On this last day of the only March of 2009, I've been thinking again of Scotland. I'd been reading a blog I enjoy, and one of the questions was "Where would you like to go before they wheel you off to THE HOME?"
And of course, I'd like to return to Scotland. I'd dreamt of going all my life, and had wished to breathe the Highland air just once.
And it was exactly as I had hoped and wished for all my life---misted mountains, deep-gray lochs with hidden, mysterious depths, the heather a rusty shadow all across the hillsides, just before the Summer bloom. I took off my shoes as I stepped down for the first time, in reverence for that mystical place.
We heard grim tales and heroic ventures; we tasted haggis and a wee dram at a musical evening of bagpipes and drums; we heard the mournful wail of “Massacre at Glencoe,” played by the composer---one of the best musicians I’ve ever heard, and a master of the accordion. Even still sitting at the dinner table, I had to catch a tear or two in the big red linen napkin. We saw sites of battles, the Stone of Scone, the Royal Sceptre and Crown hidden and found and claimed again, heard tales of victories and wild men and triumphs of old times.
I read a lovely line just before we went, and had my daughter Caro inscribe it for me in the front of the journal she had given me for Christmas, before we even knew that we were going---it was a tan book with a shadowy picture of Stonehenge on the front. The words were the words of someone going to Scotland:
To the land of moorland, lochs and mountains, where the old gods ride the winds.
So I went, and so I loved it, and someday hope to return. I wanted the full experience, trudging the hills with a staff, stout-laced boots, and a pocket sandwich, to look down from the highlands into a loch at sunrise, but we bus people settled for a lot of looking and seeing and hearing of the rich history of the place.
And now, the longing overtakes me now and again, and I'm hoping to go in the soonness of time. I have the boots, but I suppose I'll have to buy the staff when I get there. Perhaps if I plunge it strongly into that hilly, historied earth, it may sprout into a tree that will remember my name.
Monday, March 30, 2009
RANDOMONDAY #7 EGGS BENEDICT
Spring Day, Unseasonably Cold and Rainy:
Chris grabbed a pack of English muffins at Sam's yesterday, asking, "These ARE what you make Eggs Benedict with, aren't they?" hint hint.
So as he slept in this morning, I cooked a pot of thick grits with butter and crumbled Queso Fresca and a few grinds of the peppermill.
I skillet-toasted two split muffins with another similar skillet as a top weight, making them crisp and buttery-brown. These then went top-up into the top skillet to keep warm whilst I gently seared four slices of ham steak, cut to sort of fit the muffins. It went atop the muffins so they could soak up its salty, rich hammy juices.
This is not your usual dainty epicure's Benedict---it's a hearty, thick-hammed, crisp-muffined, runny-yolked marvel, a sort of BUBBA Benedict, and I wish you all could have sat down with us.
I had earlier made a double-recipe of Julia's Hollandaise (the one that she stresses is MUCH easier made by hand than in a blender, with all that pesky blade-cleaning and pouring, etc.). Being the old Southern cook that I am, and having made the sauce "by heart" since I got the book back in the 70's, I took liberties and added in an extra tablespoon of lemon juice, and a bit of that old Delta standby, "Kye-YINN" pepper.
Jumbo eggs went into the ham fat, were carefully turned for just an instant on the second side, then gently slid onto the glistening warm ham slices. We'd been sipping Strawberry/Banana smoothies from frosted goblets, then sat down to the lovely warm eggs and ham and muffins, with a gravy-boat of Julia's delightful sauce, to be ladled on and made even more deliciously golden by yolkrun and ham-nearness.
We chatted and ate and sipped, befitting a cozy weekend morning, as Aaron Neville sang softly in the background. Memorable breakfast.
Chris grabbed a pack of English muffins at Sam's yesterday, asking, "These ARE what you make Eggs Benedict with, aren't they?" hint hint.
So as he slept in this morning, I cooked a pot of thick grits with butter and crumbled Queso Fresca and a few grinds of the peppermill.
