I did not, as I promised, tell of our Thanksgiving. The days since we got home on Monday afternoon have been busy, with our own little personal whirlwind to keep us company.
We had a quiet Giving-of-Thanks, with just us of the household and that of our #2 Son---three in each. So we were six at table, five with the new painted burgundy plates and the Mammaw goblets and the quarter-apiece jewel-colored dessert plates. Our high-chair member had her own orange plastic plate, with her first use of the little sterling fork-and-spoon set.
Daughter Caro had done all the decorating downstairs, swagging the little chandelier with a great wreath of silken leaves and hanging grapes in that perfect muscadine bronze---apropos for all us Southern set. The breakfast table which usually serves as the buffet had an Autumn-printed cloth, with gourds and sheaves and pumpkins, and Caro scattered a handful of the leaves all across beneath the glass top; the effect was remarkably 3-D, like looking through a Fifties ViewMaster. People walking by would sometimes reach out a finger to see if a leaf would move.
We ate the old family favorites---Chris' grill-roasted turkey done several hours on the grill that morning; cornbread dressing with two gravies: Giblet, with several chicken livers sauteed in butter, then chopped and added to the thickened stock with the customary bits of soft-boiled egg. And a boat of the liver-less kind, for DDIL and me. A platter of broccoli and cauliflower, steamed, with lemon butter; a plate of devilled eggs and crisp celery hearts; home-canned green beans cooked down low with bacon and chunks of onion, then topped with tiny potatoes. Cranberry sauce---a lovely compote of fresh cranberries, simmered in orange juice with Splenda and a drop of vanilla, with the supremed orange stirred in cold. And of course, the Ocean Spray---though no longer do we cut out both ends of the can and serve it in neat slices---the bottom is ROUND, now, and so we just dig out great clops with a spoon and serve it in its own compote. Chris cannot enjoy Thanksgiving without Ocean Spray. Jellied, not the clumpy kind.
But when we DID serve the cranberry in slices, we used an old silver tomato-server which probably belonged to someone's nice Grandmother---I like to think so. I got it at Goodwill.
DS brought a buttery bowl of creamed corn, which he cut and put into the freezer in August.
We had coconut cream pie and lemon icebox pie and some lovely Danish butter cookies.
So that's the decor and the food. We held hands as Chris asked the blessing, our littlest one calmly holding on, beginning to smile up at him at his first words, and not stopping till we all said, "Amen!" Then she chuckled and nodded enthusiastically, kicking her feet. And we are all thankful; I leave everyone's own gratitude as their own.
Yesterday, I took down and packed away all the gold and yellow and brown and green into its own special box, to await the turning of another season. Last night, we wrestled a bit with the three pieces of the upstairs tree, noted that all lights seemed to be on strike save the very bottom row, decided to buy some strings tomorrow, and left Tree lying beside the sofa, where Kitty will probably make a nest before we get back to it. I had to run the skirt through the dryer on "AIR" three times last year---she just LOVED that thing, and when the packages covered it all over, she somehow shouldered a few out of the way, and would be snoozing away between the boxes.
Moire non,
rachel
Friday, December 5, 2008
DIVINE DIVINITY
Our Dear Mrs. G's essay upon Divinity, the Snow-White kind, kindled a Christmas longing unfelt in several years---we have pounds and pounds of chocolate, marshmallow creme, great sacks of sugar and flour and nuts, with frivolous little shaker-jars of sprinkles and finely-minced, almost-meal pecans, as well as Barbie-sized chocolate chips---you could make nickel-sized cookies for your dollhouse with those chips---for dipping the huge pretzel sticks. We've stocked up on cupcake papers, especially the little foil ones, and small loaf pans and storage tins and all manner of wrappings. And next weekend will be the time; the Voice of Chocolate will be heard in the Land.
But we have not put mixer to egg whites, nor spun a thread-stream of molten sugar into the billowy heaps, taking an infinity of time to make the divinity into its desired perfection. And I miss that---it was one of the two holiday traditions all the time my children were growing up. Their next-door Grandmother made the most delectable poufs of the stuff. Her sure hand with the heat and the timing and even the weather was uncanny, and never-but-once did I ever see her make a less-than-perfect batch.
SIL, then about thirteen, was always allowed to choose the colors, those good old McCormick drops which lent a special touch to the candy-stand of little clouds. My choice, then and now, was pink---not a dark pink, nor a rosy shade---venturing nowhere near Pepto Bismol or hot or what a coarse relative referred to as "boonbutt"---but a delicate, baby's blush shade, just enough to tint a hint of palest pastel.
