UN-SUPERBOWL PARTY

 

Un-Superbowl parties may be few and far between, but ours was fun and we had a nice evening together, having our party-food dinner on trays, with a favorite old movie we hadn't seen in years---Quigley Down Under.

 

First menu item, by concensus, was a Muffaletta, that paragon of sandwiches, made on good heavy bread, stacked with all sorts of good Italian cold cuts like salamis, pale curls of thin pink ham, Tony Soprano's beloved "gabbagool," Provolone, roasted peppers, and slatherings of wonderful Olive Salad, and the two cut sides of the bread anointed with an Olive-Oil-Herb Vinaigrette.     The whole thing was weighted with two heavy books for a couple of hours, to get all the parts acquainted and into perfect harmony.

 

 The bread was a marvelous foccacia, studded with herbs and thin tomato slices and olives, and it could have stood as the ONLY dish at the table, all by itself.   It was Caro's idea, and she made it perfectly.   Our Deep-South, Land-Locked roots have surprisingly encompassed quite a few cuisines from other places---the good-sized Armenian and Syrian and Greek and Italian communities settled in our area a century ago and more have contributed to our taste for many exotic herbs and combinations, and even the smallest towns seem to have their own Chinese restaurant, whether store-front or actually IN a store.

When I was perhaps six, two of my Daddy's cousins---gorgeous, outgoing girls with bright, gum-snapping personalities, wonderful clothes and fabulous perfume---married two young men who were brothers from a big Italian family, so we all learned early of the charms of latougies and ravioli and muffalettas---those gems made with the quick gnarled fingers of the Grandmother, dipped dripping into the roasted-peppers dish and and sliced olives and marinated vegetables, with all the meats being handed into the kitchen straight from the slicer in the store a room away. 

 

 

 

 

The table---strictly infomal, as befits a non-event.   When the hot stuff's set on the table, there's no time to go get a fancy bowl for the sour cream.

 

Chris' straight-off-the-grill chicken wings, sweet and tangy and smoky with Baby Ray's Sauce.

 

Guacamole by Sis's recipe, with minced onion and tomato.   I'm absolutely addicted to those tee-ninecy baby English cucumbers, and also to the POP of a grape tomato.

 

Caro's Crave---hunks of sausages simmered in that cliche' old Southern stand-by sauce made of Ketchup, Plochman's, and melted Grape Jelly.

 

 

Potato skins, baked and scooped and scattered with cheese, bacon and green onions and re-baked to crisp and melt.   Sour Cream to come later.

 

 

My Plate.

 

 

A little plate of Fudge, Peanut Butter Fudge, chocolate-striped macaroons and Caro's wonderful homemade caramels in the wrap.   She made POUNDS of the things, and got requests for more.  We just passed the plate around the chairs from time to time, booing dear Snape and cheering for Quigley.

 

And so---the backward flight (plod) and a bit of catching up.   All I have right now to write about is  Family Gatherings, for those are the major occasions for us.

 

Next, back to January 1, for our New Year's Gathering with DS#5, our DDIL and their wee one---his first-ever visit to our house, and such fun.   

 

Don't give up on me---I'm still here, and still trudging along, late as usual.

CHRIS' BIRTHDAY 2013

Still going backward in time, to catch up on our little doings, for I seem to have posted only thrice this whole year.   The flowers (beautiful from any angle, and that's a splendid thing, for I cannot make them stand upright, no matter how many times I flip the picture) were a gift from two of the guests, who came down the stairs gleaming and beaming and ready for the party. 

The "dining" table---one of two we use downstairs.   We also added another at the opposite end of the room, for we were eighteen-to-brunch on that cold afternoon.

Fortifications, from left:   Good strong from-the-leaf tea that Chris makes---unsweetened, Southern Sweet, ice water, Peach Tea, and Bloody Marys.

 

 

  Breakfast Table under the big sunny lamp.

Above is the view back down the room from THIS table:

 Third table, down the room beneath the torchiere.   Guess who hosted THIS one.    Chris also moved from table to table during the course of the meal, enjoying a course with each group.

As we sat down.    I'd asked everyone to choose a place to sit, take their glass to the bar, and help themselves to drinks.    Each table had its already-set center of needfuls:   Cream and Sugar, Butter, three kinds of jam for the biscuits and rolls (Our Friend Lil's Blueberry jam, her Raspberry Freezer Jam, and some Peach Preserves I already had), with bowls of Paminna Cheese and Crackers for munching.  And just BECAUSE.   It's Paminna Cheese.

