I didn’t do that. Next time I might add vanilla and a little cinnamon. The pie was sweet and very good. And simple -- four ingredients!

Do you have any food memories from your family? Did your mom have a recipe box? Do You?

Spanx for the Memories

My sisters and I were all born before 1960. Dressing up in the 50s and 60s meant something a bit different than it does now. For example, outer garments often included a hat and gloves, at least if we were going to church (which was generally the reason we dressed up).

For women of the 50s and 60s, undergarments included nylons with garter belts (which, for my sisters and me, were not sexy, mostly twisted and beige with age as they were inevitably Mom’s hand-me-downs). And of course, the dreaded girdle. As young women (meaning puberty and beyond) we, too, wore these restrictive undergarments because that’s what “ladies” did.

Yesterday I attended the funeral of an acquaintance. I generally only dress up on Sundays, and mostly I wear a pair of black pants with some kind of a jacket, blouse, or sweater. So I put on a pair of black pants and a brand new lightweight knit shirt.

I took a glance in the mirror before I went downstairs. Yuck. Panty lines. I could hear my mother’s voice in my ear saying, “Nobody is looking at you, Kris,” and knew this to be true. Still, panty lines. Yuck.

So I went to my drawer and dug deep for a pair of long-unused Spanx. You know Spanx: Torture device of the old and unfit. Purportedly good for slimming your abdomen and bottom. “It takes off 10 pounds,” according to the advertisements. Yes, but those 10 pounds have to move somewhere….

Mostly I was just trying to get rid of those panty lines.

I pulled them on and had no more panty lines. But it made me think about my mother as a young woman, likely wearing a girdle much more often than I and never complaining. It really was quite horrendous when you think about it.

So, I guess I won’t. And it sure was nice when I could take it off.

I don’t usually post a recipe on Saturdays, but I wanted to be part of the family and let you know what recipe I would have my mother make if I got that last chance for her good cooking. Spareribs and sauerkraut. Yum.

I’ve mentioned before that Mom was not big on recipes, unfortunately. She wrote down a few of her specific dishes, such as her cole slaw dressing or her gazpacho. But as for her regular main dishes, not many recipes. Sometimes I try to recreate her meals from memory, but mostly I call one of my siblings, go on the Internet or look at my cookbooks and see what I can find.

That’s what I did when I decided to recreate her baked spareribs. And I found my recipe in a somewhat surprising place – one of my Lidia Bastianich cookbooks!

The recipe comes from Lidia’s Italian-American Kitchen, copyright 2002.

Spare Ribs Roasted with Vinegar and Red Pepper

6 servings

Ingredients
1 rack (about 3-1/2 pounds) pork spare ribs
Sea or kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/3 c. extra-virgin olive oil
12 cloves garlic, peeled
4 fresh or dried bay leaves
1 cup (or as needed) canned chicken broth
1 cup dry white wine
½ cup red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons honey
1 to 2 teaspoons crushed hot red pepper

Process
Cut the rack of spare ribs between the bones into single ribs. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Pat the spare ribs dry and season them with salt and pepper. Toss them in a roasting pan into which they fit comfortably with the olive oil, garlic, and by leaves. Pour in the broth and roast, turning occasionally, until the liquid is almost completely evaporated and the ribs are golden brown, 45 minutes to an hour.

Meanwhile, stir the wine, vinegar, honey, and crushed red pepper together in a small bowl until the honey is dissolved.

Brush all sides of the ribs with some of the vinegar glaze, and then pour the remaining glaze into the roasting pan. Continue baking, turning every few minutes, until the glaze is syrupy and the ribs are mahogany brown and sticky to the touch, about 30 minutes. Spoon off as much of the fat as you like before serving the ribs.

Nana’s Notes: I used a rack of baby back ribs instead of spareribs since they seem more manageable, and I was cooking only for my husband and me. It took the whole hour before the liquid came close to being evaporated. And I’m not sure my ribs were ever sticky to the touch, but they did turn a lovely golden brown.