Maw's customary choices were pale green and pale pink---quite a lovely arrangement on the dining table. And the year that SIL decided that if the two colors were good, a combination would be marvelous---well, let's say that the expected tray of divinity at the WMU party was notably missing, its dingy gray clumps dotted with brown pecan bits deemed quite unsuitable for such a fancy gathering.
I still return to this mention of divinity-making, that of a Southern girl transported for years to the lovely hillsides of France.
http://kitchen-notebook.blogspot.com/2006/02/divinity.html
And my own reply on her memory-kindling blog:
I'm awaiting a sunny day for the making of a batch---it's been a long time since we've had a taste of those melty mouthfuls.
They'll be topped with toasted pecans from the old Homeplace in Mississippi, and whether I push each fat nutmeat into the cushion of billowy pink, or lounge one side-saddle against a Dairy Queen curl, I'll think each time of a sleepy baby, like the Dear One in the crib right behind me, snuggled into her pillow.
Divinity IS divine.
But we have not put mixer to egg whites, nor spun a thread-stream of molten sugar into the billowy heaps, taking an infinity of time to make the divinity into its desired perfection. And I miss that---it was one of the two holiday traditions all the time my children were growing up. Their next-door Grandmother made the most delectable poufs of the stuff. Her sure hand with the heat and the timing and even the weather was uncanny, and never-but-once did I ever see her make a less-than-perfect batch.
SIL, then about thirteen, was always allowed to choose the colors, those good old McCormick drops which lent a special touch to the candy-stand of little clouds. My choice, then and now, was pink---not a dark pink, nor a rosy shade---venturing nowhere near Pepto Bismol or hot or what a coarse relative referred to as "boonbutt"---but a delicate, baby's blush shade, just enough to tint a hint of palest pastel.
Maw's customary choices were pale green and pale pink---quite a lovely arrangement on the dining table. And the year that SIL decided that if the two colors were good, a combination would be marvelous---well, let's say that the expected tray of divinity at the WMU party was notably missing, its dingy gray clumps dotted with brown pecan bits deemed quite unsuitable for such a fancy gathering.
I still return to this mention of divinity-making, that of a Southern girl transported for years to the lovely hillsides of France.
http://kitchen-notebook.blogspot.com/2006/02/divinity.html
And my own reply on her memory-kindling blog:
I'm awaiting a sunny day for the making of a batch---it's been a long time since we've had a taste of those melty mouthfuls.
They'll be topped with toasted pecans from the old Homeplace in Mississippi, and whether I push each fat nutmeat into the cushion of billowy pink, or lounge one side-saddle against a Dairy Queen curl, I'll think each time of a sleepy baby, like the Dear One in the crib right behind me, snuggled into her pillow.
Divinity IS divine.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
SMILING SKIES
Home again, minds filled with the haze of a thousand and more miles, books and bags and shoes and a full-to-bursting laundry bag lugged into the house in the sprinkle of a late afternoon. We'd been a long way, riding the highway, the loops and curls of the four-lanes, the rainslick shining off the pavement and glistening down the panes of the sheared-off rock walls of the mountains larded through with the veins of transit.
We'd carried a suit, a tie, a fresh-pressed burgundy shirt; my black crepe pants and cut-velvet jacket---my only concession to "dress-up" clothes except under duress. We sat in the Georgia church, unfamiliar of place and of music, of instrument, of the bright-screened Words of Praise. Our own were the raisings of the foot-patting old hymns, the What a Friend and the Rock of Ages; this Sunday morning was spent in midst of a long music-service, everybody standing and singing and swaying for a great long time to unfamiliar song after song, the words like Karoake on the big screen and coming through the speakers level with our eyes and unaccustomedly bright to our ears.
And our son was ordained this weekend---his own journey longer than we travelers could imagine, of school and work and meetings and study and language courses and schedules past keeping. His passport would do credit to an emissary, as he soon will be---as he prepares for his life in the Ministry. I did not birth this child, but I met him when he was very young; his Dad and I have been married for more than twenty years, and we are equally proud and awed by him and his accomplishments.
