Up North

Okay, short story time. Here's one based on a true event from early 1960. I was going to post it in two parts, but there isn't a good place to split it and it's pretty short anyway, probably about 1500 words or so.


UP NORTH

When my cousins from the country visit us in the city, I usually play with them, even though they’re mostly older than me. Jesse is the oldest and he’s my favorite. He’s sort of the boss of us kids, but not in a mean bossy way. Like, he’ll notice if someone’s getting picked on and he’ll make the teasing stop. Or, if we’re playing a game and someone cheats, Jesse will say, “Come on guys, let’s play fair.” And the funny thing is: everyone listens to him.

Last year when I saw Jesse, I noticed that he was different. I guess I’d say he’s sullen. I’m not exactly sure what it means but, it’s a word my mom uses, when I’m quiet like that.
“Why are you so sullen, Sophie?

“I’m just thinking,” I tell her. Usually I’m thinking about how much I miss my dad.

So this day, since Jesse still seemed "out-of-sorts," that’s another thing my Mom says about me when I am "sullen," I decided not to play with my visiting cousins. And that's why I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters, who were playing Tripoley for pennies, when I remembered that day last summer.

I like to listen to grownups talk. They use expressions. Expression, that’s what my mom called it when I asked her later about something I’d heard. You can tell when grownups are going to say something interesting because their voices get really quiet. Like the time I heard Mom say “Did you hear that Bitsy lost her baby? She and Jim are taking it pretty hard.” And I’m thinking, how the heck does a grownup lose a baby? I was thinking that I just bet Jim is really mad at Bitsy for losing their baby. Maybe someone will find the baby and bring the baby back to the parents. When I asked my mom about it she laughed said, “That’s just an expression. Bitsy didn’t really lose a baby. She had a miscarriage.” When I asked her what a miscarriage was, she said, “Never you mind.” It was a whole year before I figured out that miscarriage meant the baby had died before it was even born.

So, I was sitting as near to the grownups as I could without being “under foot,” another one of those grownup expressions, when I remembered that day Mom and I were up North visiting our relatives. Up North is what my mom calls the Indian reservation where she grew up.

That summer I had just finished 2nd grade at the Catholic school here in the city. I used to go to the public school, but one day three nuns came to our apartment. The nuns all wore the exact same clothing, floor-length black gowns with black shawls over black and white caps. Mom called each one Sister.  “Yes, Sister, we’ll see you at Mass on Sunday.” “Yes, thank you, Sister, that would be wonderful.” “Yes, please thank Father for me, Sister.” I tried but couldn’t hear all of what the nuns were saying because they spoke in those special adult whispers  “...the school has special funds set aside” “...don’t think of it as charity” “...will be a better environment for her.” The next year I went to the Catholic school.

That summer was 1959, and Mom and I were up North, and it was very hot. I heard the grownups say it was a “record breaker” and I kept picturing some one breaking a phonograph record. My cousins were all going to the river to cool off, but I didn’t want to go. First of all I didn’t know how to swim, plus I was afraid my cousins might roughhouse, and Jesse might not notice this time because he was starting to be pensive then. That’s another word Mom uses when she thinks I’m too quiet and worrying. So, that day I went with my mom to St. Peter’s for bingo instead.

At first I sat with her in the bingo hall, but I got bored. Mom called it restless. She took me outside to buy a bottle of pop from the machine, Cream Soda was my favorite. She said I would have to stay outside of the bingo hall until I finished drinking all of it. So, I sat on a bench by myself.

When I finished, I took the empty bottle back to the crate next to the machine. That’s when Fr. Tony walked by. He’s the only priest at St. Peter’s, which is the only church on the whole Indian reservation. We have four priests at our city church and a church in every single neighborhood. Fr. Tony was wearing a black cassock, which is kind of like the long gown the nuns wear. Jesse’d told me that they call it a cassock for priests and a habit for nuns. Fr. Tony wasn’t Indian. He had blue eyes and light hair.

Fr. Tony was walking fast and almost walked past when he saw me and stopped, really fast, like a car screeching to a halt. He smiled and said that I looked new. I knew that he meant that he’d never seen me before. I told him that my mom and I were visiting our relatives. 

