Dining Caravanserai Style

“What’s for dinner,” he asked casually as we finished up our luncheon.

“What?” I managed to reply without extreme exasperation.

“Dinner?  What are you planning?” all innocence displayed.

“I don’t know . . . *sigh* . . . I will just look into the cave of wonders and find something fantastic.  We’ll have adventure for dinner.  It will be fun.” I left it at that, with only the faintest breath of sarcasm.

As the dining hour approached I did, indeed, set out in search of something full of wonder and nutrition to lay upon the table as we gathered at day’s end.  Hmmmmm . . . I scoured the fridge:  quart of broth, assorted veggies, an abundance of eggs, a bit of mayo (my own spicy concoction), sour cream . . . hmmmmm.  Minneolas rolled around the counter begging to be noticed in their vibrant orange-y peels.  Onward to the pantry:  a large golden portion of couscous shone brightly amongst the labor-intensive beans and such – no time for soaking and boiling and waiting – couscous it is, then!

I bundled the bits and pieces of produce and larder stock onto the counter like an ancient mosaic artist ready to begin to craft a gift from the broken pieces and fragments.  I rifled around in my spice cupboard pulling out cumin and coriander, garlic and garam masala.  I plundered the citrus basket for a lime or two – nearly too far gone, but still fragrant and pliable.  I poured and portioned, stirred and seasoned, filling the house with the earthy fragrance of a spice road caravanserai – those roadside inns of olden days inviting men to dismount camels, water and feed the beasts, then turn into the inn to find nourishment and rest for himself at day’s end.  A fitting place to serve a meal wrought from my culinary cave of wonders.

The cobalt-patterned bowls began filling with jewel-toned veggies and creamy sauces for drizzling.  The fragrant couscous soaked up the lime- and garlic-laced broth.  The abundance of eggs from our diligent hens became half-moons hard-cooked and filled with fluffed and spiced yolk creams.  A bit of Worcestershire, a hint of ginger, a zest of lime – ordinary no more!  The tangerine-skinned citrus over flowed the dish and spilled sticky-sweet nectar, daring us all to find room upon our already-laden plates for just one taste more. 

We carried the feast-filled receptacles to a table laid with numerous glinting candles.  We prayed; we lifted weary arms and forked down the first mouthfuls.  It had been a long and busy day with much labor in it.  Some studied, some cleaned closets; some laundered, some thought deeply for an answer not to be found just yet.  We all came to the table hungry for food, for rest, for the touch that says, “You are among family, and we are glad.” 

Slowly, laughter began to tinkle; words grew more rapid with lightness.  The heaviness of the day passed with each sip and bite.  Compliments flew my way and I smiled.  The cave of wonders had not failed me. 

As the candles burned low and the remaining morsels vanished, I signaled for the surprise ending to this exotic meal:  Strawberry-rosewater-almond ice cream that graced tiny dishes, far too rich for major scooping.  Inspired on my last trip to Disney’s Epcot, where Elizabeth and I enjoyed a lavish treat of perfumed ice creams in Morocco, I fired up my ice cream maker and let my imagination run wild.  It ran and played in a most delicious fashion.  Success never tasted so sweet.

All too soon the candles sputtered and the diners departed to close down their day.  I watched them go in satisfied fullness, knowing that soon they will again be weary and hungry, and I will once again dig deep into that cave of wonders I lovingly stock with odd bits of taste and spice alongside the staples known throughout the world since that very first meal in Eden. We will pass this way again, but never in the exact same step.  The gift we shared tonight will never happen again in just this way. I wash the last dish, pondering this meal, storing its recipe in my heart:  Welcome the weary ones with fragrance and sweetness that draws them in from across the vast desert of the daily walk.  Feed them and entreat them to rest.  Dine Caravanserai style in this oasis of life – soothe each hunger pang in our home, sweet, home.  Repeat as often as needed, or once a day (whichever comes first).

The Black Forest

Of late, my kitchen has been shadowed o'er by a strange and deepening darkness . . .  of chocolate, that is.  My sunny French décor has taken on a Grimm-like “Black Forest” air as I arm myself with whisk and spoons wooden for this journey into dark, darker, and darkest chocolate met by strange, weirder, and most unusual "sugars." 

Bold and brave, I hunt for the elusive chocolate treasures fit for the health-minded dessert-er.  The fudgiest ice cream and the darkest brownies have been found along this pilgrim’s path.  Truffles lurk around every corner -- and though they improve greatly with age (developing a dark figgy-cherry-red rose-brandy quality of taste and aroma), I am hard-pressed to find a ripening truffle ANYWHERE on the premises!  Alas, the truffle gnomes have made off with every last one!  (Good thing I only made a small batch.)  As I poke and prod all thoughts chocolate, peanut-butter-cup truffles, black-forest truffles, and looming spectres of devil-dark truffles (hint: chili-pepper) swirl in the mists of my wandering mind . . .

. . . but those will have to wait for another day because today I set aside the chocolate, jumped countries, and whipped up a batch of Danish bread-and-butter pickled eggs (made with coconut crystals and cider vinegar – yep, I did it!).  My sister arrives in just under two weeks and she LOVES pickled eggs.  They will be pronounced “Ready” just as she steps off the plane.  