We had worship in his church, lunch in his Mother's home, and that was a journey in itself, a quiet, warm gathering to honor and to send out this far-reaching, amazing young man. I bear no credit for any of his accomplishments, save for Sunday School and Church on our weekends, with a lot of stay-at-home little projects and games and things-done-together. When he was a child, we built forts and racecourses and dioramas of battlefields; we picked pillowslips full of cotton from the outside-the-front-door fields---an oddly-enjoyed treat to these "town" children. Then we broke out the Elmer's, some square bits of plywood, and twigs, fashioning the cotton and its pointy boll-claws into a charming family of barn owls with toes grasping the limbs and cunning beaks peeping from beneath store-bought googly-eyes from the sewing box.
We talked about life and death and Heaven and shooting and Batman; we walked our fields for arrowheads and put out salt for the deer; we raked leaves, rolled in the piles, burned them way out in the field, inhaling that sure scent of Autumn, then cooked baked potatoes in the embers.
And he mentions these things---picking up pecans and walking the woods, and the nights we'd make Sloppy Joes and watch silly zombie videos. I've watched him grow up tall and strong, kind and so selfless in so many things that my breath shallows and slows. I'm very glad that Chris DID come with such a dowry---when my Dad, thinking of the relative swiftness of our courtship, asked, "Are you SURE?---what about all those CHILDREN?" I replied, "I'd take THEM even if Chris weren't part of the package."
We hugged Goodbyes, changed into comfy soft clothes for traveling, and headed North, riding long into the night, aiming for home, with the strange confluence of planets and moon forming a bright smile to beckon us home. I watched it for a long time, hanging so strangely in that sapphire sky---a cosmic HappyFace looking down on all those Thanksgiving-weary travelers.
I'm still smiling, myself, and I think the kvell of the weekend will last a long time.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
ROMPIN' AND STOMPIN'
We did, indeed, do a little of both; we were seven in the booth, with a table socked in at the end to accommodate the out-three. Everybody got to the hotel around three, coming back from the shooting range, and others arriving from their own hours'-long journey.
I'd asked everyone to have an early lunch, for DS#4 had an important interview at seven p.m., and so we had to go to dinner at five. Nobody minded the early hour, and it cut down on the stand-and-wait, though it was Saturday night. And I was latest of all---Cousin Louise, who had driven up with Chris' Mom from the coast, wanted to run to one of the outlet stores out on the highway, just for a quick errand, so we were last to arrive at the restaurant.
When we were shown to our table, all I could see was Chris' shining silver hair in the corner; then I saw his feet perched up high on one of those tall chairs, to my momentary dismay---I'm not fond of perching like a toddler to eat dinner. But they were just at the drawn-up table, and the three guys were in those---our booth was elevated a bit, and so our feet were on our "floor" though our table was level with theirs.
His Mom was propped comfortably in the far corner, with her ubiquitous back-pillow featuring a tapestry of two deer drinking at twilight---we've left that thing from here to yonder, always fetching it back, and once, having it delivered to the house via UPS when we left it in Ohio. She's tiny and fragile, her little dandelion fluff of white hair like a halo, and her shining eyes and smile lighting up every gathering. I've been blessed with two absolute angels as Mothers-In-Law, and she calls all of us DIL's her Daughters-in-Love.
She'd come for the ribs, and ribs it was---she tucked her tiny self into that platter like a truck driver, nibbling and enjoying the meat and the sauce and the enormous baked potato, and loaded was the word. There was enough butter and sour cream and cheese and bacon on that thing to make a casserole for a good-sized Church Supper crowd.
Everybody else had steaks of one sort or the other, with the usual salads and potatoes (Chris always chooses the loaded SWEET---with cinnamony butter and a big puddle of crunchy-broiled marshmallows atop). And I, true to my childhood love affair with caffays and truck-stops and dairy bars and drive-in eateries---I had a cheeseburger. It was a really good one, thick and juicy, with a good slab of rich cheddar melting its corners down like a little tablecloth. The bun had been grill-toasted, and it had sliced sweet onion, lots of tomato and so much lettuce that I took off enough to finger-munch like chips. And, though I've gotten some rather strange comments on my taste---mustard---squiggles of good old French's yellow.
There were wonderful heavy steak-fries, golden-brown and crisp, with the tender center steamy and soft. Nobody wanted dessert, so we just had coffee as we sat talking and laughing way too loud---I love being in a crowd like this, with everyone glad to see each other, and having wonderful food, sitting full and comfortable in the moment, with people you care about. We're so far from most of our Dearies, it's lovely when it happens.
