MR. WHITE'S BIRTHDAY

My Mother often told stories of “how things were” during her childhood, and one of the most memorable for her, and also for me, in the hearing, were the Birthday Parties given by a man in her little hometown. Mr. and Mrs. White were about the age of my grandparents, and they had no children, so on Mr. White's birthday every year, they would have a party and invite every child in town out to their farm for the afternoon.

I assumed these events were during the Thirties, and with things as they were all over the country at that time, I’m sure that these grand treats WERE memorable to all those children, when an orange in the toe of a stocking and a candycane hung onto the top were considered a good Christmas.

They all dressed up for the afternoon in their best outfits, with most of the girls in their one good dress, usually with some kind of pinafore. The boys usually wore jeans or overalls beneath their “nice” jackets---the one picture I’ve seen has all the guys in that Summer heat, most of them wearing the top half of Barney Fife’s best suit---that heavy, tweedy thing out of of fabric that looks like a badly-hooked rug, or perhaps the cast-off suit-coats of their fathers, ill-fitting and slick with wear. They dressed to honor the occasion and their hosts, in the best that they had.

Lots of pin-curling and ribbon-borrowing amongst the girls up and down Mother’s block, and the boys all slicked their hair down in the most gentlemanly fashion. Some of the children who lived close by walked down the country road to the party, a bunch piled into the backs of several old wood-side trucks, and one dad hitched up a big haywagon, with blankets spread in the back for the children to sit on, like a grand parade.

They played the games of the day, like The Prince of Wales Has Lost His Considering Cap---a great long recitation of Who, Sir, Me, Sir? and No, Sir, Not I, Sir, said veryvery fast, which I never did catch on to as any fun, except maybe the tongue-twister made everyone giggle. They did running games, like Drop the Handkerchief, and played Farmer in the Dell and London Bridge.

The refreshments were served on big long saw-horse tables covered in sheets, and there were enough plates and spoons for everyone, but each child brought a drinking-glass or cup from home. There were big galvanized buckets of water filled with long clear shards of chipped ice, as well as buckets of LEMONADE with ice delivered in Mr. Bridges’ ice truck that morning. There was lots of traffic at those big buckets, for the chunks of ice were a great treat, too, -and deemed worth the price of nearly-frozen fingers holding them until they could be crunched and slurped away. And the bolder of the boys would filch the bobbing lemon halves to enjoy, as well.

The bigger boys were put to work turning the cranks of eight or ten freezers of homemade boiled-custard ice cream, made with big ole orange-yolked eggs from their many hens, and cream-rich milk from their own cows. Watkins vanilla flavored half the ice cream, and crushed strawberries went into the other several freezers. There was one particular woman in town whose specialty was making the custard for ice cream, and she was quite busy during Summer months.

Mrs. White and her cook and a couple of other women hired to help had been baking for days---enough rich, golden cake layers for five or six three-layer coconut cakes. She had to special-order the coconuts from Aunt Lou’s grocery store, for coconuts were only stocked at Christmas and Thanksgiving. And I shudder to think how LONG it took them to crack them, knock and pick out all that thick, succulent coconut meat, then peel off the thin brown rind and grate those piles of coconut.

I don’t imagine the Seven-Minute frosting was made until the morning of the party, for it doesn’t hold up for a very long time. All those golden yolks went into the cakes, and the whites (one recipe at a time, of course) went into the top of a double boiler, to whip with sugar and water for every second of that Seven Minutes, into a billowy sweet cloud which was swirled between and on top and sides of all those cakes. Handful after handful of coconut was pressed upon the frosting, until every inch was covered. Coconut was Mr. White’s favorite cake, and perhaps some children don’t care for it---this group ate up every crumb.

And then the final touch, a luxury unheard-of in that place before or since: Mr. White also arranged with Aunt Lou for an entire stalk or two of bananas and had them hanging splendidly from one of the big pecan trees in their yard.

I think this was one of my Mother’s fondest memories of her childhood---such a wonderful party to celebrate the birthday of a grownup who made sure each and every young guest had a lovely time and plenty of wonderful treats, and who was at heart no older than they.

Marion Post Wolcott photo, 1939

BRIGHTENING

A little girl in a big yellow plastic tub, her curls swept up with my wet hands; bobby pins from my own updo tooth-opened as I gathered up her goldy-brown hair.

A green watering can used to fill and pour, re-cycling the tub water back in upon itself, over and over; giggles as the pour ventures out upon the sidewalk; request with PLEASE for more water when the tub's level grows low.

A breakfast-for-three with an unaccustomed cereal box on the table---I don’t remember having cereal in years; I bought this because I thought we might, though we’ve eaten it only as a snack from a tiny Tupperware while communing with such as Grover and Elmo and Bert. Soft, butter-sizzled hot-dog-bun toast, smeared with a tiny slick of peach/apricot jam---a new squatty-pot thing from Smucker’s, and WOW Good.