“Note,” I bellow to my pickled-egg-loving family, “No one must disturb this crock of eggs until February 21st.”  

(Of course, I may be caught sneaking a taste now and again in the interest of Culinary Arts and Sciences.)

; )

Chocolat Update: Enter Les Truffles

So, I left off yesterday’s post with a pic of a mass of chocolate spread upon parchment.  

“What did I do with that?” you may be asking. 

Well, first I tasted it and found it darkly delicious.  

[WARNING:  If you adore Hershey’s kisses this will not, I repeat, WILL NOT be to your liking.  If, however, you seek out the darkest, deepest, 80+ chocolate and can be found nibbling cacao nibs in secret so that you don’t have to share, this is your kind of CHOCOLATE.  It’s bold.  It’s dark.  It will scare the chocolate chips lurking in your cupboard.  Be warned!]

Next, I sampled the texture.    

Pliable.   

Smooth.   

Perfect for forming into nuggets 

which can then be rolled in cocoa powder.   

Et Voila! 

 Le Truffle! 

So, I made a small dish of these “samples” and shared the wealth.

* * * * *

The reactions:

“WOW!”

“Ummmm, Mom, these are REALLY DARK . . . ummmmm, REALLY!” 

“[Thoughtfully chewing]  Yeah . . . these are rich . . . and good.”

*POW!*  [Did someone’s head just blow off?]

* * * * *

Later, I made my way into the kitchen and noticed that the truffles had vanished from the dish, the mass of chocolat had visibly reduced, and the straight cocoa powder bowl stood empty.    This build-a-truffle bar was clearly a hit.  Throughout the evening the stock of choc got smaller as the compliments flowed more heavily.   Me thinks they like it.  ; )

_________________________________

**In the interest of journalistic integrity I must divulge that my children have been raised by a certified Health Food Nut, from California, no less.  They have RARELY been served any chocolate less than 65%.  M&Ms, Kisses, and the like almost never cross the threshold, unless gifted to us.  Likewise, white sugar has been mostly taboo.  I make our food from scratch (including grinding my own wheat for bread).  Obviously, fast-food/junk food has been OUTLAWED and the law’s been strictly enforced.  (In fact, my two youngest have never even seen a Happy Meal-type deal.  My older kids were pitied by others who felt the need to “gift” them with a Happy Meal experience, thus they sat politely and stared at the “food” after tasting it and making a scrunchy face.  They’ve been programmed healthy, I confess.)

I share this so that you will understand that this chocolate is a bit on the extreme side even for Health-nut offspring.  Thus it should be approached with extreme caution if you are trying to access that “Chocolate is good for you” trend.  You may entirely invalidate your future credibility in the “Here-try-this” arena if you substitute this for that familiar dish of M&M’s on your counter.  My family regularly follows me on “Food Safaris” of great adventure, and even they needed a moment to process it.

Okay . . . ‘nuf said. 

___________________________________

* * * * *

Final Analysis of Chocolat Mission 1:  ACCOMPLISHED!

Let it be known, the Coconut Crystal Truffles are a hit!

A homerun!

Dare I call this deeply chocolate, white-sugar-free delicacy Health Food?  A vitamin pill, even?  Nah . . . that would be no fun.  I’ll just add it to the list of Approved Foods alongside my goat’s milk ice cream.  (Don’t cringe – it’s FABULOUS and so creamy delish!  You’d never know . . . if I hadn’t just told you.) 

Any recommendations/improvements to note? 

I think I may just ramp up the Anti-oxidant levels by rolling the cocoa-clad truffles in bitter nibs of cacao.  Maybe then the rest of my family will find them simply over-the-top TOO intense for them, and I won’t have to compete so vigorously for my fair share.  I just hate working up a sweat over . . . well, ANYthing!

Now, where’s that truffle I hid . . . I know it’s here somewhere . . . back in this cupboard . . . oooooh! . . . . REACH!  [and the sweat begins to glaze the fevered brow.] 

Healthy Eating:   

It’s a Delicious Adventure!

: D

There's Something New in the Air at Wisteria Cottage . . .

"What's that smell?  

"What does it smell like?"

"I don't know, but it sure smells good?"

"Here.  Taste."

"MMMMmmmmmm!  What is it?
It's got a kind of figgy, deep richness about it."

*****

[Another enters the kitchen]

"What do I smell?"

[Taste given to newest inquiring mind.]

"WOW!  That's powerful, but really good.  What is it?"

*****

[Enter a third member of the choco-sition]

"Take a taste"  

[I point toward the bottles of dark deliciousness.]

"Does this have alcohol in it?"

*****

As the gentle strains of the soundtrack to Chocolat waft around the room mingling with the heady fragrance of pure, deep, rich, luscious chocolate, I wonder if this is what Heaven will be like?

I have chopped and broken, shaved and melted cocoa and chocolate -- 100% -- with the ever-surprising coconut crystals in place of white sugar.  A bit of water and the richest, most decadent vanilla I can find round out the dark and handsome elixir.  I stir constantly and wait with baited breath.  In the swirling vat I look deeply  . . . and inhale . . . and wonder.  Finally, I set it aside to cool.  (I remind myself that a hasty taste resulting in burned tastebuds can steal victory from a cook's challenge faster than anything.) 