Lidia’s recipe doesn’t include sauerkraut, but I just buy a package of the lovely, ice-cold sauerkraut you find in the deli case at the grocery store and add it to the pan towards the end or heat it separately. To be honest, I like it cold! At some point my mom started putting apples in with her sauerkraut, I assume to make the kraut less sour. I didn’t like this, and remember trying unsuccessfully to eat around the apple. So I served the sauerkraut without apples.

It’s been fun cooking with you all week, Mom!

Friday Book Whimsy: Pamela Schoenewaldt Guest Post

I have taken to sending a link to my Friday book review to the author whose book I am reviewing. Much to my surprise, several of the authors have replied to my post, thanking me for the review. Being a fledgling writer, I am so grateful for the courtesy and kindness those authors display.

Pamela Schoenewaldt, author of Swimming in the Moon, also kindly offered to do a guest blog post, which I, of course, accepted immediately. She was generous enough to let me choose her topic. For me, that was a no-brainer. How does she go about writing her books, I wondered.

Here is her guest post (photo credit, Kelly Norrell):


My writing process: from bubbles and mess to books

The best metaphor I have for how a basic story line comes to me is soap bubbles which meet in air and join together. So for Swimming in the Moon, I had the bubble of the Palazzo Donn’Anna on the Bay of Naples, a mother and daughter, mother with a musical gift, the daughter wanting an education, vaudeville, mental illness, and worker rights. Now with the bubbles coalesced, I could scribble out a paragraph, or at least have a general sequence in mind.

In those early stages, I was in Cleveland doing a presentation on my first novel, When We Were Strangers. I visited the Italian-American Collection of the Western Reserve Historical Society and spoke to Dr. John Grabowski, a Cleveland historian, who described the heroic struggles of immigrant workers in the 1911 Cleveland Garment Workers Strike. Yes! The strike would be key to my Lucia’s journey.

Now to create a novel. My agent says there are two kinds of writers: pantsers and non-pantsers. Pantsers write by the seat of their pants; non-pantsers plan. I’m a non-pantser. I know, many great writers are pantsers, but I’d short-circuit if I tried to keep all the balls in the air, writing sentence by sentence, not knowing where I was going. Think of all the balls in historical fiction:

Plot
Character
Setting
Pacing
Style
Theme
Imagery
Historical research

Yikes. I wonder if writers who learned to write in the pre-computer age (going back to papyrus and clay tablets) were pushed to be pantsers, to go sentence by sentence because revision is so hard and paper (and even clay) gets expensive.

My non-pantserism was confirmed by reading that writing is actually a three-stage process: creating, writing, editing. Each one takes place in a different part of the brain. Think about it. Creating is non-linear, non-judgmental, often irrational, more about plot and character than style. Writing is more linear, logical, grammatical, selective and so forth. Editing even more so. My brain works better if I do these things one at a time.

Once the structure is set, I’ll define plot in terms of chapters (usually about 20), with a blurb for each chapter. Lots of research in this phase. Then back to the creating stage for the first chapter, starting with the blurb, going over and over, still not “writing” but sketching in scenes in each chapter, maybe key images or lines of dialogue. The lines are single space, sometimes even another font (like Arial) to remind myself not to jump to fussy “writing” just yet. With each pass, more becomes revealed/added, as if layers of plastic wrap are being stripped away and I see more clearly what’s happening inside and outside the characters’ minds.

I sneak up on the hard part: actual writing. I’ll start with the first chunk of chapter, go to double space and Times New Roman, and begin adding, cutting, reading aloud, revising, as chunks become paragraphs. And so on through the chapter, then going over the chapter many times, changing, adding, cutting. Then editing.

