Having gone through most of the Thanksgiving leftovers, I had a hankering for something that could be enjoyed right out of the oven. An e-mail link to a recipe for three-ginger gingerbread had me wondering if I could create something similar that Mom and I could enjoy.
The online recipe called for beer, so I substituted white wine. With eight inches of snow blanketing everything and a sheen of icy silver thaw building, plus a furnace on the fritz, there was no way I was getting out of the driveway. And so, with nothing better to do, I improvised on the online riff and came up with:
Three-Gingerbread
(Low-fat, Sugar-free)
Set oven at 350 F.
In a large mixing bowl, stir together:
1-1/2 cups unbleached flour
1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 cup low-fat Bisquick
3/4 cup erythritol (I suppose another sugar substitute would also work)
1-1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1-1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 tsp. cloves
1/4 tsp. allspice
1/2 tsp. ginger
Finely chop small piece (1" by 1/2") sugared ginger
After thoroughly stirring together the above ingredients and fluffing them a bit, add:
1/2 cup blackstrap or dark molasses
2/3 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup Eggbeaters (or two eggs)
2 T. canola oil
1/2 cup applesauce
1/3 cup white wine or good beer
2 tsp. grated fresh (I use frozen) ginger root
Stir together until ingredients are incorporated. Do not overmix. Spray two cake pans and distribute batter equally. Bake about 30 minutes. Check center for springiness before removing from the oven.
Serve warm with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.
Alas, we were out of anything cool and white to throw on top, but it was quite good served warm out of the oven. I woke up in the middle of the night tasting a bit of ginger at the back of my throat, although I had brushed my teeth. That was not necessarily a bad thing, particularly with the furnace out.
While I was the baker at Kantishna, I often made my grandmother's recipe for gingerbread. It was especially good topped with whipped cream spiked with some of my vanilla bean brandy, kept hidden on a back shelf from the chefs, who would have snagged it in a heartbeat.
Grandma Smith's Gingerbread
Pour one cup boiling water over 1 cup shortening. Add 1 cup brown sugar, 1 cup sorghum molasses, 2 well-beaten eggs and beat well.
Add 3 cups of flour, 1 tsp. salt, 1 tsp. soda, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1-1/2 tsp. ginger, 1-1/2 tsp. cinnamon. Beat smooth, and bake in greased rectangular cake pan at 350 degrees for 35 minutes.
Serve warm with whipped cream.
These day, shortening is verboten. I don't think it would be the same with butter; I suppose canola would work. The recipe card for this is properly stained and spotted, so it has made the rounds.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Jerusalem Artichoke/Parsnip Puree with Chicken Sausage
Thanksgiving leftovers have created the most superb dish I have had in some time, and I think it can be duplicated.
Four Jerusalem artichokes were a present from an acquaintance who has a yard full she has been harvesting. I sacrificed one root that I broke into pieces and introduced into the loam at the back of the garden just as the bad weather hit. I hope they will contribute yellow sunflower-like flowers next spring, and plenty of sunchokes in the fall.
I cleaned and chunked the remaining three sunchoke roots, unpeeled, with two parsnips,cooking them in a couple of inches of salted water before draining them into yet another glass casserole dish with some fat-free half and half and chunks of a low-fat herb cheese, thrown into the oven at the last minute.
The leftovers were intriguing, but lack something. I spooned them into a glass baking dish and cobbled up a garlic-heavy bechamel sauce, using cornstarch, a little grated parmesan and evaporated milk, plus snippets of leftover turkey bacon from breakfast, which made them a little more acceptable to Mom.
However, there were still some leftovers Sunday night, and I ventured into new territory.
Into a small non-stick skillet, I added a little water, two Beeman's smoked gouda/artichoke chicken sausages, about 1/2 tsp. harissa paste from a tube, an equal amount of Bufalo Chipotle sauce, and some garlic paste, also from a tube.
The sausages cooked in about five minutes. I cut them up and added the leftover Jerusalem artichoke and parsnip casserole, plus a little evaporated milk to extend the sauce. I smashed up a few of the largest chunks of Jerusalem artichoke and parsnip, and it turned into the most exquisite puree plus sausage chunks, something that could be served in a ramekin in the finest restaurant without apology.
I'm eating it in a bowl right now, and it's so tasty, it has snapped me right out of a profound funk.
Thanks, again.
Four Jerusalem artichokes were a present from an acquaintance who has a yard full she has been harvesting. I sacrificed one root that I broke into pieces and introduced into the loam at the back of the garden just as the bad weather hit. I hope they will contribute yellow sunflower-like flowers next spring, and plenty of sunchokes in the fall.