That's MY hand---I'm probably waving around, saying "DOOO sit down."

The green pot holds a  pot of daffodils from another guest---we called them the Miracle-Gro Marvels, for they had two buds when they arrived.  By evening, the buds had flowered fully, and by morning, about five yet-unseen buds had sprung upen into a magnificent burst of yellows and golds.   Chris says it's my new "real sunshine" bulbs he put in the lamps downstairs, and I think so, for I've had the very best January and February I can remember in YEARS---lots of energy and very few days of feeling down.   Not to say that I keep up with things any better, or keep things neater, or that there's never a pile of dishes in the sink, but I'm cheerful about it.   

 When it's brunch or maybe a soup supper, I like to serve from the counters and stove---so homey and informal.   Chris had put the turkey on about seven a.m., and it was perfection when he carved it at noon---succulent and juicy, with the waft of smoke.   The rolls had been rising gently for about the same length of time, and he split them for ease of buttering or sandwich-making.  

The forgotten thing was the cranberry mayo---our usual spread for turkey sandwiches, but I just didn't think to make it til it was time to set out the condiments.   We made do with plain mayo and several kinds of tongue-curling mustards.    The salsa and chips were brought by a gentleman guest, who always contributes some kind of chips-and-something to every gathering.    Once it was a CASE of Sunchips Variety packs for Chris' birthday gift,  and we munched on those for months.

 Our mainstay for any brunch---Quiche, crustless and simple.   The front one is broccoli and grape tomatoes, and the back one is crumbled sausage (Hamburger Pie in Sweetpea's parlance).   We've probably made thousands of these things over the years for various weddings and parties.  So easy to make, and so easy to calculate servings---nine or twelve for lunch, twelve to sixteen for brunch, depending on the number of side dishes, and up to 117 neat squares for cocktail bites.

My photography seems to be improving a little bit, but I certainly did not notice the trusty old green-apple handwash bottle so prominent in the shot.    It's been on the sink for probably five years now, replenished every time it runs out, with a quick-shaken mixture of Dawn Green Apple Antibacterial and Sam's pearly-white hand soap.  

Roasted Grape Tomatoes---just popping their juices, with sea salt, olive oil, a little garlic, and just a thought of thyme.

 Caro's magnificent Mac and Cheese, with the tiny fancy bow-ties.   I just LOVE this serving-piece, a gift years ago from DS#1 and DDIL---it's the smoothest pearly foam with a stainless liner and a screw-in lid to keep things cool or hot all day.   It looks like a big white pumpkin when the lid's on.

 Pinto Beans and Rice with Andouille and Cajun seasonings.   It's one of the few dishes which allow for putting the bottles of Louisiana Hot Sauce and the Worcescescester Sauce right on the table.  I love to use these pots for serving from the stove or counters---the set of three were a gift from Daddy MANY years ago.(Along with two matching baking-trays and a lasagna pan).   The thing in back is a marble lazy-Susan with little containers of sea salt, Balsamic, and several olive oils.

 Fruit in my Mother's ripply-glass bowl, from WAY back in the days of the first parties I ever arranged and cooked for.  

Winding down the day.   I DO think these two folks had the best time of all.

SNOW DAY!

 

 

Our wonderland this morning, after days of Will-It in the paths of great swirling blues and greens and pinks all across the Weather-Map.  It was a great wet SOFT snow yesterday, not quite cold enough to send you diving for the indoors, but still plenty to herd you in sparkled and dampened and stomping your feet.

 

The silvery chevrons of the luck-leaf bush,

 

 

 

And Caro’s careful herring-bone tread to the back door in the wee hours: 

 

 

 

The far back garden, with the great rusting bell encrusted past anything on the Wilton wedding-shelves.   The forlorn small stepping-stool, scene of many a grab-a-rock-and-clang of warmer days, is a pristine little tuffet beneath the cold iron. 

 

The Birdie-Corner, like a faded sepia photograph with only the whisper of yellow  chair to anticipate Spring.