Of course the process isn’t neatly linear. A reader may raise a point about chapter 6 which requires changes in 1-5 and rippling effects through the novel. Or I get a better idea: more changes. Sometimes I go back in technology to index cards, each with a plot point, arranging the cards on a rug in my office. Of course, if my dog Jesse lies down on the rug, the plot gets messed up. Or maybe he’s telling me something . . .

All the while, I’m researching. With the plot and character journeys in mind, amazing things happen. You read sources as if your mind were a magnet and ideas lift off the page (or screen). The plot enriches, you understand more about the character, see more, smell more, taste more, feel yourself more in the world you’ve created. It’s a messy process, but for non-pantsers like me, mess is the way to go.

Pamela Schoenewaldt lived for ten years in a small town outside Naples, Italy. Her short stories have appeared in literary magazines in England, France, Italy and the United States. Her play, "Espresso con mia madre" (Espresso with my mother) was performed at Teatro Cilea in Naples. She is the author of "When We Were Strangers" and "Swimming in the Moon". Schoenewaldt taught writing for the University of Maryland, European Division and the University of Tennessee and now lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her husband, Maurizio Conti, a physicist, and their dog Jesse, a philosopher.

Nana Love

I never asked my mom the question directly, but I assume she liked being a mother. However, I KNOW she liked being a grandmother. You can see her pride and her love in this picture of Mom and Dad with my nephew and sister on the day of my nephew's First Communion.

We are all many things. For example, I am a Catholic, an American, a Coloradan, a sister, a wife, a mother, and many other things. I enjoy all of my various roles. But unquestionably being a grandmother ranks high when considering what I like and do best.

I love all of my grandchildren. They all have their own unique personalities. Shockingly, I think they are all the smartest, funniest, cutest children on this earth. Each one of them.

Indulge me while I tell you a funny story about my precocious 3-year-old granddaughter Mylee (the same spitfire who wouldn’t brush her teeth in an earlier blog post). Yesterday morning her mother was hunting for the missing Mylee, and finally found her, totally naked, out on their deck enjoying Colorado’s unseasonably warm weather. “I’m hot,” she explained. She then came into the house and told her mother she needed a scarf. Apparently she understands, even at that early age, that scarves are the perfect accessory for any outfit.

I don’t think there is really anything quite like being a grandmother. My mother definitely understood this as well. Like me, she thought all of her grandchildren walked on water. As an example, when my son didn’t make his high school basketball team, it was really all we could do to keep her from marching over to the high school and making the coach aware of his mistake. She would have done the same for any of her grandchildren.

Mom died at the much-too-early age of 69. Though she has been gone for over 18 years, I miss her every day. I no longer mistakenly pick up the phone to tell her about something, but I very often am sad that I can’t. The story about Mylee is a good example. It would have made her laugh.

I take my role of Nana very seriously. I have very vivid and pleasant memories of the time I spent with my grandmother, whom I loved with my whole heart. I have always vowed to provide that same unconditional love to all of my grandkids so that they will remember me with joy, just as my son and all of my nieces and nephews remember their nana.


I often wonder where my mother got her recipes. She probably got many from magazines, and I know she got plenty of recipes from her sisters and sisters-in-law. Her recipe box also holds many recipes she gleaned from the recipe boxes of her children. I have no clue, however, from where this recipe came. She made beef stroganoff often when I was growing up, and it was delicious. My brother doesn’t even have to hesitate for an instant when asked about his favorite Mom-recipe.

Mom’s Beef Stroganoff (exactly as written on her recipe card)

Cut 1 lb round steak into 3X1 inch strips. Brown strips in 2 tbs shortening in large skillet. Add ¼ C cut-up onion, 1 tsp salt and ¼ tsp pepper. Blend in 2 tbs flour, then 1½ C tomato juice and, if desired, 4 oz can mushroom stems and pieces, drained. Cover and cook over low heat 1 hour until tender. Stir in a mixture of 1 small can evaporated milk and 1 tbs Realemon. Heat until steaming but do not boil. Serve over cooked noodles or rice.