The music was twangy and fairly loud, but then so were we---probably both; we'd come from four states for this occasion, and though we'd all meet the next day for lunch, this was the fun time, the relaxing time, the catch-up time, if you could make yourself heard over all the voices trying to do the same. No real stompin' and no boot-scoot; no two-step, no yee-haw, no dancin' on the bar.
But it was our kind of fun. We coulda had the same time at home, at Hardee's, at our hotel. The memories will linger. It's one of my very favorite GATHERINGS.
I'd asked everyone to have an early lunch, for DS#4 had an important interview at seven p.m., and so we had to go to dinner at five. Nobody minded the early hour, and it cut down on the stand-and-wait, though it was Saturday night. And I was latest of all---Cousin Louise, who had driven up with Chris' Mom from the coast, wanted to run to one of the outlet stores out on the highway, just for a quick errand, so we were last to arrive at the restaurant.
When we were shown to our table, all I could see was Chris' shining silver hair in the corner; then I saw his feet perched up high on one of those tall chairs, to my momentary dismay---I'm not fond of perching like a toddler to eat dinner. But they were just at the drawn-up table, and the three guys were in those---our booth was elevated a bit, and so our feet were on our "floor" though our table was level with theirs.
His Mom was propped comfortably in the far corner, with her ubiquitous back-pillow featuring a tapestry of two deer drinking at twilight---we've left that thing from here to yonder, always fetching it back, and once, having it delivered to the house via UPS when we left it in Ohio. She's tiny and fragile, her little dandelion fluff of white hair like a halo, and her shining eyes and smile lighting up every gathering. I've been blessed with two absolute angels as Mothers-In-Law, and she calls all of us DIL's her Daughters-in-Love.
She'd come for the ribs, and ribs it was---she tucked her tiny self into that platter like a truck driver, nibbling and enjoying the meat and the sauce and the enormous baked potato, and loaded was the word. There was enough butter and sour cream and cheese and bacon on that thing to make a casserole for a good-sized Church Supper crowd.
Everybody else had steaks of one sort or the other, with the usual salads and potatoes (Chris always chooses the loaded SWEET---with cinnamony butter and a big puddle of crunchy-broiled marshmallows atop). And I, true to my childhood love affair with caffays and truck-stops and dairy bars and drive-in eateries---I had a cheeseburger. It was a really good one, thick and juicy, with a good slab of rich cheddar melting its corners down like a little tablecloth. The bun had been grill-toasted, and it had sliced sweet onion, lots of tomato and so much lettuce that I took off enough to finger-munch like chips. And, though I've gotten some rather strange comments on my taste---mustard---squiggles of good old French's yellow.
There were wonderful heavy steak-fries, golden-brown and crisp, with the tender center steamy and soft. Nobody wanted dessert, so we just had coffee as we sat talking and laughing way too loud---I love being in a crowd like this, with everyone glad to see each other, and having wonderful food, sitting full and comfortable in the moment, with people you care about. We're so far from most of our Dearies, it's lovely when it happens.
The music was twangy and fairly loud, but then so were we---probably both; we'd come from four states for this occasion, and though we'd all meet the next day for lunch, this was the fun time, the relaxing time, the catch-up time, if you could make yourself heard over all the voices trying to do the same. No real stompin' and no boot-scoot; no two-step, no yee-haw, no dancin' on the bar.
But it was our kind of fun. We coulda had the same time at home, at Hardee's, at our hotel. The memories will linger. It's one of my very favorite GATHERINGS.
Monday, December 1, 2008
PAMINNA CHEESE GOES NORTH
I had a fun e-mail from my friend Lili, who tried the Paminna Cheese recipe for the first time. I opened the mail after Chris had gone to bed, and as I read, I started to laugh. I was giggling so loud by the time I got to the list of go-withs improvised by the work crew, Chris opened the door to see why I was making so much noise in the midnight hours of the silent house.
I hope Lili doesn't mind my sharing the fun---this letter and Paminna Cheese are both WORTH sharing.