He asked, “And what is your name?” and I told him.
“Sophie, how old are you?”
“I’m seven and a half.”
“Are you Catholic, Sophie?”
“Yes, Father, I go to Resurrection School in the city.”
“Have you made your First Communion?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do you know your catechism?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. That’s good. Come, let’s go for a walk in the church.”

He took my hand and led me into the church. We stopped to bless ourselves with holy water near the door of the church, then walked up the main aisle.

He asked me some easy catechism questions, like “Who is God?” and “What must we do to save our souls?” He smiled at the answers I’d memorized. When we reached the altar he said “Let’s go take a look at the tabernacle.” I had a strange feeling then, because only altar boys, like Jesse, and certainly never girls, are allowed in this area past the communion rail.  I thought maybe it’s different here on the reservation than in the city, so I followed him. He pointed to the shiny tabernacle and asked if I knew what was inside. I answered him and he smiled again. But, I didn’t like his smile anymore. It didn’t make me feel happy and proud like the smile from my teacher made me feel when I give her the correct answer at school.

He reached for my hand again, but I put my hands behind me. He placed his hand on my back and said “Let me show you the sacristy,” and gently pushed me in that direction. I knew I should obey Father Tony because he was a priest and priests have special powers, like forgiving our sins and stuff, so I went. Father Tony said the sacristy was the place where the priest and altar boys got ready for Mass. He showed me the closet where they keep the clothing they wear for Mass. I was nervous and I don’t know why but, I told him that my cousin, Jesse, was an altar boy. It just sort of came out of my mouth. He turned quickly to look at me. “Jesse? Jesse Wolf is your cousin?” “Yes, Father.” I wasn’t sure if it was his smile or his eyes that scared me, but I was sorry I had mentioned Jesse’s name.

He asked me if I knew the name of the clothing he was wearing and pointed to his cassock. I knew what the answer was, but I was tired of his questions. Maybe I needed a nap, I was so tired.

I thought for a minute and decided that if I didn’t actually say any words it wouldn’t be the same as telling a lie. So, instead of saying, “no, Father,” I just shook my head. “It’s called a cassock,” he said, as he unbuttoned it and took it off over his head. I felt tired and sick now, too, and I just wanted to get back to Mom.

Fr. Tony was now in the t-shirt and slacks that were under his cassock. He didn’t look like a priest anymore, just like a regular man. He reached out and touched my shirt. “That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing, Sophie. I like those stripes.” 

My heart was pounding. I told Father Tony that I was sick and that my mom must be looking for me and I just turned around and ran. I was worried that I’d just told a lie to a priest, which I was pretty sure was a mortal sin. You see, there are big sins and little sins and the big ones are called mortal.  I once looked “mortal” up in the dictionary at school and it means death.

I looked over my shoulder to see if he was following me, but he wasn’t. I ran all the way to the bingo hall and found Mom. She didn’t look like she’d been worried about me, but she did say that I didn’t look well. “Your face is white. It must be the heat. Let’s go splash some water on your face and get you back to Aunt Edie’s.”

I didn’t go with my mom to Mass the next day even though it was Sunday and it’s a mortal sin to miss Mass on Sunday. I told another lie, too. I told my mom I was sick, just so I wouldn’t have to go to Church with her. She said it was okay, because I probably had “heat sickness.”

We left for home the next day. I never had to see Fr. Tony again. I’d even made myself forget all about him. Until that day when my cousins were visiting and they were at the park, and I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, and I heard  their voices get real low, like whispers, and I listened so hard. “...Fr. Tony...” “...abusing children”  “...and Chevy’s little girl” “...Chevy stabbed him” “...such a shame” “Yes, Jesse, was one of them, too…”

Chew on This or A Taste for Poison

I’m winding down on my “taste buds” theme. I’m currently polishing up a short story, soon to be posted (in two parts.) It’s based on a true event I’d overheard as a kid. 

Meanwhile, back to the present, I’m a believer in the importance of a good breakfast to start your day. I can still remember Sr. Beata, my 7th grade teacher, telling us about the significance of “breaking the fast” with something more nourishing than a chocolate donut. I’ve always been a stickler for good nutrition and so, for the most part, I adhere to the most recent, ever-changing good health guidelines.