Then I taste . . .

The essence of deep, romantic, woodsy, figgy, magical, POWERFUL, "Spirited" (though the only alcohol came from the vanilla's bourbon) chocolate goodness brings a smile to my face.

Voila! 

CHOCOLAT!

* * * * * 

It's been a VERY productive day around here.
I can't wait until tomorrow.

Now where did I put that chili powder . . .

* * * * *

A Demain!

: D

Summer Storms = Reading Fun

After I finished tidying the cottage today, the BIG storm rolled in.  It has proven less-than-BIG, thus far -- a few BOOMS now and again, but all in all it has been a pretty nice rainy day.  The gardens love soaking up the moisture and we love the care-free watering method God designed.

Since this cool day landed smack in the middle of some pretty warm days, we all welcomed it.  

As I put the vacuum away, I asked Elizabeth to set the teakettle to boiling.  I fixed tea trays for the studious ones, Lydia and Rachel, with bread-butter-strawberry jam and a hot cuppa African Nectar tea for each.  Elizabeth and I shared a pot of Honeybush tea while we settled in for some rainy day reading.

I looked with delight on some of 

my newest reading arrivals: 

 Anyone see a theme?

I think I shall call my summer reading

"Delicious Inspiration."

 

And it has been . . . 

What are you reading/eating these days?

Fairytale Cooking

 Go out into the gardens

(beautiful flowing dress and dancing slippers optional)

Gather fragrance-bearing beauty with abandon

(organic only, please)

All colors

All shapes

All beautiful

Then . . .

 

Shed the petals

Pour into a bowl

Add boiling water and steep for six hours

(Be prepared to relax and enjoy the amazing aroma)

 Drain and reserve the rosewater

~~ a shade of pink I can only call LUSCIOUS ~~

and cook as you would any jelly.
(recipe link below)

Ladle into jars and cool.


Stand back in amazement at the beauty . . .
then taste

(preferably dolloped onto a freshly-baked scone).

And They Dined Happily Ever After

* * * * *

Find an inspirational post with recipe here.

(I just LOVE Mia's blog!)

Beyond Fried Green Tomatoes

“Snowfall possible this weekend!” Gary cries out.

“Yippee!” goes up a chorus.

Gasp!  “Tomatoes!” pipes up Elizabeth, turning to Rachel, “Tomorrow we harvest the rest, okay?”

Rachel nods enthusiastically; Lydia looks on without a shred of interest, preferring to write a poem or play a tune – both involve clean hands.  ; )

And so the gardeners head out after all hearth chores have been completed.  I set to pruning yet another stand of roses, while the girls swarm about the heavy laden tomato plants. 

“So many that didn’t ripen,” sighs Elizabeth.

“We’ll find a use for them,” I sing out in the warmth of an autumn afternoon bathed in jewel-toned hues of gold and pink and fierce hot reds and oranges blazing a beautiful farewell.

Later as we sort and wash colander upon colander of green, orange, yellow, and red tomatoes.  I toss out ideas. 

“We could have fried green tomatoes,” I say, looking over the smallish globes with a skeptical eye.  “On second thought, maybe not,” I add as I calculate how many hours I will be standing over a HOT stove frying up finger-tip sized green tomato slices.

I dry my hands and make my way to the cookbook section of our library and plop down within easy access to every “country” cookbook I own.  (Please don’t ask . . . it’s MANY!)  Questing for fried green tomato recipes would have found me immediately victorious.  Every home-making cook and a fair portion of “chefs” offer a favorite way to bread and fry the immature tomatoes abundant at season’s end, but very few move beyond the frying thereof.  I pull out my trusty copy of American Country Cook by Pat Katz (purchased as a bride scouring a sale table at a discount chain).  This ranks as my favorite “basics” cookbook.  She covers an abundance of veggies, fruits, meats, and all the ways to prep and save them.  Pat has been a true blue kitchen mentor for me.  

I settle down and read away, “Hmmmmm, a whole section entitled ‘Tomatoes, Green.’  Excellent!  Let’s see . . . Green Tomato Curry, Green Tomato Hot Sauce, Green Tomato Cookies – hey, that looks interesting!”

“What!” gasps Rachel.  “Are you serious?”

I nod and read on, “The recipe calls for Green Tomato Mincemeat.  What is that?” I say as I begin flipping back a page or two in search of the earlier recipe.  By now the girls are blanching a bit at the thought of green tomatoes, raisins, etc. put into a cookie and passed off as dessert.

“Well,” I sum up, “I don’t like raisins (don’t have any either), don’t care for those fruit peels either, so I’m going to have to modify this whole recipe.”  And back to the kitchen I dance with cookbook in hand to stand before an audience of mild skeptics who were really hoping for some dessert tonight.

After sorting the tomatoes into categories: ready to ripen on the counter, suitable for frying, and "other"

I heft the big bowl of “other” and load it into the food processor for chopping.  Two batches in my 16-cup bowl, lightly pulsed until evenly chopped but mush-free,

and then I set about chopping a batch of apples (peeled and cored) to the same texture.  Combining the 2:1 mixture of chopped “stuff” I add a cup of blackstrap molasses, ¼ cup lemon juice, and ¾ cup apple cider vinegar.  Now for the spices . . .

