Zing, Zang, They Were Gone in a Flash....

Ok, so back on June 9, 2010,  I posted that we lost our zing when Bug 3 flew away....tonight I bittersweetly bemoan Bug 4's air departure to learn about kiwis ... and now I've lost my zang.  I'm thinking in my head of the song, "Splish, splash, I was taking a bath...", but hearing the words, "Zing, zang, they were gone in a flash...."

"I love you, bugs, wherever you may fly!"
















Coincidentally, we partied today - not because of Bug 4's departure - but to cheer the Steelers on to the Superbowl...way to go, Steelers!  That means appetizers!  Yeah!  Look for the critic's opinion on several of these over the course of the next few days.


Hardy Appetit!

Adding #33 to the Family History!

Added to the tree just yesterday, January 19th:

Ryleigh Noelle, weighing in at 8 lbs. 1 oz. 

She'll be cooking it up real soon! 

Congratulations to the happy parents and siblings! 

82 down, 168 to go

Well, here I sit at my kitchen table, not believing that it's been one year already since I began this blog.  What's even harder to believe is that I actually expected to have finished every recipe in the book by now.  At the current rate, I will be sitting here at my kitchen table in the year 2013 proclaiming the project complete!  Optimistically, I'm now projecting I will be finished next year at this time twentyTWELVE.  We'll see.

Problem is, I have a lot of cakes to bake and even more dips to assemble, so please, please tell me to bring a cake or appetizer to our next party!  Perhaps our reunion might be just the right time to knock off a few of these recipes.  

Bring it On!

THIS IS THE YEAR OF THE PARTY.



The critic will be very happy.

Ketchup

Okay, so Ketchup is no longer just a kitchen necessity, but what I must do with my blog!

I've had a rough few weeks finding any extra time - I don't know why, other than fall brings so many demands on the mother of a senior!!!  For one, we unwittingly volunteered for what is probably one of the most time consuming Project Graduation fundraisers - the Flamingo Drill!  We thought it'd be a fun get together with other seniors to "land" flamingos on people's yards, but didn't dream having two sets of these creatures would entail driving anywhere in town almost every night to plant or pick up little pink birds!  The first night we were called back very late (think almost midnight) to retrieve the poor little wooden birdies before the recipient shoots.  We weren't sure if he was talking about us or them!  After a whole month, however, he was the only sourpuss, we're ready to pass them on to another sucker...I mean parent... and we've collected a nice donation to the seniors' graduation party.  Thanks, everyone. 

Fall almost means harvest, and though I have a tiny, tiny garden, I've been busy reaping, sowing cooler weather veggies and flowers, scattering hopeful spring flower seeds and making an attempt to can.  I've frozen tons of pesto and I'm lovin' the Okra!

So "Ketchup" is what I've done tonight, though writing about six different recipes doesn't quite keep me on task to finish in a year...but by golly, I'll try!  Be sure to try them yourself and add your own comments!

Hardy Appetit!

Mother's Story - No.2

As a little girl, I adored my mom.  To me she was the most beautiful woman in the world - glamorous, stylish, cool.  Dressed always to kill, she innocently attracted every man that happened her way.  When I grew to be a teen, I swore the Virginia Slims ads in the magazines were modeled after my memory of her - thin, tall and elegantly smoking thin, long cigarettes (though in reality, in those days she always smoked unfiltered Camels!)

As I described in a previous post, I so remember going to Mass every Sunday - not for the meaningful sermons heard, but for the fashion parade that proceeded from our front door to the door of our neighboring Catholic Church - St. Matthews.  Not only was mom impeccably dressed, my father was "suitably" attired, as handsome as Rock Hudson many would say, and my brothers, sisters and I were decked out in our Sunday best.  Seated properly in our pew, while all eyes were supposed to be locked on the vestment-laden priest as he delivered his homily, mine would be peaking up with adoration at my mother in her leopard-skin hat or the one with the long pheasant feather brushing past her shiny brunette hair.  Mother Mary didn't hold a candle to mine. 

I often wonder now if my children ever perceived me that same way (wishful thinking!), or if this beautiful mystique was peculiar to women of that generation.  It saddens me that we've lost that innocent, elegant beauty and exchanged it for purchased plastic replicas with little to no mystery.

I really have no early memories of my mother looking harried, being sick, or cross, though I've heard of the days she was.  It was 1952, the most virulent year on record for the poliovirus and just before Jonas Salk perfected the vaccine, when my mother lost her closest friend to the disease and days later came down with it herself.  One moment she was fine, caring for two young girls just 13 months apart, and the next she was dragging her limp body across the floor to the telephone to summon dad.  Mom, unlike her dear friend, recovered and soon we were all vaccinated against that deadly disease.  Thank you, Lord, and thank you, Jonas Salk.  Mom went on to walk city blocks on her hands (literally), teach us all the swan dive and jackknife, crochet umpteen baby blankets, tablecloths, and throws, as well 

entertain extended family, executives, and countless friends as her family grew from two to seven.  