Nana’s Notes: 1 small can evaporated milk = one 5-oz can. As with yesterday’s recipe, Mom always used the least expensive cut of round steak – thin piece of meat. My brother insists it tastes better than using a more expensive cut of beef. Though her recipe says it can be served with noodles or rice, I never remember a single time that she didn’t serve it over rice. I can’t imagine serving it any other way! Tonight I served it with a bottle of wine called Middle Sister, perfect for me as I am a middle sister!

Happy Homemaker

Battling another cold today, I spent more time than usual in front of the television. I chanced upon a movie, Mona Lisa Smile, starring Julia Roberts. Being a Julia Roberts fan, it sucked me in. I’m somewhat embarrassed to say that if you held my feet to the fire and ordered me to tell you my favorite movie of all time, with a very red face (from embarrassment, not the fire), I would admit that it is Pretty Woman. But I digress.

The movie was about a woman (Roberts) who comes to teach at Wellesley College in 1953 from California. Much to this professor’s chagrin, the young female students, though exceptionally bright, were for all intents and purposes simply biding their time at college, eagerly awaiting their destiny of a ranch-style home and a husband and children. Two hours later, Roberts’ character had taught them that there was more to life than setting a pretty table and having four beautiful children. Cue 50s music and photos of post-WWII housewives as the credits ran. Not a bad movie, by the way.

But seeings as I am full-out nostalgic this week thinking about my mother’s recipes, the movie got me to thinking about my mother’s life as a young woman. She was married by age 21, and had her first child 12 months later. Kaboom. Welcome to life as a homemaker with no grace period. I wonder if she ever thought about a different kind of life, or did all girls in post-WWII just assume their role in life would be as a wife and mother.

And, in the famous words of Jerry Seinfeld, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

My mother’s life turned out to be a bit different than the typical wife and mother of the 50s and 60s, however. Because she and Dad had their own business, much of her time was required away from home. She made good use of our wonderful grandmother, who often watched us as Mom worked in the bakery. And when my sister was old enough, she cooked breakfast for the rest of us if Mom had to leave for work a bit early. Still, she had a home-cooked meal on the table every night. Like most women, she worked hard.

In 1980, when I had my son, I felt as though the pendulum had swung in the other direction. If a woman had a college degree, people considered it odd if you quit your job to stay home with your children. Perhaps that limitation was self-imposed, but I definitely felt that way. I’m happy that the options are much more plentiful today, or at least they appear to be to these almost-60 eyes. That’s a good thing.

But on to my meal of the day. Breaded pork chops are what my sister Jennifer would have my mom cook for her magical come-back-to-earth-for-a-day meal. And I’m pretty sure that if she were to invite my father, he would be very happy to oblige. He loved them.

As with many of my mom’s meals, she had no recipe for breaded pork chops. So I Googled it, and came up with a recipe from allrecipes.com that seemed close. Most of the recipes I saw called for thick pork chops. Money was never plentiful in my family, though we lived a very comfortable life. But, though my mother was a good cook, she was also an economical cook. The pork chops in her recipe were the inexpensive thin-cut chops. So that’s how we like them.

One final note, my grandmother, and then my mother, always served breaded pork chops with macaroni and cheese made with Swiss cheese. My mother would grate the Swiss cheese and then place it in the cupboard so that our busy little hands wouldn't snitch all of the cheese before she was ready to make the macaroni. In deference to her, I always put my grated cheese in the cupboard until I'm ready for it.

Breaded Pork Chops

Ingredients
4 pork loin chops
2 T all-purpose flour
½ t. salt
½ t. paprika
1/8 t pepper
1 egg, slightly beaten
1 t Worcestershire sauce
½ c dry bread crumbs
1 T vegetable oil

Process

In a small bowl, combine flour, salt, paprika and pepper. In another small bowl, combine egg and Worcestershire sauce. Coat chops with seasoned flour; dip in egg mixture, and coat with crumbs. In large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Brown chops on one side until golden brown (about 4 min); turn and continue cooking for another 4 min. Serve hot.