I look at the quantities and KNOW instinctively that this will not have the deep spicy tang I seek, so I add the requisite 1 Tb cinnamon, ¼ tsp allspice, ¼ tsp cloves and then add some more (I nearly doubled the quantities).  I stir and taste this rather unattractive glop, and opt to add a generous dollop of strong bourbon vanilla.  I taste.  It still tastes . . . ummmmm . . . ODD with a touch of bitterness.

“Only time will tell,” I shrug as I turn on the heat.  I bring it to a boil, and then return it to a simmer for about an hour.  In the final minutes of cooking I turn up the heat to reduce the mixture to a nice thickness.

By now the house smells absolutely Holiday-Fantastic and everyone “MMMMMs” and “AAaaaahs!” their way to the kitchen.  Gary even walks in from next door (his office resides in the guest house) saying, “It sure smells good in here!”  And it does!

Now, I have a vat of “Tomato Mincemeat” simmered to perfection, but I am out of time for cookie baking as I really need to top the chicken stew with herbed dumplings so that we can eat around six.  What to do with this mincemeat?

“Let’s do some canning!” pipes up Elizabeth.

“Okay,” I respond, less than certain that my mere four-burners can adequately accommodate a pot of chicken stew, a pot of chicken-bone broth simmering, a pot of mincemeat, AND the GIGANTIC canning pot.  But, we give it a try and it fits . . . barely.  So she sets to boiling the water whilst I ladle out one heaping cup of mincemeat for a pudding, ladling the rest into sterilized pint-sized canning jars.  I fill five jars and she processes them while I set about adapting my persimmon pudding recipe for the mincemeat.

I reach for my trusty copper recipe box (a wedding gift) and dig out the “family” recipe for persimmon pudding.  (I admit this came from my sister-in-law’s grandma – sadly, my mom always baked a Mrs. Smith’s Apple Pie from a box, hence she neither needed nor had a recipe box.)  2/3 cup sugar, 2/3 cup milk (I use up the last of the cream in the bottle and add whole milk for the balance), 1 cup green tomato mincemeat, 1 tsp (or so) vanilla, and one egg all whisked together.  In goes ¼ cup shortening and since the mince is still warm it melts into tiny pellets; usually I have to whisk a bit to disperse the shortening.  Now to add the dry ingredients: 1 cup flour (I use freshly-ground whole-wheat pastry), 1 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp baking soda, ½ tsp salt, 1 tsp cinnamon (or so – we are cinnamon lovers around here).  Mix all together and pour into greased pudding bowl (or any baking dish – you decide what shape you desire, but keep in mind a shallow dish will bake faster than a deeper pudding bowl) and bake uncovered at 350 F for about 50-60 minutes.  Underbaking yields a gooey pudding, longer bake times result in a moist steamy cake – you decide.

While the pudding bakes away I whip up a batch of herbed dumplings (just a biscuit recipe with a handful of herbes d’Provence tossed in for fabulous flavor).  I top the bubbling stew with dough globes and replace the heavy lid on that gently steaming pot.

Whew!  Now I turn back to watch Elizabeth hover over the waterbath canner for the requisite 10 minutes and then hoist out her first batch of canned goodies.  She worries and thumps tops and frets a wee bit more before setting them to rest for 12 hours.  I tell her to stop worrying for we will gladly eat up any non-sealed jars.  (As I write this I count 100% success!  Way to go Elizabeth!)

Finally we sit down to a lovely dinner of chicken stew with herb-a-licious dumplings

followed by the most amazingly flavorful Green Tomato Mincemeat Pudding!!! 

I have adapted that persimmon pudding recipe to make gingerbread pudding, sweet potato pudding, pumpkin pudding, and more, but I have to say the spicy kick of that green tomato mincemeat wins the prize.  The family begs me to WRITE DOWN the recipe immediately so there’s no chance of forgetting it.  (Elizabeth gets up from the table amid mouthfuls and runs for pen and paper.)  I decline, preferring to savor my portion of pudding in the moment, vowing to record the recipe here on my blog in hopes of inspiring y’all to move beyond fried green tomatoes into the realm of Green Tomato Mincemeat and more. 

What do you do with a bounty of green tomatoes at season’s end?  I’ve got another lot waiting and I’m thinking green tomato relish.  What would you do?

* * *

P.S.

The comments you have been leaving are so precious!  Thank you!  I intended to reply individually via email but Yahoo refused to take my text.  Hrmph!  But then I figured you’d all like to share in the newsy bits. 

As for the pot of soup simmering away at the top of my last post, that would be a Stuff 'n Nonsense soup that came from leftovers in my fridge – some rice, a few carrots, some collards, a zucchini, half a package of bacon, some leftover butternut squash pasta sauce (you can find it on the shelf made by Dave’s Gourmet If you don’t want to process the squash yourself – I bought a 3-pak at Costco on a lark and now it is a staple in my pantry), an apple, a can of diced tomatoes, half an onion, some thyme, and that’s about all I remember.  It was DELICIOUS!  Pair this with a good whole grain muffin like carrot/zucchini and a few slices of sharp cheddar cheese and you have quite a delicious feast on a cold evening.