A little bowl of strawberries, a few sticks of still-creamy Cheddar carved from the big Sam’s block; coffee in my sky-blue cup set down beside me as I sat right here at this desk five minutes after rising. The rumble of Chris’ voice during the Blessing, as we reach our hands out and hold tight, hold tight. 

A long walk round the neighborhood, with two red leashes---Girl and Pup, who both ran and chuckled all the way, stopping only to consult the grass, a rock, the customary fire hydrant (girl, not dog---she's fond of reading the letters all the way around. The other day as we rounded the corner and the tall yellow post hove in sight, she called out, "There you are!! I've MISSED you!" and ran and threw her arms around it). And guess what lucky Granny came home with dogpoo in her pocket.

Clothes on the neighbor’s line, like sails of a tall ship, but better, for they connote not travel for adventure, but the keeping of the Where You Are.

Clothes---anything just-washed---flapping on the line; that SO celebrates a Spring day, as much as daffodils.

What I imagine to be a very small bird is, for the first time ever in my hearing, actually saying Tweet Tweet in an ascending octave of sound. It’s a fairy-tale scale come to life over yonder in that tallest tree, and punctuates the already-full morning with almost more brightness than can be safely borne all at once.

I think of a word I don’t believe I’ve ever used---certainly not in conversation, I don’t think---but it fits: the liquescence of that melody is beyond mere music. It’s also color and sound and the sun through the trees.

There’s a surfeit to this day---a Gracious Plenty. The yard’s ringed round with green---spin in a circle and you’ll see every shade there is. The house, the garage, the hedges and trees wall us into this great bore of sun down into this small well of US. We’re set down deep, deep, in this big yellow tub of sun, and you could almost drown in the light and the music and the IS.

And what brights YOU today?

MISSTATEMENT

Two Queens of the Mississippi.

I have learned a new word. Well, KINDA. It’s a word I’ve always known, but I assigned it a different source, thinking that my derivation MUST be the one.

I’d always loved the idea of a STATEROOM. Traveling by train would be my first choice in the world of all travel, with those lovely compartments with their everything-in-its-wee-place demeanor and the air of mystery and luxurious accommodations and ventures into the unknown. Even one of those climb-in berths with the pull-together curtains and strangers stacked around like books on shelves would be an adventure, because you're ON A TRAIN, clacking through the night, to wake in different places, different climes. Not to speak of the elegance and luxury of visiting the DINING CAR.

THE ORIENT EXPRESS.

THE CALAIS COACH.

THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS.

Every one bespeaks adventure and luxury and vistas of things unknown. Those faraway places ARE calling, call---ing me. And though thoughts of all those exotically-named rail lines outclass plain old AMTRAK by a country mile, I’d take it any day, just for the going.

But traveling by SHIP, now. If I had the nerve to do it, THAT would be most luxurious of all, with all the foofaraw about seatings and Captain’s Tables and mezzanines and lido and following the strains of music from dancing in the ballroom to jazz in the lounge and the sway of As Time Goes By in the piano bar, with wonderful food piled forth at all hours of the clock, happy people of leisure and wit to mingle with, and those charming fittings of the bedchambers and baths.

And to me, having never really thought of it any other way than first impression, Staterooms were for people of STATE, the STATEly people, people of eSTATE and those who made STATEments for others to heed and obey.
I’d seen movies, and those folks in the furs and top-hats stayed in rooms you could get a grand piano in (and some HAD one), with shining crystal just sitting there on the bars, and beds all-satin-draped and cushy, whilst the raggedy crowd, the fleeing-to-another-country types with their slouch-hats and kerchiefs and baggy pants (and you could TELL they didn’t have a bath between one port and the next)----THOSE had the one-room-for-all with the dingy hammocks and bunks.

So, I took my definition as gospel, and left it so, though I never once thought what that fact might ascribe to those of us whose families arrived by STEER-age.

And then just this past Saturday, as we do often, we had early-morning tea, still in our night-clothes, with barely a lamp lit save the bright little one over the breakfast table. Chris had been re-reading one of his Louis L’Amour books---he’s always said that there are Westerns, and then there are Books About The West, but these books are for everybody, for L’Amour wrote such fleshed-out characters and such evocative stories, that his books are about PEOPLE who happen to LIVE in the West.

Chris often calls out to me from whatever part of the house he’s in when he’s reading, to share with me an especially beautiful paragraph or phrase or thought, or a memorable description or incident or something about an old custom or idiom which he finds interesting.

And so we sat there in our little isolated pool of light, with his deep rumbly voice reading me the beautiful words, and presently, the estimable LL mentioned the building of several riverboats---sternwheelers and sidewheelers, with their ornate lacework and gingerbread, their promenades and balconies and bright paintwork and gilt.