My problem is most mornings I have next to nothing in the way of an appetite. Even though I’ve loved vegetables since childhood, and I like fruit and oatmeal and stuff like that, all I really have a taste for in the morn is a cup of coffee and a piece or two of toast, preferably from my own homemade bread.

But, I force myself to gag down eat a “better” breakfast. As “chief cook and bottle-washer” it’s my duty to feed my husband, who actually will eat chocolate donuts if left to his own devices. So, I make a healthy breakfast for both of us. Most days he’ll have oatmeal (or whole grain cereal), fruit, toast, juice and some of my homemade yogurt. I, opt for a fruit smoothie made from a store bought green juice, fruit, greens, homemade yogurt and follow up with a couple of nuts. (ha, ha, no, I’m not referring to us, I mean like almonds, walnuts or brazil nuts.) On Sundays, we’ll have a more traditional American breakfast of eggs, pancakes, sausage or such.

Nine years ago I was at a party where the hostess served some kind of rum-laced mixed drink she blended in one of those “Magic Bullet” blenders. Immediately I wanted one (no not the drink, I wanted the blender) but, the $50 price tag didn’t seem justified. And trust me, I’m not exactly a bargain hunter. Borrowing an Abraham Lincoln trait of using a tale to emphasize my point, I once purchased city museum memberships, so I would have first crack at exhibit openings, kid classes, etc. When I told my husband, he shook his head and said, “Honey, only you could figure out a way to pay for something that was free.”

So, I found a Magic Bullet knock-off at Macy’s/Marshall Fields. (I don’t feel like doing the research to figure out which store was in business at the time.) My smoothie maker was called the “Rocket Blender” and with my coupon and M/MF’s “one-day shopping” discount offer, I bought it for a mere $15. As they say, “even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then.”

My sister, who was one of the many proud original “Magic Bullet” owners I knew at the time, snickered as she cautioned, “You get what you pay for.” But, I’m the only one of those Bullet owners I knew then, who has used, and continues to use, their blender on a nearly daily basis. My husband marvels at its durability, although he frightened me recently saying, “That motor has a strange sound. But, well, it works.”

My husband and I get a kick out of the Aldi aisle where they display the extra “junk” (my husband’s word, not mine) which they feature weekly, in addition to foodstuff. The “junk” ranges from bedding, to gardening supplies, to live trees, to small appliances, to 6000 kw generators to toys. You never know what you’ll find. If the “junk” doesn’t sell you’ll find it months later in the discount bin. It was here that he recently found a nifty, electric, variable-temperature fondue set for $10. Unlike me, my husband has a penchant for finding “deals.”

I now have my eye on Aldi’s “Magic Bullet” knock-off smoothie maker, which is going for $19.99. I’ll wait until it’s in the discount bin for $10 and I’ll have a backup for my nearly 10 year old, possibly ailing, Rocket Blender.

So, follows my recipe for a healthy Dr. Oz-type smoothie. *With a caution from me to never, ever, use raw mustard greens for the “greens” in the recipe. I tried them once only to quickly find my self alone and on the bathroom floor, unable to crawl to a telephone, writhing in pain that seared from my esophagus to my stomach. It was there on the floor that I scratched out what I thought might serve for my epitaph, lest I remain epitaphless, or worse yet, be subject to having someone else write one for me. ;-)

herein lies ranell

she tried her best to eat well

self-poisoned she fell

My Daily Smoothie

1/2 cup "Green Drink" (like "The Green Machine" by Naked)

1/2 cup plain unsweetened yogurt

1/2 cup fresh or frozen fruit (I like berries and bananas, but will use any leftover fruit)

1/2 cup cooked greens* (fresh or frozen spinach, kale, turnip greens)

1 or 2 ice cubes

Whirl ingredients in the blender for 30-45 seconds.

Dear Doris Kearns Goodwin

I haven’t been tending my blog because I’ve had my nose in a book.

Dear Doris Kearns Goodwin, 

Thank you for writing the book “Team of Rivals” It was a masterful study of Lincoln’s political and personal life that caused me to eagerly turn the pages, laugh out loud on occasion and even though I knew the eventual outcome, (come on, do I really need a *spoiler alert* here?) I cried at your portrayal of his heartbreaking death. I can only imagine the amount of research...