Dear Miss Hostage (Jeri), thanks for introducing me to Jamie Oliver’s Revolution.  Clearly, I’m a kindred!  Yes, let’s cook and share, and teach, and inspire!  I have reserved the book at the library.  I’ve only seen one Jamie Oliver program years ago.  I thought he was adorable as he cooked a feast for his expectant sister in his slim-sized kitchen.  I look forward to reading more.  I was a big fan of the Slow Food movement when it emerged on the scene several years ago, but sadly it got too bogged down in politics for my tastes.  I wish Jamie success in his revolution and I have my wooden spoon and whisk at the ready!

And finally, as for the fungi study:

 It continues around here.  I have some of the oddest bits of “growth” littering my counters and tabletops.  Rachel “nature walks” daily with her eyes glued to the undersides of leaves and the earth-level bark of trees. We have watched dvds and perused books.  They all agree:  Nobody wants to be the one to say, “This is safe to eat.”  They all balk and say, “Many of these varieties are edible and delicious,” but they fail to pinpoint the safe ones, begging off with the disclaimer that videos, photos, and even YouTube fail to accurately depict the specimen and therefore it is dicey to decipher the green-spored cap of culinary delight from the green-spored cap of emergency-room invite.  When I find an expert I’ll be inviting him for a walk and a dinner . . . until then we’ll seek, study, and photograph the mitochondrial wonders, but I shall NOT be serving anything that didn’t pass through the watchful eyes of David, my green grocer.   : D

"Home"-style

“Homestyle Potatoes” read the menu.

“What’s ‘homestyle’ mean?” Rachel asks as we sit at a posh little bistro table under a chilly SoCal sky on our first morning in Disneyland.

“Fried.  Probably deep-fried.” I reply.

A perplexed look crosses her face.  “Fried?  Deep?  What’s that?”

“The potatoes are fried in a vat of oil, like french fries.”  I answer. 

“Since when does anyone get that at home?” she mutters.  “Sounds like a donut, which we also never get at home.”

I must pause and confess that I have raised my children without donuts or french fries.  Period.  When once a friend offered Elizabeth (then 5) a donut she politely declined and then stated flatly, “Donuts make your heart explode.”   ‘Tis true.  I am so heartless as to barricade my home from such things for reasons of health and maybe something more.

As a child I grew up on cold cereal, donuts, burgers, fries, and all the rest.  “Home” style in my home meant Betty Crocker or Mamma Celeste or (on really flush days) Stoeffer’s.  My mom worked.  My grandmother worked.  And they didn’t cook.  I didn’t know anybody that cooked, save a temporary boyfriend of mom’s who threw a steak on a BBQ to impress us.  A sleepover at “Nonie’s” (my grandma was too modern to go by "grandma") included a dinner of Swanson’s frozen macaroni and cheese – and I loved it!  A sleepover at a best friend’s house included frozen or takeout pizza.  I never SAW anyone cook except for my great grandmas (each affectionately referred to as “Mammy”) in South Dakota.  They grew gardens and baked bread and all the rest.  BUT, they were pioneer women and poor.  They lived in old houses, wore old-fashioned clothes (with aprons), and had old-fashioned lives.  They didn’t have all the “choices” my mother and grandmother did, or so my mom and grandma said.  My mammys lived as they always had – as they HAD to, not as they CHOSE to.  I accepted this as fact and went back to munching on my strawberry frosted/sprinkled pop tart.

As I grew up I developed all kinds of stomach troubles.  The doctor’s attributed it to family upheaval, new schools, stress, upset.  “It’ll pass,” they assured, “Just make her drink this before each meal.”  (Yes, it was ghastly and I chose to avoid eating and became skinnier and skinnier with stomach pains.)   By the mid-teens I had an ulcer and my mother had a nervous breakdown.  The chalky stuff didn’t seem to help one bit.

Later I took a trip to visit my “Mammy” back in South Dakota.  I stayed a mere week or so, but it felt like Heaven.  I sat in her kitchen nibbling ginger cookies and sipping tea (both to be avoided per doctor’s instructions).  All the while Mammy bustled around in her home-style kitchen, which I noticed lacked “style” and “flair.”   It looked nothing like the kitchens gracing the latest magazines on our coffee table at home.  Nor did it resemble our all-electric-with-microwave-and-dishwasher kitchen in our latest apartment.  I never even saw anything like it on TV, except maybe Ma’s Little House kitchen – which was not really a kitchen at all, was it?

“Why haven’t you updated your kitchen, Mammy?  It’s really old?”  I queried.

[Laughing, her wheezy, eye-squinting laugh]  “I have an updated kitchen.  See this faucet?  And over there is the bathroom.  Child, when we moved in here I had no indoor plumbing.  I’m just fine with how this is.  It suits me well”  

She went back to the sudsy water in a tub placed in the sink and I continued mentally redecorating the hodge-podge kitchen.