Actually eight.  Mom lost her second-to-last baby in the fifth month.   She said she felt a whir and knew the baby had died.  Prior to ultrasound's ability to peak beyond the veiled womb at the baby within and obstetrics offering no dependable means to confirm an unborn child's death within the womb, the church could not consent to and my mother wouldn't think of having a therapeutic abortion.  Thus mom carried my brother until his ninth month, shying away from the "when's it due?", "how far along are you?" questions thrown at her, anticipating the dire outcome of a dreaded delivery and, once again, herself escaping the severity of the situation, though not the sadness.  Michael.  Returned to the mind of God.

It would be many years later when mom would once again push the limits of endurance, but I'll save that story for its proper time.

Jammin'

Okay, so this entry is not in the cookbook, but I just had to share the results anyway.  I spent a beautiful week cooking with my Alaskan daughter and grandchildren.  We ventured into the wild and picked blueberries by the 33-gallon kitchen trash bag full.

While one old-school picker hand-picked blueberries on one side of the field,we picked using our handy-dandy berry pickers (no, not the children, but the red thingamabob), raking in multiple berries, while leaving behind the leaves.  So easy a kid could do it.  

At home, quality control took over, extracting the little worms that inhabit all berries, along with the errant leaves looking for adventure outside the blueberry patch.

Once cleaned and cleared for use, we turned these sumptuous morsels into a yummy blueberry pie.

For future cookbook purposes, watch for my comparison to Seth's Blueberry Pie.  It'll be hard to beat my granddaughter's piemaking abilities (makes me miss the underrated TV show Pushing Daisies).  

Funny, after 33+ years of cooking, you'd think I'd know the proper measurement techniques, NOT!  When I measured dry ingredients using a liquid measure, my daughter was aghast that I did not know that dry vs. liquid measurements are actually different.  I didn't believe her, so I repeatedly poured one cup of flour into a dry measure, then poured that into the liquid measure, which measured a little over 3/4 cup.  I repeated this several times like any good scientist and every time it was the same:  one cup of sugar in a liquid measure is more than one in a dry.... I don't know why, but they are!  All these years I've been feeding my kids too much sugar by using a liquid measure to measure sugar!  Sorry gang.

We also made umpteen number jars of exquisite blueberry-lime jam (image left) and, not content to stop there, turned Costco's big box of plums into jars of fabulous ginger-plum jam (image center)....if you're wondering why the jars on the right contain roots, they're not jam....duh.  It's my affinity for rooting anything that will do so. 

After taste-testing the ginger-plum jam, we decided it would make a delicious baste for fresh salmon, which my son-in-law just so happened to land my last day in Alaska.  What an adventure for another story.

Mother's Day Story - No.1

I'm a wee bit behind the actual date, but the recipes that come up next were made to honor my own mom, AKA our food critic (excluding the times my sweet husband substitutes for her while she's off partying elsewhere)!  One recipe is her own, and another her mother's. 

How will I remember these women?  No doubt the legacy of their faith.  My Grandmother Geri was a committed and devout Catholic woman, humble, demure and sweet.  She was in love with Jesus.  She was so in love and seemed so pure that we often felt she was a living saint.

My own mother struggled with this devotion of hers until she found herself falling in love with this same Jesus later in life.  Don't get me wrong, my mother practiced her religion with a passion during her children's younger years.  All seven of us kids grew up in the Catholic schools (some more than others), made our first communion, our confirmation, and confession every Saturday.  Saturday nights, my mother painstakingly polished scuffed shoes white, set the girls' hair in bobby-pins (along with her own), ensured our Sunday clothes were ironed, and, after we were tucked in bed, she managed to sneak in a bowl of freshly popped popcorn along with her beloved Pepsi (where, unlike the South, all drinks are NOT Cokes!).  Sometimes, she and dad would deviate from that - I think because we poor deprived little ones wouldn't smell the treat and peer longingly through the staircase rails when we were supposed to be in bed - and dip Oreos into hot tea.  Mmmmm.  Still one of my favorite indulgences.

Sunday mornings we were off to church, then often off to one of the grandparents' homes for breakfast; Sunday nights we said a family rosary, again, many times with the grandparents; we knelt at the family altar, found rose petals with the imprint of St. Theresa on them, had our statues of Mary and St. Francis grace the garden, and my mother tried to convert all our boyfriends or girlfriends to the Catholic faith, if, God forbid, they weren't already Catholics.  (Here she was a bit permissive with even allowing her own children to date outside the faith, as mom always resented that her own dear and bestest friend, an Episcopalian, was not permitted by the Church to stand up at her wedding.)

As I said, my mom practiced her religion with a passion, until she found a passionate relationship.  More on that later.