I skillet-toasted two split muffins with another similar skillet as a top weight, making them crisp and buttery-brown. These then went top-up into the top skillet to keep warm whilst I gently seared four slices of ham steak, cut to sort of fit the muffins. It went atop the muffins so they could soak up its salty, rich hammy juices.
This is not your usual dainty epicure's Benedict---it's a hearty, thick-hammed, crisp-muffined, runny-yolked marvel, a sort of BUBBA Benedict, and I wish you all could have sat down with us.
I had earlier made a double-recipe of Julia's Hollandaise (the one that she stresses is MUCH easier made by hand than in a blender, with all that pesky blade-cleaning and pouring, etc.). Being the old Southern cook that I am, and having made the sauce "by heart" since I got the book back in the 70's, I took liberties and added in an extra tablespoon of lemon juice, and a bit of that old Delta standby, "Kye-YINN" pepper.
Jumbo eggs went into the ham fat, were carefully turned for just an instant on the second side, then gently slid onto the glistening warm ham slices. We'd been sipping Strawberry/Banana smoothies from frosted goblets, then sat down to the lovely warm eggs and ham and muffins, with a gravy-boat of Julia's delightful sauce, to be ladled on and made even more deliciously golden by yolkrun and ham-nearness.
We chatted and ate and sipped, befitting a cozy weekend morning, as Aaron Neville sang softly in the background. Memorable breakfast.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
ONE MORE
I swear to goodness, I thought I was through with the duck tales!
We went to our local Golden Corral for a relaxed Saturday-evening dinner, and had quite a nice meal---I was in the mood for some good baked ham, and they haven't had it in quite a while. Tonight they did, so I had a lovely slice, with some marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, some stalks of perfectly-steamed broccoli, and a bowl of papaya and cottage cheese.
We talked long and leisurely, then had dessert: Red velvet cake and a squeeze from the frozen custard dispenser for him; brownie pie in a tiny individual crust for me. Lovely, fudgy, home-cooked taste, like the fudge on the Hershey's box.
We always people-watch, and tonight was no exception---we saw nice little families, enjoying a night out together, couples who talked animatedly, others which could have each been alone at the kitchen table, eating their solitary meal. We also always make sure to speak to the manager, for he's a kind fellow, quite jovial and courteous and just the perfect host, with quite possibly the second-worst haircut in the Northern Hemisphere.
It's always there, and I try not to look---he's quite a large man, tall and imposing, impeccably groomed and really nice-looking, but for that hair. It's always shorn WAY high, with the back neckline up almost to the top of his ears, no sideburns at all, and all the rest mowed into what would be High&Tight, were he a military man.
And tonight, I didn't see him til we were leaving---as we got near the door, I leaned into Chris' side, pretended to have a romantic little moment whispering in his ear, cheek to cheek, and we headed out. What I'd said was, "Tell me he doesn't look like that porcupine boot-scraper we had several years ago."
And he did, bless his heart---his hair was at the brush-stage, still shorn way high, but long enough to sorta bounce when he walked, and he looked for all the world like the little metal porcupine fellow with the BIG round brush for quills which sat at the back door for years.
And as we stepped out the door and round the corner toward the car, not a soul was in the parking lot, just a sea of cars, and about twenty feet in front of us on the pavement, was a pair of mallards, walking away. I called out softly, "Maurice!! Velveeta!! Come on, Come on!"
They turned and walked right up to my feet. It was all I could do not to go back in and grab a hunk of cornbread from the bread trolley. We rode away, looking back at that incongruous little couple, waddling toward the pond through that twilight parking lot.
We went to our local Golden Corral for a relaxed Saturday-evening dinner, and had quite a nice meal---I was in the mood for some good baked ham, and they haven't had it in quite a while. Tonight they did, so I had a lovely slice, with some marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, some stalks of perfectly-steamed broccoli, and a bowl of papaya and cottage cheese.
We talked long and leisurely, then had dessert: Red velvet cake and a squeeze from the frozen custard dispenser for him; brownie pie in a tiny individual crust for me. Lovely, fudgy, home-cooked taste, like the fudge on the Hershey's box.