That week I spent with Mammy found me at table five times a day (Breakfast-Dinner-Teatime-Supper-Midnight Snack . . . at midnight!).  I ate all manner of soups, stews, breads, cheeses, cakes, etc. made right there in that old-fashioned kitchen, and I never drank a bit of that icky white stuff.  Surprise!  My stomach eagerly accepted every morsel without a single prick of pain.  I even gained a bit of weight which made my Mammy smile with that crinkly-eyed grin.  In her home-style kitchen Mammy churned out wondrous smells and fabulous tastes like rhubarb dumplings -- which I balked at trying (rhubarb?  Ewwwww!) -- but which sent me over the moon when I relented and tasted.  Too bad she never wrote down the recipe, for my youthful memory failed to log it all in despite the fact that I watched her every move as she stirred and tasted and added and stirred some more.  Home-style cooking in that Home-style kitchen suited me well.

Time passed.  I left.  The pains returned.  The doctor’s called it stress.  I drank the white goo.  I lost weight.

More time passed.  I went to Norway for a summer and lived a life without pain as we dined on fresh foods around a family table.  I gained 25 pounds along with a new perspective.  The pains were not to return . . . I was determined.

I returned to the US with a new diet plan and despite snickers and chiding from peers and parents, I avoided the typical diet.  Donuts and fries lost out to weedy salads (really hard to find more than iceberg back then) and stinky cheeses for a while, but I couldn’t afford to eat well on a school-girl’s salary.  So I succumbed and . . . well, you can predict . . . the weight left and the pains returned.  My current style of eating was killing me.  I knew had to change.

Looking back, going “natural” couldn’t have been more UNnatural.  I read.  I studied.  I experimented.  I failed miserably.  (Just ask Gary about the potatoes-and-kale flop, or better yet, the brussels-sprout-potato potage -- from a monastery cookbook -- that looked like dishwater and tasted worse.)  I sought out the tiniest markets that offered the most natural ingredients.  I had to find my way back to home-style cooking, and the road led away from the golden arches and the SUPER markets down an overgrown and seemingly forgotten path.

When my boys were born in a dire state I found even greater impetus to go all natural.  I forged ahead and foraged for deeper knowledge of food and health.  I found it.  I made it my own.  And so my children have grown up with an old-fashioned “home”-style because of my choice.

The last time I saw my Mammy I sat in her kitchen and nibbled ginger cookies over a cup of tea (Lipton’s, always Lipton’s flo-thru tea bags) as she bustled around in her home-style kitchen.  I smiled and remarked that I loved this kitchen so much, I wouldn’t change a thing!  She winked and smiled with the crinkle.  Home-style had been here with her all the time by her choosing.  (My mom was wrong.)

Home-style means different things to different people and the food industry has exploited it to include french fries and donuts that no home could (or would) produce.  But as I watch my daughters leaf through my cookbooks and hastily-scrawled recipes, or watch over my shoulder as I season my chili with Worcestershire sauce (my secret ingredient from a small producer who uses no high fructose corn syrup), or triumphantly grace the table with a new creation all their own, I rejoice in our Home-style.  Surely my mammy looks down from Heaven with a knowing smile that crinkles with joy as she sees us choosing a home-style just as she did. 

Confession Time

Hello sweet friends. I’ve been away . . .   well, now isn’t that the dumbest thing I’ve ever written on this blog??? Any regular reader (if you’re still around, that is) knows that! And any new reader who has danced in can see that my last post landed here over three weeks ago. So, can we just dispense with the apologies and get right to the fun? I have a confession to make:

I’ve been having a ball lately. Spring has finally arrived and the garden flushes with roses, peonies, and all manner of fragrant blossoms -- some who remain nameless due to my hasty plucking and discarding of the annoying tag attached to the slender leafless stem . . . aaaah sweet mystery. I love it all!


Along with the garden meandering I have lately welcomed my sister and her husband for NINE WHOLE DAYS of fun, food, games, movies, late-night gab sessions, along with laughter that burned up every calorie we lavished ourselves with, culminating in a downpour of tears shed curbside at the departure terminal.

Life’s bliss rolls over me every time I think back on Ultimate SORRY game matches (our own twist on the Disney version of SORRY – brutally hilarious and frightfully addicting). How can I ever forget homemade ice cream dripping from chins as we laugh in unison at the umpteenth showing of Monsters, Inc? (Can I have a show of hands favoring this Pixar gem?). Did I mention the dining out? The dining in? The dining deckside? The dining . . . oh how I LOVE the dining! Whether ordering off hand-lettered menus or smooshing together into the kitchen to slather pizzas with delectibles like feta cheese, kalmata olives and roasted red peppers, or just good ol’ pepperoni and mozzarella –

I LOVE TO DINE!

I love it almost as much as I love to read.

(And I can’t even begin to describe the ecstasy

of reading about dining – oooooh la la!)

SO now you know . . . the mild-mannered woman who pens this blog with thoughtful posts about culturing her own crème fraiche and grinding her own grains for bread has an underbelly life and it dines sumptuously and richly and slowly and with great pleasure. Are you surprised? I thought not. That dollop of cream I post at the end of every sentence when I write about food gives me away, doesn't it? Looking back over nearly two years of posts betrays that some of my most-commented posts involve FOOD. (Imagine that.) So, it seems you, my dear readers, come quite often for the food – or at least it gives you something to comment about.