I cleaned and chunked the remaining three sunchoke roots, unpeeled, with two parsnips,cooking them in a couple of inches of salted water before draining them into yet another glass casserole dish with some fat-free half and half and chunks of a low-fat herb cheese, thrown into the oven at the last minute.
The leftovers were intriguing, but lack something. I spooned them into a glass baking dish and cobbled up a garlic-heavy bechamel sauce, using cornstarch, a little grated parmesan and evaporated milk, plus snippets of leftover turkey bacon from breakfast, which made them a little more acceptable to Mom.
However, there were still some leftovers Sunday night, and I ventured into new territory.
Into a small non-stick skillet, I added a little water, two Beeman's smoked gouda/artichoke chicken sausages, about 1/2 tsp. harissa paste from a tube, an equal amount of Bufalo Chipotle sauce, and some garlic paste, also from a tube.
The sausages cooked in about five minutes. I cut them up and added the leftover Jerusalem artichoke and parsnip casserole, plus a little evaporated milk to extend the sauce. I smashed up a few of the largest chunks of Jerusalem artichoke and parsnip, and it turned into the most exquisite puree plus sausage chunks, something that could be served in a ramekin in the finest restaurant without apology.
I'm eating it in a bowl right now, and it's so tasty, it has snapped me right out of a profound funk.
Thanks, again.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving 2010
The challenge: Expected guests stymied by sub-zero weather in Eastern Oregon. Thanksgiving, just me and the Mama, which means producing the full Thanksgiving meal deal sans sugar or too much fat. I was awakened at 6:05 by Mama, who was over-compensating over the prospect of a holiday long enjoyed in her family. She was immediately on the phone to Louisiana and other parts north and east.
Our Thanksgiving 2010 Menu:
Roast Turkey Breast with Herb/Garlic Rub
Mashed Yukon Gold Potatoes
Low-Fat Gravy (made with chicken broth)
Homemade Cornbread-Herb Dressing
Sourdough Whole Wheat & Spelt Rolls
Cranberry Sauce with Fresh and Dried Cranberries and Orange Zest
Jerusalem Artichokes/Parsnips with Fat-Free 1/2&1/2 and Low-Fat Herb Cheese
Red Cabbage & Apple in the Scandinavian Style
Baked Yams with Splenda Brown Sugar, Orange Juice & Grated Orange Peel
Home-Canned No-Sugar Bread & Butter Pickles
Dessert:
Home-Canned Green Tomato Mincemeat Baked Between Layers of Phyllo Dough
No-Sugar, Low-fat Pumpkin Pie with Whole Wheat Pastry Flour - Spelt Crust
Sparkling Cranberry-Apple Cider
Shortly after 6 a.m., I put on some coffee and immediately set to work on the cranberry sauce and the red cabbage, using a head which had been grown by my former bosses at their Bear Creek farm. This small head had languished in the crisper drawer in a paper bag, but it needed only the removal of a couple of layers, as is the great advantage with cabbage. It was cut in thin ribbons and cooked with two chopped apples, onion, erythritol and a little rice wine vinegar, balsamic vinegar and red wine plus a few spices, including cloves and allspice.
The frozen cranberries joined a few dried ones, plus erythritol, grated orange peel and orange juice.
The cornbread dressing went together easily with three leftover corn muffins and a whole wheat heel from the freezer, plus three stalks of celery, half a chopped onion, chicken broth, Eggbeaters and lots of dried parsley, marjoram, thyme, sage, garlic, etc. It was not baked with the turkey breast, which was rubbed with herbs, garlic and onion powder, but had its own casserole dish.
I made a Jerusalem artichoke/parsnip casserole, cooking them briefly in water, then adding them to a glass casserole dish with some fat-free half and half and chunks of a low-fat herb cheese, thrown into the oven at the last minute as the turkey neared perfection.
The phyllo dough was layered into a square glass baking dish, brushed with a little low-fat butter every few layers and sprinkled with a little erythritol, brandy, cinnamon, fresh orange juice and orange zest.
It was twice-baked, as we were not hungry for dessert for more than five hours. The second baking crisped it up (uncovered) and I thought it was great. Mom likes more traditional desserts, and put some light Coolwhip on it. Oh well.
The pumpkin pie crust was an adaptation of a recipe found on the side of the Bob's Red Mill spelt flour package. I added a little whole wheat pastry flour and some light (1/2 and 1/2) butter to the dough, which was patted into the glass pie dish. It did not extend up the side, but for a low-fat crust it was quite satisfying and tender.