I’ve never written a letter to an author of a book, but if I were going to write such a letter, it would probably be to Doris Kearns Goodwin and it would probably start something like that.

“You know, everyone has different taste buds, Gagi.” And Mol, let me tell you, never are those taste bud differences more pronounced than the reading tastes of your Grampy and me. We practically never read the same books. He prefers non-fiction, like history books and biographies, but will read a good mystery now and then. I prefer fiction, even science fiction, to most non-fiction. Every now and then I suggest to him a book I think he’ll like. Sometimes he reads them, sometimes not. Take “Water for Elephants.” Upon closing the book after the last sentence I handed it to him and said, “Here. I think you’ll like this book.” He read it and thoroughly enjoyed it. (smile)

We both own Kindle-type readers and have separate libraries of  e-books. Occasionally, we share these e-books. I have this vague recall of my husband carping about the price of the “Team of Rivals” paperback and the e-book versions being identical and my husband saying something like, “Well, if they can’t give me a break on the e-book, I might as well buy the actual book.” That sounds like how he might reason it out anyway.

Long before he finished Doris Kearns Goodwin’s “Team of Rivals” he said, more than once, “You know, you just might like this book.” He handed it over when finished. It’s quite a tome for a paperbound book, weighing in at hefty 2.25 pounds, with 750 pages of the actual book and an additional 150 pages of footnotes, notes and indices. So, it was a couple of weeks before we left on a 800+ mile journey that I decided to tackle the book. As I was nearing the middle of the book, I said, “I think I’ll take the book with me and if I finish it in time, I can give it to one of the kids.” My husband reached for the book and clutched it to his chest. “No. No, I want to keep it.”
“Honestly, babe, how cheap can you be? I want to give it to one of our children to read. We can always ask for it back.”
“Okay, I guess,” he acquiesced.
“Oh, never mind,” I said. “I won’t bring it along and I won’t be tempted to give it away.”

Having finished the book I understand how he felt. I don’t want to part with the book either. In fact, I now hold this book to be sacred, sacred like a preacher holds the bible in his hand and considers it to be sacred; sacred, like a farmer looks at his earth and holds it to be sacred; sacred the way some couples consider their marriage vows to be sacred.... ( ;-) I stole borrowed that bit from the late Sam Kinison) Seriously now, I treasure this book. I am thinking I may buy a hardcover copy and give our paperback version away, (don’t you love how I now consider it ‘our’ book?) but not until I have that hardcover safe in my clutches. And I will write a second letter, a letter to my husband thanking him for recommending this book. That will be after I apologize to him for calling him a cheapskate for not wanting to give away his book.

Have you ever read a book where, when you find yourself nearing the end, you slow down your reading because you have a dread of the book ending? I savored every bit of the last chapters. The book is such a beautifully crafted account of an amazing man and if, like me, you think you already know all you need to know about Abraham Lincoln, I promise you that you’d be wrong. Kearns doesn’t just string dusty facts together, but carefully cards the fibers, then spins and weaves them into a beautiful, colorful cloth that portrays a person of impeccable decency and integrity, with a total lack of vindictiveness, and possessing a single-minded mission to preserve the union and its original principles. And I love the subtitle on her book, “The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln,” for a genius indeed was he.

Ulysses S. Grant said of Abraham Lincoln, “He was incontestably the greatest man I ever knew.” If you want to meet this man, Doris Kearns Goodwin’s book will bring him to life for you. But, let me warn you, you may then, like me, feel a profound loss when you lose that good friend. :-(

A Taste for Chicken

I’d hear a rustle in the kitchen, maybe the opening of a cabinet or two, followed by a wail from a teenaged soul standing in front of our open refrigerator, “I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat in this house!” Now firstly, no one in my house was ever 'starving.' And secondly, my refrigerator is always full and my larder well-stocked. But, I understood how they felt. Sometimes you just have a taste for something...

Another cry I often heard was, “What’s for dinner?” I imagine they were waiting, hoping to hear me name a dish they were craving. They weren't hesitant to offer their opinions. "Ugh!" or maybe "Yay, my favorite!" Now I don’t hear those phrases too often. Now, we are empty-nesters.