We always people-watch, and tonight was no exception---we saw nice little families, enjoying a night out together, couples who talked animatedly, others which could have each been alone at the kitchen table, eating their solitary meal. We also always make sure to speak to the manager, for he's a kind fellow, quite jovial and courteous and just the perfect host, with quite possibly the second-worst haircut in the Northern Hemisphere.
It's always there, and I try not to look---he's quite a large man, tall and imposing, impeccably groomed and really nice-looking, but for that hair. It's always shorn WAY high, with the back neckline up almost to the top of his ears, no sideburns at all, and all the rest mowed into what would be High&Tight, were he a military man.
And tonight, I didn't see him til we were leaving---as we got near the door, I leaned into Chris' side, pretended to have a romantic little moment whispering in his ear, cheek to cheek, and we headed out. What I'd said was, "Tell me he doesn't look like that porcupine boot-scraper we had several years ago."
And he did, bless his heart---his hair was at the brush-stage, still shorn way high, but long enough to sorta bounce when he walked, and he looked for all the world like the little metal porcupine fellow with the BIG round brush for quills which sat at the back door for years.
And as we stepped out the door and round the corner toward the car, not a soul was in the parking lot, just a sea of cars, and about twenty feet in front of us on the pavement, was a pair of mallards, walking away. I called out softly, "Maurice!! Velveeta!! Come on, Come on!"
They turned and walked right up to my feet. It was all I could do not to go back in and grab a hunk of cornbread from the bread trolley. We rode away, looking back at that incongruous little couple, waddling toward the pond through that twilight parking lot.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
THREEDUX
There was another duck incident, but not of our own flock---well, not really, but the fact that the first two, Maurice and Velveeta, beat a path from the little fake-lake to our apartment door twice a day DID bring it about. The little couple then brought a banshee-bird with them, who squawked insistently for breakfast at our open bedroom window beginning at 5 a.m., day after day. We named her Miranda, just wishing she would remain silent, etc.
THEN, the crowds grew, and we had to go to the used bread store for enough to keep them fed, and they brought their babies in little bobby lines, and our lawn began to take on the look of a lakeside latrine. We tried stopping the feeding sessions. They gathered, muttered to themselves---probably dark and dire things about US, then began a clamor that the neighbors could hear, I’m sure. Radio Free Europe could have heard THAT lot.
So we gave in on the bread, and hosed down the lawn twice a day, for we knew we'd be moving soon. When we moved to the third-floor apartment over by the lake, they STILL gathered under our balcony, and we’d Frisbee bread down, especially when the lake was frozen, so they’d have something to go in their little bellies.
But while we were still on the ground floor, I would go out and sit on the patio with my earliest cup, while the birds gathered. There were probably sixty or seventy by then, all mingled with some white ones which had been there from when the place was built. One morning, as I sat on the concrete, a white one appeared in the crowd, and got fairly near me. I could see a big tangle of fishing line all curled and snarled around one leg, so I coaxed him nearer with some bread. He got right up to my lap, so I stepped on the line and hugged him with both arms.
He went into squawk-and-flap mode, with me struggling to get up off the concrete with my arms full of irate duck. I went in yelling for Chris, who came running to the clamor, stark naked and soaking wet, just out of the shower and thinking marauders had me.
We DID get the duck into the house for the snipping of all that cord, and I’m sure somewhere there’s a Candid Camera crew bewailing the fact that they missed out on the sight of two hefty middle-aged folks, one wet and naked, the other hanging on for dear life and laughing hysterically, cutting 15-pound test off the leg of a frantic, squawky, flappy duck.
THEN, the crowds grew, and we had to go to the used bread store for enough to keep them fed, and they brought their babies in little bobby lines, and our lawn began to take on the look of a lakeside latrine. We tried stopping the feeding sessions. They gathered, muttered to themselves---probably dark and dire things about US, then began a clamor that the neighbors could hear, I’m sure. Radio Free Europe could have heard THAT lot.
So we gave in on the bread, and hosed down the lawn twice a day, for we knew we'd be moving soon. When we moved to the third-floor apartment over by the lake, they STILL gathered under our balcony, and we’d Frisbee bread down, especially when the lake was frozen, so they’d have something to go in their little bellies.