 

 

View out past the firepit,

 

 which is merely a shallow bowl scooped out of the dirt, surrounded by the ziggy-zag flat grey stones which used to encircle the front-yard maples and petunia bed.  (Until removed from temptation’s way after the night a passing young scapegrace who, from peer pressure or pure preposterone, screwed his puny courage to the sticking place and hurled one through the guest bedroom window, to crash against the headboard with a noise which sent us all scurrying to see if a car might be embedded in the house).

 

And the tame fun of sitting around that glowing warmth on a Fall twilight, ghost stories and marshmallows the entertainment, is in no way expressed by the word “firepit”---that name will forever conjure the cliff-hanger endings of Saturday’s movie serials, with Jungle Jim or Tarzan captive in the Forbidden Temple, dangling over the great abyss of a volcano’s mouth, whilst the Leopard People chanted and prepared to cut the rope.

 

(And cut, they did, right at To Be Continued, with no hope for the hapless Hero, until, breathless for the next installment, we settled into our seats on the following Saturday to a miraculous hand-grasp or second rope or invisible projection which avoided Doom yet again. Our own discussions of the lame last-second reprieves indeed, DID, run to heated arguments as to whether he did or did NOT get out of the Cock-a-Doody car/hole/crocodile’s mouth).

 

 

Digression.  If there’s ever a time, it’s a snowy day, hushed with white quiet, scented with the bubble of a pot of savory-something on the stove, and encompassed with a sense of remove-from-things which gives a fillip of escape to the order of the day.   These, I think, are the adult equivalent of “SNOW DAY!”---even the paltry ones of my own childhood, when the busses rumbled at the first three flakes past the 'rithmetic window.

Chili Mac and Cherry Cordial Ice Cream for supper, and to all a Good Night.

 

VALENTINE DINNER 2013

 



After such a long absence, it seemed to make a kind of zany sense to attend to things in a sorta Memento chronology---despite my having absolutely no resemblance to Guy Pearce in artistry, aspect or appearance.

  Though my brain does take frequent flights and detours, with nowhere near his excuse.

 

So, starting at the newest of things, hoping to place just ONE of the recent celebrations within some semblance of nearness to its holiday, this is our Valentine's Day Dinner.    Celebrated on Monday, 18th February.

 

Flowers from Caro, in a lovely old square mercury-glass container.

 

Our simple table setting---if you could have seen the REST of the room, well, SIMPLE was the way to go.

 

Dinner, courtesy of Caro.   I made the salad and Sweetpea and I set the table.   The beads and goblet were HER idea, and we all donned our fancy bling as we picked up our napkins.

 

(Which seem to have escaped---perhaps to a romantic tryst with some missing socks).

 

 

 

Cold, crisp Romaine with thin sweet onion, olives, pepperoncini, garlicky croutons, and a lively sharp Dijon vinaigrette.   Makes my tongue curl to describe it.

 

THE LASAGNA.   This stuff perfumed the house all day long, from beginnings of the sauce to the lovely aromas of the baking.   And it was SCRUMPTIOUS.

 

 

 Tortellini and meatballs as the second pasta, for it's Sweetpea's favorite, by her Mommy's recipe.

Oh, My.   You coulda just stepped in and lounged forever on this bread.   It was cut all kinds of ways, with slices of Provolone all tucked in with green onions and garlic butter, then fresh Mozzarella grated on top.  Just grab a pinch of crust and PULLLLL off a warm hunk of that gooey goodness.   We could have just filled the salad bowls, tossed this foil packet in the middle of the table and called it GOOOD.

 

 

Little crimped hearts with cherry filling.   I always think of Menolly's little Bubbly Pies when I see such a wonderful, juices-escaping dessert.  The sparkle-sugar heart "crust cookies" were for You Know Who.

Dessert Plate---sugar cookie and a scoop of Homemade Vanilla.  

Simple and unruffled, but I'd wager Limoge and Sheffield have seen less sumptuous fare, and WAY less interesting company.

I hope all your holidays were wonderful; will try to catch up sometime before the calendar makes full circle.

moire non,

EACH ONE UNIQUE AND RARE

Good Morning, and my apologies for such a lengthy absence.  Many, many things and doings and happenings to tell, and they're all scrambled into jottings and memories and thoughts-to-compose, with scarce time to gather them.