Empty-nesters... that phrase brings a picture to my mind of the parent birds who bring their fledglings to our feeders in the summer. It’s a funny sight, since many of the  young birds are as big or bigger than their parents. I ponder if this ritual, of taking the fledglings to visit possible food sources, is the last step before the family vacates the nest (sigh)... but, back to my line of thought: deciding what to make for dinner.

I used to shop any number of city grocery or produce stores, all within my regular work-to-home commute. I’d hit the stores 4-5 times a week, able to buy and base my meals on whatever was on sale or in season. Now, with the closest grocery store ten miles away (and having only meager provisions) and the better stores 20+ miles away, and the very best grocery shopping being 45 miles away, and I, with a firm determination to only grocery shop once per week, it takes some careful planning to determine “What’s for dinner?”

My husband is not a fussy eater and would be happy with a casserole made of leftovers. No, my kitchen angst comes from within me. I spend a lot of time reading recipes, food blogs and cooking websites. Often it a matter of whatever I’m craving at the moment. Or, maybe choosing a dish we haven’t had in a while. Like German Sauerbraten with Spaetzle, I’ve been thinking about that dish a lot lately.

Recently I was walking through a grocery store with a perplexed look on my face as I scanned the shelves. A stockperson asked if he could help me find anything. “Yes please. Just where do you keep your inspiration?” He hesitated for just the slightest moment, laughed and said, “Sorry, we’re fresh out.”

I have a system that makes meal planning somewhat easier. It goes like this: Mexican Friday, Pasta Saturday, Homemade Pizza & Salad Sunday, Homemade Bread and Soup Monday, Vegetarian Tuesday, and Leftovers Thursday. That leaves only one day to scratch my head in decision of what to make. I ask my husband if he has a taste for anything. Surprisingly, he immediately pipes up, “Yes, I’d love some fried chicken.” He pauses and adds, “And mashed potatoes and gravy, and a side of coleslaw, the creamy kind made with mayonnaise.” Typically, I’d only make fried chicken once a year, okay, maybe twice.

Now I’m almost sure this desire on his part is a result of two things, 1) he also missed the fried chicken that was absent from our monthly potluck, and 2) the meal he described is exactly what our clubhouse’s former chef used to make for his Thursday night special.

We had to go into town anyway to pick something up, so I grabbed a whole chicken from the store. They sell chickens raised by local farmers and they’re delicious birds. I chose the “Roger Ford Family” chicken, bypassing the “Seth Atwood Family” and the “Schmidt Family” chickens. The store actually handwrites the name of the family on the packaging of each chicken. I’ve chosen different farms and never had a bad one.

I was only recently able to put chicken back on the menu, after an episode this past summer involving a sealed bag of chicken left in our car for two days in the blistering heat that rendered neither of us able to even think about eating chicken for a solid six months. But time heals wounds, or at least covers them with enough scar tissue that the event can eventually be blurred enough to be recalled without wincing.

So, if I haven’t repulsed you with my summer chicken tale, I present my recipe for the best fried chicken ever. It has three cooking ‘secrets’ that put this recipe over the top.

Rae’s Best Fried Chicken

Prep: 1 1/2 hours Cook: 20 minutes
  Yield: 4 Servings

dry coating ingredients:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup corn starch (secret # 1)

1 teaspoon paprika

1 pinch of cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon of ground allspice (secret #2-seriously, don’t skip this step!)

pinch of garlic salt

1 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

batter ingredients

1/3 cup buttermilk

1 egg

pinch of dried thyme, crushed 

1 broiler/fryer chicken (3 to 4 pounds), cut up

Oil for deep-frying

Mix the first eight dry ingredients (flour through black pepper) together and put them in a gallon-size ziplock bag. Set aside.

Mix the batter ingredients together, buttermilk, egg and thyme in a shallow bowl.

Pat the chicken pieces dry with a paper towel and coat lightly with the flour mixture. Place the lightly flour-coated chicken pieces in the shallow bowl with the buttermilk mixture and coat them well on all sides.

Take the wet battered chicken and dredge once again in the dry flour mixture, coating the chicken well. They should be completely covered in the flour mixture. Place the coated chicken on a plate or platter and let them sit for one hour to dry, in a cool location (secret #3 - letting the coating dry well is key to crispy chicken).