Nana’s Notes: I am pretty sure there was no Worcestershire sauce or paprika in my mom’s recipe, but I thought it sounded like a nice addition to flavor them up. Also, I would be willing to bet that my mom didn’t dip the chops in flour. I suspect she simply dipped them in egg and bread crumbs. Also, according to my sister who chose this recipe, after the chops were browned, Mom would put a little bit of water in the pan, cover it, and let the chops cook a bit to get more tender. That’s what I did. Finally, we all remembered that Mom would bring home bread crumbs from the bakery that she gathered from the bread slicing machine. No store-bought bread crumbs necessary!

Memories and Meals

A few weeks ago, when Bill and I were still in Arizona, my brother David and I were sitting

outside late in the afternoon. Talk turned towards our childhood, as it often does whenever any combination of the siblings gathers.

I think we all agree that we had a wonderful childhood. None of us ever doubted that our parents loved us. Times were different, however. There wasn’t a lot of “I love you’s” tossed around though we knew they did. A term you hear thrown around these days is “helicopter parent.” You know, the parent who hovers around their child making sure no harm ever comes to little Junior or Juniorette. I think it’s safe to say that neither my mother nor my father would ever have been accused of being a helicopter parent.

Here’s an example: My mother was a very sound sleeper. Because of this, it really took a lot of guts for any of us to wake her up in the middle of the night. We knew it would involve a lot of shaking of her shoulders. Eventually, she would leap up in bed with a loud, “What is it?” Gulp. It had better be good because by this time Dad was awake.

For me, it was either “I’m going to throw up,” or “I can’t sleep.” If I was going to throw up, she was liable to ask me why I was telling her this in her bedroom instead of leaning over the toilet in the bathroom. And the “I can’t sleep”, well, that just got on her very last nerve.

Her answer to that particular complaint, without exception, was (say it with me Siblings), “Nobody ever died from a lack of sleep. Go back to bed.” I have no recollection of her ever getting out of her bed to tuck me back into my bed.

By the way, as an adult, I can certainly see, clear as day, just how silly it is to awaken someone to tell them that you can’t sleep. But for some reason it made perfect sense to me as a 7-year-old.

On the other hand, it wasn’t a good idea for anyone to bring harm or even angst to any of her children. Do so, and out came the Mother Lion. I clearly remember when a neighbor boy who was a year or so older than me and a bully before people became concerned about bullies chased me down, held me to the ground, and kissed me on the lips. I was probably 7 or 8 years old. I broke free and ran to my mother in tears. I vividly remember that she went to her closet, got the broom, and chased him all the way back to his house. She may not have caught him, but I’m sure he felt the bristles on the back of his neck.

But back to David and my conversation that day. We were talking about Mom’s good cooking. He told me his favorite meal and I told him mine. It got me to thinking about her cooking, so this week I asked all my siblings what meal they would have Mom make if she could come back to cook one dinner for them.

My sister Beckie’s response: Mom’s fried chicken. My mom, by the way, always claimed that she couldn’t cook a lick when she got married. All of her cooking skills were learned from her mother-in-law. I’m sure that’s true as my mom was the youngest of 13 kids, and her mom died before my mom was married, and sick for much longer than that. Not in a position to teach my mom to cook. So Mom’s fried chicken is actually my grandmother’s fried chicken, and now my fried chicken. Don’t confuse this chicken with southern-style because it isn’t crunchy. Instead, it is tender and flavorful.