So for now, just a remembrance from the first year of this blog, of other Winters, other times, and of settling into a snowy day---it's just sort of a miraculous, disheveled comfort, somehow:



 

We went out and about today, in the slow, drifting-down flakes the size of cornflakes; their warm reception from the ground sent them melting the moment they hit. We strolled the dampening aisles of the grocery store, in company with fellow-gatherers intent on those gallons of milk and loaves of bread.

And you know, that's our Southern upbringing---ten flakes past a window, and the school buses started carting the cheering younguns home, as their parents sought the earliest moment they could desert their own posts at work, to get to the grocery store. Milk, I always understood, but how all those clumpy soft loaves of Wonder Bread would save the day in an emergency situation was a mystery past my solving. During all my years of living below the M/D, only once did the power in our area go out for any length of time, and that was during an ice storm, in which the relentless freezing rain coated every tree and bush and shrub with unbearable weights of diamond-clear ice.

The valiant plants shouldered the burdens as long as they could, then with resounding cracks akin to the calving-cries of the ice itself in colder climes, the limbs gave way and surrendered, tumbled, fell. The landscape took on the look of a vast planet on which giants had lumbered through, shearing off the tops of things and smashing the bits to ground, shattering away the sheathings crystal clear, and leaving the dark bones like some wasteland where old beasts go to die. Tarzan's legendary Elephant Graveyard must have looked something like our devastated pecan grove.

And as the layers grew on the harp-strings of power wires, they sagged ever lower in their ponderous glaze, in symmetry of drop-string on cakes I'll never bake, pulling the supporting poles with them into tinkertoy bows and bends. And the lights went out for miles.

Except mine. I'll never explain that, for the power people worked for DAYS, re-attaching and re-positioning and raising the poles, and surely SOMEwhere between us and the power station, there was a complete break. But we had lights at our house. The Grandparents and the Great-Grandparents had gas heat and plenty of lanterns and lamps and candles, and could cook and stay warm; they laughed and said it was just like "living back at Home"---the homes of their raisings---to have to spend an evening around the kitchen table, with only the glow of coal-oil lamps, and a jig-saw puzzle for entertainment.

So today is nothing in the scheme of weather things. The snow fluff had taken on a new energy when we emerged from the store, whitening the streets and our driveway, and we crunched up the sidewalk with our bags, our hair full of drifty clumps and our footprints filling before we could return. We stomped in, put away groceries, changed to warm dry socks and soft flannel pants, and have been cooking a couple of old family favorite recipes for supper---the meatballs in "red gravy,"---not the pasta kind of sauce, but the raw peppers/onions/canned tomatoes layered in the covered skillet of browned meat with a good shake of black pepper, some salt, and a smitch of sugar, perhaps a bay leaf according to your whim. It cooks down into a fragrant hearty peasanty dish, delicious over rice or mashed potatoes.

I made a big Ziploc of the dry spiced tea mix DD2 likes so much---I'll send that tomorrow if the weather warrants getting out to the P.O. And now the house is again Christmas-perfumed of cinnamon and orange and clove, with a faint haze of goldy-tan upon the kitchen counters. Whisking all the dry ingredients together is an impossibility in the weights of things---the dry tea floats on the arid heft of the sugar and the Tang, and rises like lines of thin flotsam on the edges of a tide. I set the kettle, poured a cup, sipped the familiar old flavors of the Seventies, when Tang was a marvel of wholesome fare, and the dry mix stirred up in countless kitchens for a comforting cup at home, or for bringing out Mrs. Heafner's samovar to impress the visiting Grand Matron, as ladies in hats sipped dainty sips of the exotic, heady brew called "Russian Tea."

I also minced an onion, sweated it in a little knob of butter and some salt, then laid in about 3/4 of a pound of chicken livers, left from the giblet-gravy-making on Friday. I'd saved one boiled egg, as well, from the ones boiled for devilling, to make Caro her holiday favorite: Chopped Liver, to spread warm on little pita-points toasted crisp.

And I just finished cutting up what was always known in our downhome Meat 'n' Threes and cafeterias as Combination Salad---iceberg, sweet onion, bell pepper, a bit of cucumber, some grape tomatoes---to be served with the last of the pimiento dressing from the Christmas Eve slaw.

Caro and I are having a Girls' Evening---dinner on trays at five, and my choice from the big stack of "Classics" DVD's she gave me for Christmas: Austens, mostly, with Jane Eyre and Middlemarch in the mix as well. And since Middlemarch is seven hours. . .