When ready to cook, heat oil to 375°. Fry chicken, a few pieces at a time, for 9-10 minutes on each side or until chicken juices run clear and the chicken is nicely browned. Take care not to crowd the chicken in the pan. Drain on paper towels and serve immediately. Yield: 4 servings.

Be patient, let it dry!

For an added bonus, I made my husband's fave, dressing (or 'stuffing'), made from

leftover bread I'd stuck in the freezer.

Note: I purchased a whole chicken and cut it up myself. I used the breasts and legs for the fried chicken, (because it’s just the two of us now.) And at that it will likely serve us for two meals. I froze the rest of the chicken, the wings, thighs and back and will use them to make a soup later this week.

Other note: I'm off now to shop at one of my 20+ miles-away grocery stores. It's located in Iowa and is more like 30+ miles-away, but it's a pretty drive and we'll fill the gas tank for the car, as gasoline is cheaper and less heavily taxed in IA (30 cents less per gallon today).

A Taste for Books

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Because basically we all have similar reading tastes.” I was absorbed in scanning the authors names on the spines of the books in our community’s ‘library.’ I looked up to see an acquaintance. He was talking to me about the book selection at our library, a collection of books donated by residents wishing to share their love of reading. It contains an ever-changing mix of over 1,000 books, kept in alphabetical author order by volunteers. Our library has one rule: “read & return.”

I nodded and we chatted for just a minute and he moved on to his golf game. I continued to peruse the books, thinking that I didn’t really have the same tastes of my neighbors at all. Our library has a lot of Grisham, Patterson, Grafton, Koontz, Stephen King and the like. And someone here is a big fan of Maeve Binchy. Not that there is anything wrong with these authors works. They’re just not to my liking.

Now that I think about it, no one even among my family or close friends really likes the type of books I fancy. I favor Japanese and British literature. I’d occasionally find some Brit Lit here at our little library, but I’d never seen a book from a Japanese author. I’m pretty certain that unless I put it there on the shelf myself, there never will be one. Hey, that’s a good idea, I think. But, when I get home and go through my limited collection, I find that I cannot bear to part with any of my Japanese authored books. I’m one of those people who likes to go back and reread favorite books, or at least portions of them. Since the Japanese books are harder to come by for me now, I can’t find the generosity in me to donate them.

The local public libraries here are small, with limited collections. They charge a fee for non-residents, like me. They will help you order  books from other libraries, but it’s a complicated, lengthy process. So, I’m relegated to buying used books online from Abebooks.com or putting them on my Kindle account at Amazon.

I think back to the days when I had a library card to one of the largest public libraries in the nation. I think of the numerous used books stores that dot the city. I think of my former job that gave me access to a huge university library. I used to walk over on my lunch hour. I’d walk up to the 2nd floor, which held the library’s foreign fiction. I knew exactly where the Japanese and British novels were. I’d spend 1/2 hour or so choosing 3-4 books and walk back to my office already devouring one of the books as I walked, feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

When the longlist for The Man Booker Prize, an annual contemporary fiction award, given to writers from the British Commonwealth and Ireland, (like a British Pulitzer?) came out in July I could usually put my hands immediately on most of the 12 books, with the goal to read all of the books before the winner was announced in mid-October. It was a goal I never accomplished but always enjoyed trying.

There was a sci-fi TV show when I was a kid called “Twilight Zone.” My favorite episode was one called “Time Enough at Last,” based on a short story of the same title by Lyn Venable. It told the tale of a beleaguered, henpecked, myopic, bank teller with a micromanaging boss. The teller loved nothing more than reading and sneaks down to the bank’s vault one day to get in a bit of reading. While inside the vault the world is annihilated in a nuclear holocaust. He exits to find the town in rubbles and everyone dead. He’s walks about dazed for awhile, then stumbles across the public library, which is still standing. He realizes this is an opportunity he’s dreamed of most of his life. All the time in the world to read all the books he wants. He chooses a stack of books and settles in to read, but trips or something, knocks over a shelf of books and breaks his only pair of eyeglasses. Being farsighted and realizing he’ll never be able to read a word, he begins to weep.

