TUNA CASSEROLE

The Stuff school cafeterias and Friday dinners and potluck suppers are made of. There’s something about the rich redolence of a Tuna Casserole baking which makes the whole house smell of Home. Somebody has taken Time, and Taken Care, and has put together an old family favorite to bake whilst a fruit salad or a green vegetable is prepared and the family gathers, drawn kitchen-ward by the aromas.

It’s a comfy old Grandma of a dish, not anything like the quick-seared, ruby-centered tuna steaks of today, or the Tunafish Salad/Mold/Canapes of other years, nor even the well-remembered Ironing-Board Sandwiches of our own past. And if you’re lucky, it’s not the scritch-together of a can of tuna with a can of mushroom soup, stir in some noodles and stick it in the oven.

Tuna Casserole, or Tuna Noodle Casserole, as my Dear Daughter-in-Law calls it, is a homey dish, a thick meant-for-a-cold-night concoction which spells warmth and shaking off the snow and laying your damp gloves atop the fridge or the floor grate to dry overnight. It’s the coming in from an icy drive home into a bright house with wonderful kitchen smells and someone glad to see you.

Or it’s an easy-put-together dish for making one night and putting into the oven the next. It can range from a big bubbly casserole set down on the dining table, to a gratin dish for one or two, slid into the oven whilst relaxing, putting on some music, having a glass of wine, unwinding from the day.

An iron-cold Friday night bespoke Tuna Casserole, with its easy béchamel, the familiar old Star-Kist, the tooth-pop of the lightly-cooked peas, the gentle chew of the noodles---a childhood comfort-dish, and perfect for the season.

We had ours on trays with the Friday-night TV lineup, with Five-Cup Salad and a Kidney-bean Salad with tiny-minced sweet onion, bell pepper and celery and a slightly-sweetened mayo---two of the Things In Dishes which happened to be in the fridge. Chris is also very fond of celery and peanut butter, and his tray also happens to include six scallops I found in the freezer when I went to get the peas---I sizzled them in garlic butter, and they seemed a nice accompaniment with a mise-cup of remoulade.

2 cans water-pack Tuna---drain and save liquid
½ stick butter
3 T. flour
3 cups milk
Spoonclop of mayo
Tiny sprinkle of powdered garlic (or throw a split clove into the melting butter, and fish it out after it’s perfumed the skillet, before adding the milk)
Several grinds of the peppermill

About a cup of frozen baby green peas, thawed---just pour them out onto a plate before you start.

About half a pack of linguini

A couple of cups of crushed potato chips

While you’re making the sauce, cook the linguini al dente in salted water---it will bake further in the sauce. Drain and keep warm.

Put milk into a microwave-safe pitcher and heat until steaming; pour in the reserved liquid from tuna.

Melt the butter over medium-low heat in a large non-stick skillet and stir in the flour, preferably with a flat paddle. Stir a couple of minutes to cook flour a bit---do not let it get even pale brown. Whisk in milk, and cook to a good bubble to thicken a bit. Whisk in mayo, pepper and garlic, then stir in the tuna. Taste a spoontip before adding salt to taste---up to a teaspoon.

Stir in the peas, then the noodles, and pour into a buttered 2-quart casserole---the wider and flatter, the more chips you can put on top.

Top with the chips and bake 20 to 30 minutes, til bubbly all around the edges, and you can smell the toasty chips and the rich scent of the sauce all through the house.

Serves four to six, depending on appetites.

And, in the words of the illustrious chef Annelle Dupuy, freezes beautifully---(without the chips, of course)---you can divide it into sandwich-size Tupperwares and snug it in the freezer for cold nights and quick suppers to come.

COTES DE PORC

The Frenched pork ribs I mentioned last week---we had these Monday night, I think; I was so busy getting ready for the party on Sunday and setting-to-rights the aftermath, I lost track of most everything. (Don't you ever wonder how the police on TV expect people to remember where they were between eight and eleven pee emm on January 29, 1994?---I can't usually remember BREAKFAST, unless somebody else cooked it---THAT'S memorable).

These were wonderful ribs---tender and juicy and just in that perfect moment between not yet and Oh, Dear! The bite of them was absolute perfection---a soft tearing, then you could feel the little ragged edges of the meat against your tongue. And the sauce was our favorite right now---Sweet Baby Ray's Brown Sugar. We buy a dozen whenever it's on sale, and keep it in the cool room; it's rich and thick for brushing on, and just the right balance of sweet, with no smoke flavor added---just enough of that comes from the grill.

We always have the same thing when he grills something that gets the sauce put on---whatever he's grilling, and onion sandwiches---they're a perfect salty zing against the sweet sauce. Soft Continental or Wonder bread, bought just for this, and spread with Blue Plate on both slices. Almost transparent slices of cold juicy sweet onion in layers, a good sprinkle of salt, top laid on, and the whole plate covered with a damp paper towel before snugging into the fridge til suppertime.

We also had beans this time, but they were still bubbling in the skillet when he came in with the ribs, and timing is everything---no real resting for ribs, just a quick smooth of the knife between, onto the plate, and sit down.