With that in mind, I've got a real treat for you! My darling youngest daughter, Rachel (who, at a mere 11 years of age, stands nearly eye-to-eye with me, a 5-foot, six-inch gal), has embarked upon an adventure in cooking that she wants to share with you all. In an effort to avoid battling with me each day when “essay writing” time rolls around (yes, our homeschooling routine involves an essay a day in the formative years), Rachel has decided to write a cookbook wherein she chronicles our family favorites, some borrowed from other sources (with proper notation despite our inevitable “tweaking” to taste) and others completely made up here in the kitchen at Wisteria Cottage.  These essays on cooking, food, and family traditions through the eyes of my 11-year-old may not peak the interest of Simon & Schuster, but I can hardly wait to place a bound-copy of this gem on my shelf of beloved food memoirs. 


The quixotic tastes and lifestyle of my delightful family will continue to flood the pages of this bloggy place, but Rachel has inspired me to offer take-away ideas and recipes for living the Good Life, or our version of it anyway. For today I will leave you an appetizing photo of last night’s simple fare.

This brisket bathed in a jar of spaghetti sauce (I chose Walnut Acres' Sweet Pepper and Onion) topped by sliced yellow onions and red peppers and about four cloves of garlic (diced) splashed with about a 1/2-cup of red wine and a 1/4-cup of balsamic vinegar cooked together for about 3 hours in my favorite le crueset dutch oven while I was away on a shopping expedition to Costco. The oven dutifully cooked and ceased with my automatic settings (I love that feature on my oven) while the kids studied, planted out the veggie seedlings, and went about their tasks. When I returned home I merely sliced the brisket, reduced the “sauce” a bit and added back the meat.

I then sautéed some fresh asparagus in olive oil and coarse salt,

tore off hunks of baguette

(the sauce is far too good to leave on the plate)

and sat down to dine with pleasure.

When I got to the end I stopped . . .

but my mind floated along on the pleasant memory of such good REAL food. Naturally, I rejoiced in knowing we would have to eat again tomorrow and the day after that and . . . Oh the ideas that my mind whips up! [Lips smack in anticipation . . . ]

I’ve gotta run just now. I bought some fresh cream yesterday that just begs to be made into crème fraiche so that I can try that chocolate cake I’ve been dreaming about. Oh, and maybe I should make some of that soured-cream ice cream I “discovered” when the cream aged a bit longer than I planned . . . Could you hear me mouth F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S as I licked the paddle discreetly? Where’s a pen and paper? Rachel’s gotta add that one to the book, too! ; D

Impromptu Fondue

*POOF!*

Off goes the power at 5 o'clock p.m. on a Friday Night --
our Family Fun Night of the week.

Hmmmmm . . . what shall we do about dinner now?

Not that I had any really great ideas on a muggy eve following an afternoon of grocery shopping and thrifting following a morning of experimenting with my new yo'gourmet yogurt maker (which I haven't exactly mastered yet . . . post coming soon). This tired gal found the *POOF* less exciting than did the little ladies that scurried around gathering flashlights and reminiscing about all the fun we always have during a power outage.

"Good thing we have a woodstove," observed Rachel cheerfully.

I bit my tongue rather than mention the humid 90s registering on the thermometer.

"Hey," cried Elizabeth, "Let's make fondue with the fondue set we just got at the thrift store!"

Cheers went up from all corners of the keeping room.

(Did I mention I stood in the kitchen with a shocked look on my face. I guess I expected someone to say, "Hey let's eat bread and apples with a bit of cheese and then mom doesn't have to cook and make a mess which she will have to clean up in the dark without a dishwasher's assistance. Did I mention the crabbiness flowing through my brain on this muggy day? Did I also mention that I often fall apart between 4:30 and 5:00 p.m. if I don't have a bit of respite and a cup of tea about 3:30ish -- which I missed this day?)

The giggles and glee swept everyone up in cheerful busy-ness creating a wave of joy that literally swept away the grouch in me.

Rachel ran to retrieve just the right cookbook.

With a little help from Remy, we came up with a luscious cheese fondue made from cheddar cheese and milk (plus a roux of flour and butter) with a hint of garlic, paprika, nutmeg, and the juice of a lemon dashed with a bit of salt and pepper.

With proper accompaniments like fresh brown bread,
sweet 100s from our garden,
juicy grapes, and generous chunks of gala apples,

Along with a sweet treat of Virgil's old-fashioned Root Beer
(free of any high fructose corn syrup)

We prayed and dug in with delight!

Heavy-laden little forks hefted gooey, gushy, globs of YUM into our mouths.

Fortunately I had the foresight to choose a cheddar-colored table cloth,
so blops didn't distract us.

Long before the fondue ran out
Our appetites ceased calling for more.
We pushed back with a sigh and
NO ROOM FOR DESSERT!!
Imagine that . . .

: D

p.s. The power returned before we sat down to dinner, so I washed dishes in a brightly lit kitchen ALL BY MYSELF (and enjoyed every minute of it after such a fabulous feast).

Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Photo Taken by Rachel

Taking another day of respite . . .
and maybe another . . .

* * * * *

Such bliss to don garden gloves and escape to the gardens for some peace and respite amongst the blooming roses and budding autumn clematis. What’s this?!?!? Roses gone rogue? Shoots shooting to and fro, barring safe passage down the walkways? When did these canes sprout in medusa-like proportions?