I’m not wallowing in pity for myself, but I am envious when I read online that there is an actual book reading group, in NY I think, that is devoted solely to reading and discussing  nominees and winners of the Man Booker Prize. Once I found a Man Booker prize winning book by Peter Carey on the shelf at our community library. I love Carey's style of writing. I read and returned the book and now harbor a secret fantasy that somewhere here in our community is a person, female or male, someone who donated that book, someone walking about, maybe someone that I already know, but somewhere here is someone with whom I may someday have discussions with about good books. And just maybe that someone will like to read my Japanese fiction...

Note: As I was taking a second look at this posting I noticed that I do have a duplicate of one of Kazuo Ishuguro's early novels, A Pale View of the Hills. And even if he is really a Japanese person who was raised in England, (his parents emigrated when he was just 5 years old or so), his writing style contains elements of both British and Japanese styles of literature.  I'm going over right now and donate it. :-)

"Everybody Has Different Taste Buds"

“Well you know, Gagi, everybody has different taste buds.” A direct quote from my 5 year old granddaughter this past holiday season. One of those bits of philosophy passed on through the generations. I don’t recall what we were talking about at the time. But, I decided that her comment will be my inspiration for the next couple of weeks. 

We occasionally attend a monthly potluck supper that some of our neighbors host at our community’s lodge. I usually bring both a main dish and a dessert. I’ve inherited some gene from my mother that makes me go overboard when it comes to food. My mom was a good cook. She found some sort of satisfaction in pleasing our individual palates, often making more than one entree, so as to give you a choice. Not like some moms where your choice is: “take it or leave it.”

The group that hosts the potluck purchases a huge tray of fried chicken from a local restaurant. Every couple or person attending brings a dish to share. It’s usually a nicely balanced mixture of main dishes, soups, salads, sides and desserts.

I’ve learned quickly that this group seems to have pretty basic tastes where food is concerned, no real connoisseurs of taste buds here, nothing deemed too spicy, nothing deemed too ethnically different, i.e., I can’t imagine that a crock full of Indian dal or a plate of sushi would go over very well. A debacle occurred last night when it was discovered that someone forgot to order the fried chicken. People grumbled good-naturedly all evening, and it would only be a bit of an exaggeration to say that a few nearly came to tears. At any rate, it was obvious that the chicken was a big draw for most.

I’d made a tray of mostaccioli and bolognese sauce for my main dish and in the last hours decided to try my hand at macarons. For the sake of keeping things basic, I opted for a batch each of vanilla macarons with vanilla ganache and chocolate macarons with chocolate ganache. I wanted to make whipped ganache for each, but time ran out and I wound up with whipped vanilla ganache and regular chocolate ganache.

Here is the basic recipe for the macarons and ganaches:

Macarons

3 egg whites

1/4 cup of granulated sugar

1 2/3 cup of confectioners’ sugar

pinch of cream of tartar

1 cup of almond meal/flour

3/4 teaspoon of vanilla extract, if making vanilla macarons

3 tablespoons of baking cocoa, if making chocolate macarons

Line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or Reynolds’ Non-Stick Foil or baking parchment. If you do not have these non-stick aids, don’t bother making the macarons.

Prior to making the recipe, separate 3 egg whites into a small clean bowl, making certain that not one bit of the yolk is in the whites. Stir or whisk them a bit with a fork, cover and set them aside for at least an hour or until they are at room temperature.

Sift confectioner’s sugar and almond meal in a separate bowl and set aside. (If you are making chocolate macarons, measure out the cocoa and sift with the confectioner’s sugar and almond flour.)

Fit a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment and until whites are foamy; beat in the granulated white sugar and a pinch of cream of tartar. Continue beating until egg whites are glossy, fluffy, and hold soft peaks. Do not overbeat.

Sprinkle vanilla extract over egg whites if making vanilla macarons. Quickly fold the almond mixture into the egg whites using a rubber spatula. Gently fold the ingredients until they are just combined and don’t be too concerned if the meringue seems to deflate. Stop folding when there are no traces of egg whites and the batter resembles a cake batter.

Spoon the batter into a pastry bag, fitted with a round tip or a plastic bag with a small corner cut off.