My Family’s Fried Chicken

Ingredients
1 frying chicken, cut into 10 pieces (my mother always cut each breast into two pieces}
1-2 c. flour, well-seasoned with salt and pepper
Butter and vegetable oil, half and half, deep enough to fill a pan to a depth of about a quarter of an inch

Process
Preheat the butter and oil in the fry pan until it’s hot enough to sizzle if you flick a drop of water into the pan. Dredge the chicken pieces in the flour, shaking off the excess. Lay the pieces skin-side-down into the hot oil. Cook until it’s nicely brown, 5-6 minutes. Turn over and do the same on the other side. It doesn’t have to be cooked all the way through. Only fry a few pieces at a time or your shortening will cool down too much and your chicken pieces won’t brown nicely.

As you remove the chicken pieces from the pan, place them into a roasting pan. (Conversely, you can place them temporarily on a plate and return all of the pieces to the pan to finish. Make sure your pan is oven-proof and has a lid if you choose this option.) Cover the roasting pan with aluminum foil and place into a preheated 350 degree oven for an hour or so until the chicken is cooked through and falls off the bone.

Nana’s Notes: Personally, I believe a cast iron skillet is imperative to make good fried chicken. Having said this, I must say I don’t believe my mother used a cast iron skillet. Still, you would have to pry my lovely well-seasoned iron skillet out of my hand to make me fry chicken in a regular skillet. I used to fry the chicken, place the pieces on a plate until finished, pour out most of the grease, return the chicken to that pan, cover and finish cooking it in the oven. Now, however, I fry the chicken and put the pieces into a toss-away aluminum roasting pan, cover it with tin foil and finish it in the oven. There is no getting around it. Frying chicken is messy business. Also, I add a bit of cayenne pepper to my seasoned flour. Don’t tell my mother.

Anchors Away

Today is Veterans’ Day, and, as always, it makes me think about my dad – that would be Musician 3rd Class Reinhart Gloor, serial number 317-11-31, United States Navy.

I always thought it was funny that my dad, having lived nearly his entire life in land-locked Nebraska (he was born in South Dakota but only lived there for a short time) chose to enlist in the Navy. Apparently he chose the Navy because they offered him the best opportunity to be a musician. He tried out for the Naval Music School and was accepted in the Music Corps. Instead of carrying a gun, my dad carried a saxophone and a clarinet.

You see, though a baker by trade, my dad loved music. It always seemed entirely appropriate to me that my dad spent his military years entertaining troops during World War II. He was stationed on the island of Trinidad.

I wish I had talked more with my dad about his years in the Navy. He had, to my knowledge, never been out of the country. Heck, I would guess he had never been out of Nebraska. Here he was, an inexperienced boy of only 18 or so, sent to basic training in Chicago and music school in Washington, D.C., then on to Trinidad. No friends with him, his mom and dad and sisters far away with no internet or even much in the way of telephones I would assume. He probably was nervous and excited.

He was one of many young boys and girls who were experiencing the same mixed feelings of excitement and fear, loneliness and suffocation from being around other people all of the time. Those soldiers, sailors, airmen/women and Marines needed the comfort of music.

A number of years ago, my husband and I were able to visit the Normandy area of France. We walked on Omaha Beach. I don’t think anything I’ve ever seen has had such a profound impact on me as seeing that enormous section of beach, onto which those men – boys, really – involved in the D-Day invasion had to disembark from their ship and run like hell. Brave, brave men.

And that’s just one example. There are thousands and thousands of stories of young people who have fought in places so, so far from home to keep America safe and free. They have truly sacrificed, and continue to sacrifice, so much for us so that we can bring up our families as we see fit and worship as we please.

My husband also served, in the United States Army during the Vietnam War. Thankfully for him (and for me), he never had to serve in Vietnam. I’m proud of him and his service to all of us. (I don't have a picture of him in his uniform or I would post it!) In fact, I’m pretty sure all of us know a vet, perhaps more than one. Today is a good day to tell him or her thanks for their service and for helping keep us safe and free.

Happy Veterans’ Day!

Cookie Home

Posting my cookie recipes this past week made me think about cookie jars.