*******
Rachel,
Well, I must say, you've revolutionized a NJ household! On Saturday, as planned, I whipped up a batch of pamina cheese, and yes, I say it exactly that way. Maybe there's a soft t in there, somewhere, but I'm sure I'm close. After all, I do have about a hundred relatives from southern Georgia... I digress. So, I made it up, sort of around dinner prep, packed it into a container, and fridged it. We don't have any Durkee sauce here, I've never heard of it, but I looked it up online, and thought it might be like a tart mayonnaisey concoction, with sadness, I left it out. I tasted the cheese as I was making it, and thought "hmm, this is decent." I fed a blob on a cracker to the mister, and he had the same reaction. It sat in the fridge, and the next afternoon, in between leaf-clean ups, he hauled the tub out, and the three men ate it with celery, bread, pretzels, pickles, fingers, and anything not nailed down.
I saw some get spread on wheat toast, and popped into the toaster. I saw the concoction get eaten spread on a piece of ham. They finished my cheese. It was completely gone by Sunday night. Pamina Cheese is definitely more than a sum of its parts, and it definitely benefits from reposing in the fridge for the night. This is the perfect between-jobs heavy snack almost lunch, something that they can eat standing up, chow that they're looking for. Especially when they come in from working. I love it too, broiled on toast, or on cucumber slices, or multigrain crackers.
I had to take a few minutes out of this insane week, and thank you for the inspiration, thank you for this wonderful gift from the South, and for a new heavily requested addition to my repertoire.
*********
Kinda reminds me of that episode of Gilmore Girls---the Thanksgiving night that Loralei, staggering from all the food she's had to eat at all the places whose dinner invitations she accepted so as not to hurt their feelings, finds Sukie sitting at a picnic table on the lawn, feeling no pain and quite buzzed from her umpteenth Margarita. Though Sukie is the best chef in the history of TV, her husband Jackson had the bright idea that HE would cook the turkey---he'd deep-fry it. On the front lawn. With a great big gaggle of bystanders---mostly guys with beer.
They got so carried away they raided the fridge to find other things to fry---bacon, I think, and onions and potatoes and maybe some pork chops. Then, their frying frenzy not sated, they went on to throw inanimate objects into the bubbling fryer---napkins, some of the shrubbery, a shoe.
I just love the listing of it.
Moire non re our own Thanksgiving,
rachel
I hope Lili doesn't mind my sharing the fun---this letter and Paminna Cheese are both WORTH sharing.
*******
Rachel,
Well, I must say, you've revolutionized a NJ household! On Saturday, as planned, I whipped up a batch of pamina cheese, and yes, I say it exactly that way. Maybe there's a soft t in there, somewhere, but I'm sure I'm close. After all, I do have about a hundred relatives from southern Georgia... I digress. So, I made it up, sort of around dinner prep, packed it into a container, and fridged it. We don't have any Durkee sauce here, I've never heard of it, but I looked it up online, and thought it might be like a tart mayonnaisey concoction, with sadness, I left it out. I tasted the cheese as I was making it, and thought "hmm, this is decent." I fed a blob on a cracker to the mister, and he had the same reaction. It sat in the fridge, and the next afternoon, in between leaf-clean ups, he hauled the tub out, and the three men ate it with celery, bread, pretzels, pickles, fingers, and anything not nailed down.
I saw some get spread on wheat toast, and popped into the toaster. I saw the concoction get eaten spread on a piece of ham. They finished my cheese. It was completely gone by Sunday night. Pamina Cheese is definitely more than a sum of its parts, and it definitely benefits from reposing in the fridge for the night. This is the perfect between-jobs heavy snack almost lunch, something that they can eat standing up, chow that they're looking for. Especially when they come in from working. I love it too, broiled on toast, or on cucumber slices, or multigrain crackers.
I had to take a few minutes out of this insane week, and thank you for the inspiration, thank you for this wonderful gift from the South, and for a new heavily requested addition to my repertoire.
*********
Kinda reminds me of that episode of Gilmore Girls---the Thanksgiving night that Loralei, staggering from all the food she's had to eat at all the places whose dinner invitations she accepted so as not to hurt their feelings, finds Sukie sitting at a picnic table on the lawn, feeling no pain and quite buzzed from her umpteenth Margarita. Though Sukie is the best chef in the history of TV, her husband Jackson had the bright idea that HE would cook the turkey---he'd deep-fry it. On the front lawn. With a great big gaggle of bystanders---mostly guys with beer.
They got so carried away they raided the fridge to find other things to fry---bacon, I think, and onions and potatoes and maybe some pork chops. Then, their frying frenzy not sated, they went on to throw inanimate objects into the bubbling fryer---napkins, some of the shrubbery, a shoe.
I just love the listing of it.
Moire non re our own Thanksgiving,
rachel
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