Pipe the batter onto the baking sheet in 1 1/4 inch rounds, leaving 1 inch of space between the rounds. Bang the tray of rounds on the counter a couple of times. Then let the piped cookies stand out at room temperature until they form a dry skin on top - at least 30 minutes and up to 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F and bake cookies until set but not browned, about 10 minutes; let cookies cool completely before filling

This little bit of rough area on the bottom of the baked macaron is called its "feet"

Whipped Vanilla or Chocolate Ganache

4 ounces of good quality white or semi-sweet chocolate, chopped in small pieces

4 ounces of heavy cream

1 tablespoon of unsalted butter
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract or a scraping of vanilla bean

Heat the cream in a small saucepan over medium heat until it just starts to boil. Gently stir in the chocolate, then let sit for 1 minute. Add the butter and vanilla and stir until smooth. Chill in the refrigerator until thickened but still spreadable, about 20 - 25 minutes. Whip in a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment for 1-2 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl with a spatula and beat for one more minute.

I read this article in the New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/01/science/worms-produce-another-kind-of-gold-for-farmers.html

I’m interested in farming, but having a couple of farmer friends, I’ve come to recognize the numerous downsides of farming. But worm farming/vericomposting? That would be right up my alley. None of the problems with animal management. Who couldn’t manage  worms? I’ve never heard of worms getting sick or needing antibiotics, inoculations, or kicking or biting you when you’re trying to help them. And with the raised, covered bins, probably not as much problem with drought, floods and other weather-related farming problems. 

I like to look up the origins of words and for the word ‘compost’ I found:

from Latin compositus  to put or come together; (see composite)

Uh huh, uh huh, makes sense, like the opposite of decomposition. 

One of the items that made the list of ‘possessions to be moved with us to the country’ was our backyard compost bin. When we moved into our city home 35 years ago, there was a crude compost bin in our backyard. It was made out of discarded pallets and chicken wire and tucked under a large lilac bush. I’d never composted before, but the idea appealed to me and I used it for years, until the wire rusted out and the pallet wood began to rot and decompose.

After a few years without a compost bin, I missed the enriched, fertile soil it provided, free soil enrichment that added microorganisms, worms, arthropods and humus to our city soil, enrichment that gave a boost to soil that was otherwise clayish and dense. I coaxed my husband into agreeing that we needed to purchase a sturdier, ready-made compost bin. “It will will keep our compost tidier and our yard looking neater. We won’t have to spend so much on various bags of soil enrichers.” Who knows what else I promised, but armed with his backing I began my research. And not surprisingly, given my dichotomous nature, I opted for a polypropylene model.

Polypropylene? I mean really, if one of the more important purposes of using a compost bin, at least for me, was to reduce waste and promote recycling, how in the world could I justify this behemoth hunk of "forever" plastic? I’m pretty sure I’d my eye on a handsome, rot-resistant wooden one, but it probably cost five times what my black plastic bin would cost. Once again, as in many a battle between the preservation of the environment and the preservation of our bank balance, the bank balance won out.

I must say, however, that 15 years later it stands, proudly, outside of our new country home. Okay, maybe not so proudly, as I have it tucked behind a couple of shrubs in an not very noticeable area near the side of the house by the deck. But, it has held up remarkably well over the years. Which makes me think the environmentalists are probably correct when they say that polypropylene will take a thousand years to break down. Or, is that polystyrene?

Our country waste collector has limits on the amount of waste they will pick up, without charging additional costs. We were totally spoiled in the city, where there were seemingly no limits to what one can discard. So, in an effort to reduce the amount of garbage we produced, we took a renewed, fevered interest in proper waste management. We separate out our recyclables for pick-up, and we participate in our county’s annual “electronics, hazardous waste” drop-off, so when we compost our food waste, we really have very little ‘garbage.’ 

It was a bit trickier setting up our compost bin out here. Within a couple of days, the varmints had discovered it. They’d figured out quickly how to open the lid. When we secured the lid they’d dug underneath the bin to enter from underground. (Note: our compost bin is the type that has no bottom, to allow for worms to enter and process the waste.) We secured chicken wire to the bottom and lower sides of our compost bin and we were back in business.

Composting has now developed into a good habit. I could no more toss a rind or peeling into the garbage than I could toss a piece of garbage out of my car window while driving. And It serves a better purpose to compost than to dump food waste down our garbage disposal where it will go into our septic field. And best of all, we have the free fertilizer I promised my husband. It’s the little things in life... ;-)