And so the gentle stroll took on the likes of a deadly task, until . . . a few snips and the tossing of wiggly thorn-encrusted tentacles onto the stone pathway and then a child happened by and joined the task, hauling away the dangerous detritus. Said child enlisted aid of another child wandering the path and the laboring one found herself with four more hands to hoist the prickly product. A passing husband added another set of aiding appendages. The task became a lark filled with laughter and bursts of cautionary warnings as the REALLY BIG STUFF came down swiftly.

Soon the task of pruning ended and the long-awaited assessment of sprinkler problems happened. A swift trip to B&C Hardware solved the nagging problem of toting watering cans to fill in where broken sprinkler heads failed to reach. As that project spun away in success, an empty flower bed caught my eye and a vision of herbs in a “patchwork” pattern, much in the spirit of Disneyland’s Storybook gardens, captured my fancy. The plans spilled out amongst the gathered gardening ones. Then a call for a retaining wall and a fresh load of soil floated about with nodding heads seeing another new garden plot in dreams for even greater produce next year. Tasks and toil melted into dreams and ideas and led to a time of counting our blessings.

August traditionally depletes this gardener with its heat and relentless dryness. This year the heat persists, but hovers considerably lower than in past summers. Rain forecasts predict October droplets . . . maybe. No one puts spade to ground for new garden beds this time of year, but it serves as a wonderful time to stroll the gardens, assess the progress made in the past year, notice failures, and dream for the coming season. Our single apple-on-the-branch continues to ripen and entice us to dream of the tomorrows in the garden when we will be toting heavy-laden baskets to the kitchen for baking and canning and eating with abandon. This solitary apple serves as an appetizer to hope.

Photo Taken by Rachel

In between the gardening tasks and gardening dreams I managed to write a bit, read a bit, cook a bit, and laugh a lot. Gary and I even managed a convertible ride through the mountains, straying so far to capture the beauty of view and verdant landscapes that the moon beat us home. We drove down the lane to our cottage with darkness falling and Gary decided to turn off the headlamps and test all the turn signals on this vehicle we use infrequently. I laughed at the blessing of a man who keeps things checked and running, and I laughed even harder at his truly unique methodology. “Normal” cannot be counted on around here. : D

My day of respite and rest included NO BLOOD PRESSURE READINGS. I have appreciated all the comments, emails, and encouraging ideas regarding my medical mishaps. I agree that my “normal” may be a bit higher than the statistics would indicate, just as my heart rate has always exceeded the “typical.” I feel great and my immune system seems to be standing at sentry because we had a close encounter with “the dreaded contagion” in the flu world and not a one of us succumbed. We have decided to prudently keep our community events to a minimum during this time of heightened fears of infection, but truthfully we celebrate these simple days of tethering to the hearth.

Speaking of hearth . . . the herbed chicken stew with sourdough (whole wheat) dumplings received rave reviews at dinner last night.


Even my dumpling-disliking daughter Elizabeth found the solid lumps to be tasty and enjoyable. I cannot rave enough about my cast iron dutch oven. Once the cool days set in and the woodstove hums merrily all the day, I will attempt to cook atop it. My last woodstove did not have the cooking plate so the top proved an unsatisfactory stove. But, enough of wintry talk, fall has yet to show up to the ball and I have many tasks at hand (most pleasurable) before I can dance in the turning leaves, let alone the falling snowflakes.

Tasks . . . a never-ending call to time-management, self-control, and simplification. I look around at the empty teapot. Today I indulged in orchid oolong – my favorite tea in the whole wide world. Such a sweet perfume and delicate flavor, but due to its extreme cost I employ pioneer common sense and sprinkle a few of the precious leaves into a tea infuser filled with silver needle tea. The silver needle serves a mild hostess to the fragrant orchid leaves and the whole pot bows to the orchid’s reign. Thus I sip a frugal cup of luxury and sit here praising God for another wide-open day of beauty found right under my fingertips. I shall not leave the home again today, except maybe to take a drive or dine at our favorite Mexican casa (it is date night, after all) – maybe luxury will rain upon me further and I will receive both dinner AND a drive. Ah the thought of such bounty makes me smile.

Today I entitled my journal entry: Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Having known poverty and wealth, having known hunger and surfeit, having known bondage and freedom, having lost loved ones and gained new ones, I count my life RICH for what I find in the simply joy of a day’s worth of blessing blossoming with abandon all around me. There once was a time when I discounted what I had and set my sights on riches out of hand. The frustration of that endless journey caused exhaustion and collapse that forced me to sit. Having lost the drive I gathered what lay within arm’s reach and found it satisfied. Sadly, once refreshed and invigorated I stood up and caught sight of the far horizon and once again my ingrained human habits jerked at the reigns. Each day requires me to decide. Today I choose to live in this moment and it feels so good.

Wisdom grows with age, but my restless human spirit weaves tethers of shiny gold distractions across my path. Care must be taken with each step . . . but I so often run with abandon, tripping, falling, skinning my knees, and bruising my self-esteem. Fortunately I heal and set out again. I will never “get it” completely but I have found a good many folks that will reach out a hand or offer a kind word of encouragement when needed. You have all been a blessing to me. I thank you.

And now I must away from this box and don an apron for some breadmaking and then add a straw bonnet for garden tending and then . . .