They were delicious, but the only difference between those hussied-up ones was that it didn't take quite so many napkins to keep our fingers neat. And face it---with ribs like those---neat just ain't the point.

(Quick interruption here from the dryer buzz, and when I returned, my little collaborator on this piece had added her opinion---Five Star restaurants would KILL for a review like this:

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MMMMMMMM Good! The little bits are tiny chips of onion left from the sandwiches/chopped for the beans---I always gather those up for my plate---lightly salted, they're great finger-food. And alongside a burger, I prefer them to fries or chips.

Think this meal might fit in down in Suthun France?

SLINGSHOT DREAMS

I've been wishing today that I still had my old Wham-O slingshot. I'd been the only girl in a ten-block radius who didn't mind getting into the mud, up trees, into gunfights with our Roy Rogers cap pistols (though I DID hope sometimes to be a WhiteHat instead of the drygulchin' owlhoot).

With the new dog we've acquired came a new dynamic to the house---barking and growling at the cats strolling through the yard. And keeping the wooden door open on these sunny days is one of my "glads" for this new year, for always before, January has been a dark, dismal month downstairs, and having that blast of daylight and sunshine down the stairs has made a great difference in my outlook.

But the Cats---oh, the cats. They've pretty much had free run of the place, the one who has lived in the potting shed and the ones who live in the house next door, but are out roaming through the yards surrounding. And FuzzyPup just will not stand for it. He would tear them limb from limb if ever he could catch one---just let him out there. And so, he growls and barks at the back door, and I can track his route from there clumpclumpclump through the kitchen overhead, into the far corner of the living room to the low windows, where he nudges beneath the curtain and repeats his threats to whichever one is sauntering past.

The big ole black one-eyed Tom we call "Wink"---we've never known his name---seems to be the worst of the lot. He comes onto the back sidewalk, in full view of the door. He sits, leisurely licking a paw, flipping his head disdainfully and taking his sweet time with his bath. He turns that one emerald eye toward our pup, giving him one of those lorgnette looks of appraisal and scorn, and resumes his task.

And Fuzzy goes into a frenzy---his bark is so cute, rather like a growly version of a cat's purr---a little hummygrowl with tiny vocal cords like a bee in a jug. But it gets old, especially when our Girl is having a nap, one room away from the door and the ruckus.

Wink simply meanders off in that way cats have, tail aloft as he sways away, and a clear insult in the flaunt of his hiney---throwing down the gauntlet, sneering out a dare.

And I think somedays, when our Sweetpea is resting so peacefully for a couple of hours (and so am I, if I'm lucky) that I'd get a couple of nice rocks and see if my aim is still the best in the neighborhood---just a gentle smack in those sturdy haunches to send him on his way. I can feel the heft of that old wooden slingshot right now, with my sweaty fingers clasped around, old black slice of inner-tube stretched to its limit, scent of oily rubber and the grubby leather of the pocket around the rock.

I can feel the aim-and-let-fly, the satisfying sound of the projectile connecting clunk with the haybale, a tree-trunk, the side of the storehouse, back on the back side where the charcoal-drawn target had to be re-traced every time it rained. I have never aimed at nor hit a living target, though some of my compadres who did were in grave danger of my forgetting myself and letting them have it with all the ire of my unerring aim.

But some days, when the house is warm and the sunlight streaming in, the little one slumbering and my hands in the sudsy warmth of a leisurely kitchen task, just getting to a good part in my book I'm listening to---when that cat invades and sits down for a spell, and the dog goes crazy with noise, I wish like blazes for just one more moment with my worn, familiar Wham-O in my hands.

PICTURE THE PARTY

The first time I answered the door on Sunday, a lovely young couple presented me with roses. They came in smiling out of the not-cold-enough fifties morning, and soon after, the rest of the guests were coming in both doors.

Chris was just “in his glory” as my Mammaw used to say---greeting and introducing and grinning at all his friends, and everyone gathered upstairs for a while, whilst I came on back down to get the quiche and the potato casserole out of the oven and put in the two big black skillets of biscuits. They wandered the upstairs rooms, stopping at the bar in the kitchen for juice or wine or a quite brisk Bloody Mary, with Worchestershire, Tabasco, celery salt, and a little sprinkle of a new McCormick thing---Worchestershire sprinkle-stuff---on top, with a crispy little flaunt of celery for stirring.

The big old glass-top dresser in the living room had a little array of nibbles: Artichoke heart gratin, with crackers and Scoops; Jalapeno rollups, and crudite and homemade Ranch dip with scallions.

And it was HOT downstairs---I opened the kitchen window and turned on the tiny foot-fan which lives in my kitchen in all seasons---sometimes when I’m in a hurry to put a second load in the DW, I’ll let them heat-dry til they’re really hot, then open the door, slide out both racks, and turn the fan on them for a couple of minutes. They seem to dry in seconds.