And it happened that Mr. Shreve, founder of Shreveport, LA., was one of the part-owners of quite a sizeable fleet of the boats, and his notion was to paint the name of a state on each cabin door, instead of a number---hence the name “Staterooms.”

Well, O-KAAAY, if History insists. Mine was way classier.

 

LEMON CHESS PIE

Internet photo

A Springtime dessert, yellow and bright and lit with the tang of lemon, the richness of an eggy custard, and that mysterious little Southern something---the addition of cornmeal to a chess pie. I guess that's what makes it CHESS, and not custard or cream.

Chess pies have been around a LONG time, I imagine. If a cook had a bit of storebought sugar, or even the homemade cooked-off cane syrup, she could come up with quite a creditable pie by just going to the meal bin, the chicken yard for several good old orange-yolked eggs still warm from the hens, a hunk of fresh-churned butter, dewy and cool from the springhouse, and the flour and lard which were staples in every kitchen.

Vanilla was the norm, but if you had a lemon----oh, the joys of a bit of citrus in the house!! I don't imagine many readers of today remember the thrill of finding a plump juicy orange in the Christmas stocking, or the sighs and the pacing between the candy counter and the honored, padded box of fresh Florida oranges, both safely out of reach of grubby hands. The choosing between the coveted sweets, so bright in their shining colors, their exotic flavors of licorice and clove and strawberry, the charm of those tiny wax bottles filled with a toothaching, sugary KoolAid kin, the dainty mystery of those hard candies with the pictures magically painted all-through---weighed against the amount of pleasure that an afternoon of sucking on that orange, then the cutting-open of its depleted contents, to pull every last shred out with your eager teeth, the whole experience one of exotic flavor and scent which lingered upon your breath and fingers long into the day---those were decisions of childish gravity and import, and could consume an hour of the grocer's time, or all his patience, whichever came first.

But a lemon for a pie or a glass of tea---luxury of a particularly satisfying sort. Grated rind, or even finely chopped if you happened not to own one of the new-fangled fancy graters, and a squeeze of the eye-tingling juice made a confection fit for any gathering.

A chilled, rolled crust laid into a piepan, the fragrant custard poured in, the pan gently slid into a hot oven for a time, then the heat turned down a bit for a slow, gentle bake in deference to the temperament of eggs and butter and milk. The top may not quite brown; the pie jiggles ever-the-slightest-bit as it's retrieved from the oven---the fragrance follows its movements to the cooling rack, filling the kitchen with even more of the warm, sugary lemon scent until, if it weren't so HOT, and if you didn't intend it for that special Sunday Dinner tomorrow, you might just forget yourself and grab a spoon for great voluptuous bites, irresistible and even more satisfying for your lapse.

Spring calls for Yellow food, as much as the influx of the GREEN we've been craving. Bright yellow eggs and squash and sumptuous Hollandaise and golden cake layers and frostings and all things LEMON.

Even the richest lunch or dinner, when you've plumb foundered yourself on asparagus and great dollops of that rich Hollandaise, the lamb and the yeasty breads and the peas---or even on a big hot Southern noon DINNER, of humble greens and cornbread and ham and slaw---somehow, when you're full up and cannot eat another bite, a lemon dessert will magically conjure just the niche in your belly made for its receiving. And you'll be replete with that last just-hit-the-spot that a lemony sweet rounds out.

LEMON CHESS PIE

1 stick Butter, softened
2 C. sugar
4 Eggs
1 t. Vanilla
1 T. Meal
¼ C. Pet
2 T. Lemon Juice
2 T. Zest (always zest the lemon first, then roll, cut and squeeze---it's amazing how often we forget the simple order of that)

Whisk meal into sugar in mixing bowl. Cream butter and sugar, then beat in eggs and vanilla. Stir in Pet, juice and zest.

9” Pie Shell---oven 425 for 10, 300 for 40. Cool for a while before cutting. If you can resist.

Lemon Bars:
1 box Yellow Cake Mix, 1 Egg, 1 Stick Melted Butter. Mix & pat into 9x13. make about a ¼ inch wall all around edges.

Make pie filling, pour, bake 425 10; 300 25/30. til not too jiggly. Cool in pan before cutting.

LEMON ICEBOX PIE

Make crumb crust with crushed vanilla wafers and melted butter, or buy one of those made ones.

Separate three VERY fresh eggs. Beat yolks with a Can of Eagle Brand, then with juice from two lemons, plus 2 T. zest. Pour filling into crust and set aside while making meringue.

Beat whites with mixer or whisk. When they hold a peak, beat in 2 T. sugar, then spread on pie, sealing edges well. Brown in 350 oven until pale gold on top.

I think I have only one lemon in the house, and maybe three limes---I think they'd make a lovely combination in SOMETHING. Right now.