But while we were still on the ground floor, I would go out and sit on the patio with my earliest cup, while the birds gathered. There were probably sixty or seventy by then, all mingled with some white ones which had been there from when the place was built. One morning, as I sat on the concrete, a white one appeared in the crowd, and got fairly near me. I could see a big tangle of fishing line all curled and snarled around one leg, so I coaxed him nearer with some bread. He got right up to my lap, so I stepped on the line and hugged him with both arms.
He went into squawk-and-flap mode, with me struggling to get up off the concrete with my arms full of irate duck. I went in yelling for Chris, who came running to the clamor, stark naked and soaking wet, just out of the shower and thinking marauders had me.
We DID get the duck into the house for the snipping of all that cord, and I’m sure somewhere there’s a Candid Camera crew bewailing the fact that they missed out on the sight of two hefty middle-aged folks, one wet and naked, the other hanging on for dear life and laughing hysterically, cutting 15-pound test off the leg of a frantic, squawky, flappy duck.
DUCK REDUX
Once a pretty lady mallard---not one of our own, unless her homing device was REALLY accurate---invaded our house for a Spa Day. One day when the work crew had been installing some kind of insulation in the ceiling at the office, I got home feeling itchy and scratchy and rashy all over, and couldn’t WAIT for a nice soak in my big tub. As I went in the door, I saw the dog and the cat, side by side on the floor, just exhausted and panting. I couldn’t figure WHAT was wrong with the poor things, until I saw the equally-tired duck sitting over by the fireplace, all nested down and resting.
She had apparently come down the chimney and provided jump-and-chase amusement for those two for quite some time. I gently picked her up and took her outside, where she slowly waddled over to the field and took off. I went back in, tearing off my itchy clothes, ran into my bathroom and reached for the faucet-handle.
My lovely tub was smeared with duck poop in several places, and right in the middle of the tub, my coveted bottle of REAL Shalimar perfume---the pretty bottle with the elegant glass fan for a stopper---was on its side in several pieces, with that glorious scent filling the room.
I said several particularly nice words, gathered up the glass, scrubbed the tub--I’d have bathed in the perfume, but the glass and poop ruled that out---and as I knelt there in my bra and underpants, flinging the Comet---hot, sweaty, swearing under my breath and wanting my bath, something in my wastebasket caught my eye. I had had a Tab as I dressed for work that morning, and had stuck the can upside down into the wastebasket. And nestled in the hollow aluminum bottom was a little round pinkish egg.
I cannot imagine how that lady duck managed to elude cat and dog long enough to leave me that little tribute, nor how she managed to perch her hiney up there just right to lay that egg. And I don’t think the kids would have believed me if not for that odd little egg, pink and round and with a glow like porcelain.
I blew it out and washed it and kept it for years.
She had apparently come down the chimney and provided jump-and-chase amusement for those two for quite some time. I gently picked her up and took her outside, where she slowly waddled over to the field and took off. I went back in, tearing off my itchy clothes, ran into my bathroom and reached for the faucet-handle.
My lovely tub was smeared with duck poop in several places, and right in the middle of the tub, my coveted bottle of REAL Shalimar perfume---the pretty bottle with the elegant glass fan for a stopper---was on its side in several pieces, with that glorious scent filling the room.
I said several particularly nice words, gathered up the glass, scrubbed the tub--I’d have bathed in the perfume, but the glass and poop ruled that out---and as I knelt there in my bra and underpants, flinging the Comet---hot, sweaty, swearing under my breath and wanting my bath, something in my wastebasket caught my eye. I had had a Tab as I dressed for work that morning, and had stuck the can upside down into the wastebasket. And nestled in the hollow aluminum bottom was a little round pinkish egg.
I cannot imagine how that lady duck managed to elude cat and dog long enough to leave me that little tribute, nor how she managed to perch her hiney up there just right to lay that egg. And I don’t think the kids would have believed me if not for that odd little egg, pink and round and with a glow like porcelain.
I blew it out and washed it and kept it for years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)