One of my sisters pointed out to me that I have always had a cookie jar. So did my mother, which is surprising in that I don’t have memories of my mom making homemade cookies very often. My father, as I have mentioned, was a baker, and made, among many delicious baked items, cookies. It wasn’t surprising then that my mother was an infrequent cookie maker. Still, she had the cookie jar. Doesn’t everybody, I wondered?

I began to survey friends and family about whether or not they have, or grew up with, a cookie jar. To my surprise, neither of my sisters had cookie jars. “Where did you keep your cookies?” I asked one of them. Tupperware or plastic bags was her answer. The lack of a cookie jar doesn't seem to have impacted her children negatively. My other sister said she rarely made homemade cookies because she worked full time. Still, cookies don’t have to be homemade to deserve a cookie jar. However, her children also seem to be normal citizens who contribute to society.

One of my best childhood memories involves a cookie jar. At the home of one of my best friends there was a cookie jar that always – 100 percent of the time – was full of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Now, to be fair, that family, which included seven children, had a housekeeper whose job duties apparently included keeping that cookie jar full of chocolate chip cookies. She was very good at her job. Or at least the chocolate-chip-cookie-making part of her job. I can’t vouch for anything else.

That cookie jar full of chocolate chip cookies led me to promise myself that when I was grown up and had children, my cookie jar would always be full of chocolate chip cookies. Foolish childhood dreams.

I must admit that what my cookie jar is almost always filled with is Oreos. That’s because my husband, and ALL of my grandchildren, love Oreos. (As a side note, it’s interesting to see how each of them eats an Oreo. One eats it just like me – pulls it apart, eats the filling, then eats the cookies. Another eats it as a whole, in several bites. Two of them pull them apart, eat the filling, then attempt to simply throw away the cookie part. I say attempt, because that’s a no-go if I see them considering it. As for Bill, one bite and it’s gone!)

From my very limited survey, I have had to admit that more of my friends and family didn’t/don’t have a cookie jar than did/do. Thank goodness cookie jar manufacturers don’t’ have to rely on these folks for their living.

So I’m curious to know, did you grow up with a cookie jar? Do you have one now? Am I the only house with a cookie jar?

Friday Book Whimsy: One Summer: America, 1927

Author Bill Bryson did a most fascinating thing. He researched one year in America and wrote an interesting, information-packed, and funny book about the summer of 1927.

Bryson is one of my favorite authors. I have loved him since reading A Walk in the Woods, his story about hiking the Appalachian Trail. That book is entirely responsible for my adding a hike on the Appalachian Trail to my bucket list, something I was able to accomplish a couple of years ago. (Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t walk the entire trail. I simply walked on the trail, which was all I wanted to do.)

Bryson was born in the United States, but lived much of his life in Great Britain. He is fairly prolific, and all of his books are nonfiction, mostly accounts about nothing in particular. Sort of like a literary Seinfeld. He has a really quirky way of looking at things, and an absolutely wonderful way of putting ideas on paper. He can be hilariously funny, though I must say One Summer: America, 1927, isn’t particularly hilarious, nor is it intended to be. But it did make me laugh out loud on occasion. Bryson’s way of looking at life is very funny, very ironic.

I was interested in this book because my parents were born in 1926 and I wanted to see what was happening in the world at that particular time in our history. Bryson didn’t look at every single thing that happened, of course. He concentrated on some particularly unusual events and people who made up the fabric of that summer.

His focus: Charles Lindburgh’s historic flight across the Atlantic (and his subsequent unprecedented fame), Babe Ruth’s home run extravaganza (and his subsequent extravagant lifestyle), activities of the anarchist movement following WWI (and America’s subsequent hysteria regarding the movement), and the activities of President Calvin Coolidge and soon-to-be-President Herbert Hoover. Amongst these stories, Bryson wove in information about the creation of affordable air travel; the invention of radio, television, and talkies; Al Capone’s rise and downfall; baseball and boxing; the ludicracy of Prohibition; and much more.