And everyone seemed to drift down sooner than expected; they came to get a look at that gorgeous ham, to be given a guided tour of the cockpit of Chris’ new grill, and to seek out the iced tea/water table. I’d told them to just pick a place they wanted to sit, grab that glass, and help themselves, so the tables look a little bare in places.

And the white things are not chargers, though the little hang-tags said so, when I picked up two dozen from the “new” counter at Goodwill several years ago---ten cents each. They’re flannel pads, like you’d put between your good china for storage. And I put them on the glass table because I like to give everyone a warm plate, fresh off the stovetop, and these pads keep the glass safe, plus they keep the tabletop itself from sucking all the heat out of the plate and food before you can finish your dinner.

Our Breakfast Table, with little dishes of pear preserves and butter:

The nice folding table we got not long ago at Sam’s---it’s WAY sturdy, and seats six. The chairless spot at the back is awaiting the Princess Chair---the tiny white highchair which has served for all four of the youngest Grands.

And though we had a coffee-and-teapot area in the kitchen, we can’t have a meal without good ole Iced Tea:

The star of the show---it practically got a round of applause before he started to carve---and everybody kept drifting by for a taste.

Caro and I call those tiny samples of ham a “flick.” So we all passed by Chris, carrying bowls and platters and trays, accepting a little flick of ham as we got the food served. We left the big red Le Creuset of soft pearly Calrose on the back of the stove, as well as a big flowered pot of Shrimp Etouffee for ladling over. I cooked the sauce on Saturday, with its chunks of green pepper and onion and celery all cooked down with the herbs and spices and tomatoes, and chilled it overnight. It went back on the stove about thirty minutes before serving, to come to a good simmer, then three pounds of the limp gray-green little forms went in, to bloom into luscious rosy flowers beneath the lid. The two skillets of biscuits, shiny with their anointment of melted butter, sat on two front eyes, and all the rest of the food was ranged round the counter.

Which is where good descriptive powers would come in handy, because after fourteen people joined us in the kitchen, with Caro and DS and DDIL and me getting the food out, and Chris carving---we got absolutely NO pictures of the food. Ain’t that just the WAY?

But I have it on several good authorities that it was GOOOD---we had Broccoli Quiche and Cracker Barrel Hashbrown Casserole and a cakestand of Caro’s lovely pastries, with a big trifle bowl of pineapple and cantaloupe and blueberries, and a huge tray ringed round and round with the long, super-sweet strawberries which seem to surface every year as a January bonus. And homemade Pear Preserves and Peach Preserves on each table, as well as a lovely vanilla-scented Birthday Cake for dessert, with Blue Bunny Vanilla and little dishes of toasted pecans.

A lovely time was had by ALLLL, I vow, and only the Colts Game drew the folks toward home by three o’clock.

Mammaw always said you knew the food was really good when nobody reached for the salt---the unmarked surface of these is a nice compliment, I think:

And the aftermath---Fourteen people and a nineteen-pound ham, with folks carrying home tomorrow’s lunch in baggies and bowls. This, besides all the goodies in the fridge, was what remained:

And this morning, we sat down to our breakfast, with my coffee and his pot of tea, served in his favorite moustache cup. We didn’t even notice all the work left to be done, or the six chair covers wadded in a chair, or the four folded chairs to be taken to storage, or his favorite vest still hanging there, like a comfortable guest.

BRUNCH PREP

I'm still in the preparations for tomorrow's brunch, but I took a minute for a big glass of iced tea and a look-in on some of my blogging friends.

Chris went for the last of the groceries this morning, and came home with Little Smokies and Sociables and Nova salmon and a big platter of cheese, none of which were on the list, as well as the produce I'd sent him for at the last possible moment. The broccoli just came out of the steamer, into an ice-bath and a baggie in the fridge with a couple of paper towels; the grapes are washed and bagged, as are the cherry tomatoes, the cucumber, the celery (cut into crispy flaunts for garnishing the Marys tomorrow), the water is coming to a boil for the snow peas I just strung, and the pineapple and cantaloupe await cutting into neat golden cubes, to mingle chill and sweet in the big trifle bowl tomorrow with the grapes and lots of whole strawberries. One of those simply Southern cream-cheese-and-marshmallow cream dips awaits.

All the etouffee ingredients have simmered with their bay leaf and Chachere's and L&P into a lovely fragrance, and will chill overnight before being brought back to a boil before adding the three pounds of shrimp to pinken in the glow beneath the lid.

The quiche batter, save for the broccoli and grape tomato slices, is chilling, the artichoke dip ditto, in a twin Tupper, and the jalapeno rolls are snugged into a long flat one, to be cut into eighths tomorrow and garnished with shiny fat peppers on a green tray.

But what we won't be serving, I suppose, because that's just a meat overload, are ribs. Chris came hopefully home with three small racks of babybacks, all Frenched within an inch of a chef's knife. They look like something done by a Michel or an Henri, for a five-star dinner, rather than by a Hoosier manning the counter at Sam's. We'll try some of the ribs one night next week.

I never. I JUST NEVER. Frenched pork ribs. Don't that just Post your Toasties?

Bonjour, Y'all!!