CARO'S CUISINE

Cooking and today's blog post by Caro. Photos by rachel.

Yesterday, I did a little cooking demo for about a dozen people. I had done all the prep work at home---the chopping, the sauce mixing, the filling for the potstickers, the peeling and washing of the shrimp, and pre-blanch of the green beans.

After we arrived at the gorgeous kitchen, I started making the potstickers---they are easy, and the steps just get to be routine:

Lay out and moisten the Gyoza skins:

Put a teaspoon or two of filling on the wrappers:

Teaching our hostess the folding technique:

PROGRESS!! Only 33 to Go!

Place in the Pam-sprayed skillet for browning (if you like them really crispy, use a little slick of oil in the bottom).

Sizzle them til they’re golden-brown on the bottom, then pour in ¼ cup of chicken stock and clap on the lid. Let steam on medium-high for about five minutes, til liquid evaporates. Shake skillet to loosen and slide onto serving platter:

We served these with two sauces:
Rice vinegar/chili paste/garlic and
Soy/ginger/garlic/sugar/water with a float of scallions

They’re going FAST!

While I was making the potstickers, a friend was giving a sushi demo:

Getting ready:

Setting up mise:

Laying out rice on nori:

Rolling:

The finished tray, garnished with peppers carved into shiso leaves. These are Veggie rolls with cucumber, steamed asparagus, colored peppers and a wisp of red onion or a chive, and some are vegetables and shrimp:

Inside-out sushi with vegetables and nori inside, and sesame seed crust:

Other guests also brought contributions:

The hostess made KILLER Hot ‘n’ Sour Soup---lots of bamboo shoots, mushrooms, tree ears, tofu, and fresh Szechwan peppercorns, with a scatter of green onion and float of sesame oil:

Everybody stood enjoying their soup and watching the making of the sushi and the potstickers.
One guest made a wok of Tropical Stir-Fry, with assorted vegetables and edamame, given a unique twist with pineapple and mango:

Seafood Fried Rice---Brown rice, scrambled egg-beaters, peas and Surimi.

Crockpot “Fried Rice” with chicken and vegetables:

And I made the rest of the meal:

First platter was the vegetable stir-fry with Tofu. In a really hot pan, put thin-sliced carrots and ginger. You can see the beans frying in the next pan:

Waiting their turn, in order of addition to the skillet, are Onion, Celery, Peppers and (on the bottom layer) Taiwanese cabbage, which looks exactly like a regular head, except they look as if something sat on them overnight---flattened.

Cubed Tofu---I really like these; they are already browned, very firm and have a meaty quality which holds up well in stir-fries. Beneath the damp towel is another plate of potstickers awaiting the cooking:

Sort of building the dish, as my Grandpa used to say; I’m wearing Mom’s apron made by her friend Maggie.

I used a slurry in two dishes---this one and the shrimp and snow peas. This one was soy sauce, water, sugar, garlic powder and cornstarch. It made the sauce thick and glossy.

The finished dish, with tofu and lightly-steamed broccoli added for the last minute of cooking, to retain texture:

Asian Green Beans. Blanch beans---shock if cooking later, or stir-fry immediately in Pam-sprayed pan. Cook for a few minutes, letting them get a good color on some, and on some edges. Pour in 1/3 cup chicken stock and put lid on. Let steam about five minutes, then add slurry of Soy sauce, sugar, garlic and sesame oil. Cook another couple of minutes til sauce is caramelly and almost evaporated.

Vegetable Lo Mein---a really good “cheater” version I devised, using Udon noodles. In a really hot skillet, Pam-sprayed, sizzle noodles to get a little color:

Add onions and celery:

Add sliced fresh shiitake and shredded Napa cabbage, a few splashes of soy sauce and cook another couple of minutes and serve topped with thinly-sliced scallions. Mom says our Forgotten Thing was the beautiful long strands of carrot which I had made for color---everyone started passing around the little packet to look at them, and so the platter went to table without. It would have been SO much prettier with all the little golden strands mingled in.

Last Dish: Shrimp and Snow Peas:

Strung and washed:

Brightening up:

Add peeled shrimp and cook briefly until slightly pink; add slurry of soy sauce, garlic, cornstarch, water and sugar; cook another minute and serve immediately:

Each dish went to table as it was finished, and everyone tried everything family style:

I also cooked a second plate of potstickers when the first one was gone:

And I had a Tsingtao while I was cooking, even though it was early in the day. COOK'S TREAT! (Well, I’d been UP and at work since 7 p.m. Friday night).

Mom did the pictures and she was sorta having to juggle camera and slurry-making duties while I cooked, plus all the people crowded around to see. I loved cooking for my friends, and enjoyed it very much. They even applauded as the last dish was set onto the table.

Thank you for letting me guest blog, and I’m glad you lasted through it.

Caro