One Summer isn’t written in a linear fashion; instead, Bryson weaves all of the stories together, giving the reader a strong sense of what it felt like to be an American in the Roaring Twenties. The country was wealthy and strong, following WWI. Though it was on the brink of a great depression, no one knew it at the time, nor would they have believed it if they had been told. Bryson even touches on what contributed to the stock market crash of 1929.

It was interesting to learn that the 21st Century doesn’t have a lock on extreme weather conditions. Did you know that in the spring and summer of 1927, there was massive flooding in the Midwest and a hurricane that killed a number of people later in the summer (not in the US)? There was a great heat wave in the East that also killed a number of Americans. And that was before Global Warming……

I admit that I did a bit of skimming. I wasn’t particularly interested, for example, on the facts around air travel. Skim, skim, skim. But I was fascinated by the stories about baseball. Bryson’s writing made me feel like I was at Yankee Stadium on a warm summer’s day. Even the stories about boxing kept me reading.

I enjoyed the book very much, and recommend it to anyone wanting to learn a bit of history in a pleasant way and by a funny teacher. I wonder if a person could take any given year and write an interesting history?

On a separate note, I also want to give a strong recommendation to a BBC series (not currently running, but available from Netflix and the library) entitled Call the Midwife. The series is based on the memoir written by Jennifer Worth about her time as a midwife in the East End of

London in the late 1950s.The midwives work with an order of Anglican nuns whose mission was to serve the poor as nurses. The series is beautifully written and acted. The stories are poignant and compelling. Call the Midwife has run two seasons thus far, and a third is on the way. Like with Downton Abbey, I can barely wait.

Kids' Whimsical Cooking: Snickerdoodles

Hello, this is Addie and I just made snickerdoodle cookies. They are a great snack to enjoy. The only ingredient that may not be in your pantry is cream of tartar. Everyone that has tasted my snickerdoodles has to have another.

I have used these delicious treats for fundraisers, dinner parties, and more. They are fairly inexpensive and take less than an hour to make from start to finish. Also, it is a fun activity to pass the time you would otherwise be using sitting in front of a screen.

I hope you get a chance to make these wonderful cookies. Have fun cooking.

Snickerdoodles from Betty Crocker

Ingredients
1-1/2 c. sugar
½ c. butter, softened
½ c. shortening
2 eggs
2-3/4 c. all-purpose flour
2 t. cream of tartar
1 t. baking soda
¼ t. salt
¼ c. sugar
2 t. ground cinnamon

Process
Heat oven to 400 degrees.

Mix 1-1/2 c. sugar, the butter, shortening and eggs in a large bowl. Stir in flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt.

Shape dough into 1-1/4 in. balls. Mix ¼ c. sugar and the cinnamon. Roll balls in cinnamon-sugar mixture. Place 2 in. apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8 – 10 min. or until set. Remove from cookie sheet to wire rack to cool.

Nana's Notes: You might laugh when you read that Addie serves snickerdoodles at dinner parties, but she has, in fact, hosted two formal dinner parties. She invites all the kids in her fifth grade class to her house. They dress up -- boys in ties; girls in pretty dresses. Addie's brother and two sisters act as wait staff and Addie (with the help of her mom and dad) has prepared dinner. This time she made steak (which her dad grilled), pasta, a fruit salad, potatoes, and pumpkin pie and snickerdoodles for dessert. Last Friday's dinner party included

20, mostly boys!

Also, a note about snickerdoodles. My brother is a professional baker. Even he is getting excited about my blog! He phoned me earlier this week when he heard I was presenting cookie recipes and gave me this suggestion for snickerdoodles. Add a little cinnamon to the batter to give the cookie a bit of a surprise cinnamon taste. He also suggested making a buttercream, to which you would add a bit of cinnamon, and use it as a filling between two cookies. Snickerdoodle Sandwich Cookies. Yum.