The pumpkin filling got the usual canned pumpkin treatment with evaporated milk, spices --- cinnamon, cloves, ginger, nutmeg --- and Eggbeaters, plus some dark molasses, erythritol and a little agave syrup (there would have been more but the silly bottle would not open).
The whole meal was ready by about quarter to 1 p.m.
I was tired, had broken a nail, and my feet hurt. I had taken some skin off my index finger trying to get into the icy back of the van to get out the new cardtable, but I was otherwise unscathed.
It was all pretty tasty. Next time I will add more sweetener --- maybe Safeway's Splenda maple syrup --- to the pumpkin pie filling. I won't bake the rolls as early and I will definitely not try to cool them on two spread-apart cooling racks set over Mom's plastic placemats. I owe her a new set, as one has a hole from the hot roll pan.
We had dessert this evening, just before "Jeopardy."
The last time I saw Mom, she was trying to find matching pieces of a new 1,000-piece wild bird puzzle spread out on the new card table.
I'm sequestered in my bedroom on the computer, waiting for the freezing rain to hit.
As Scarlett said,"Tomorrow is another day." There's always the leftovers, some of which are in a cooler out on the porch, which is why freezing rain isn't always a bad thing.
Our Thanksgiving 2010 Menu:
Roast Turkey Breast with Herb/Garlic Rub
Mashed Yukon Gold Potatoes
Low-Fat Gravy (made with chicken broth)
Homemade Cornbread-Herb Dressing
Sourdough Whole Wheat & Spelt Rolls
Cranberry Sauce with Fresh and Dried Cranberries and Orange Zest
Jerusalem Artichokes/Parsnips with Fat-Free 1/2&1/2 and Low-Fat Herb Cheese
Red Cabbage & Apple in the Scandinavian Style
Baked Yams with Splenda Brown Sugar, Orange Juice & Grated Orange Peel
Home-Canned No-Sugar Bread & Butter Pickles
Dessert:
Home-Canned Green Tomato Mincemeat Baked Between Layers of Phyllo Dough
No-Sugar, Low-fat Pumpkin Pie with Whole Wheat Pastry Flour - Spelt Crust
Sparkling Cranberry-Apple Cider
Shortly after 6 a.m., I put on some coffee and immediately set to work on the cranberry sauce and the red cabbage, using a head which had been grown by my former bosses at their Bear Creek farm. This small head had languished in the crisper drawer in a paper bag, but it needed only the removal of a couple of layers, as is the great advantage with cabbage. It was cut in thin ribbons and cooked with two chopped apples, onion, erythritol and a little rice wine vinegar, balsamic vinegar and red wine plus a few spices, including cloves and allspice.
The frozen cranberries joined a few dried ones, plus erythritol, grated orange peel and orange juice.
The cornbread dressing went together easily with three leftover corn muffins and a whole wheat heel from the freezer, plus three stalks of celery, half a chopped onion, chicken broth, Eggbeaters and lots of dried parsley, marjoram, thyme, sage, garlic, etc. It was not baked with the turkey breast, which was rubbed with herbs, garlic and onion powder, but had its own casserole dish.
I made a Jerusalem artichoke/parsnip casserole, cooking them briefly in water, then adding them to a glass casserole dish with some fat-free half and half and chunks of a low-fat herb cheese, thrown into the oven at the last minute as the turkey neared perfection.
The phyllo dough was layered into a square glass baking dish, brushed with a little low-fat butter every few layers and sprinkled with a little erythritol, brandy, cinnamon, fresh orange juice and orange zest.
It was twice-baked, as we were not hungry for dessert for more than five hours. The second baking crisped it up (uncovered) and I thought it was great. Mom likes more traditional desserts, and put some light Coolwhip on it. Oh well.
The pumpkin pie crust was an adaptation of a recipe found on the side of the Bob's Red Mill spelt flour package. I added a little whole wheat pastry flour and some light (1/2 and 1/2) butter to the dough, which was patted into the glass pie dish. It did not extend up the side, but for a low-fat crust it was quite satisfying and tender.
The pumpkin filling got the usual canned pumpkin treatment with evaporated milk, spices --- cinnamon, cloves, ginger, nutmeg --- and Eggbeaters, plus some dark molasses, erythritol and a little agave syrup (there would have been more but the silly bottle would not open).
The whole meal was ready by about quarter to 1 p.m.
I was tired, had broken a nail, and my feet hurt. I had taken some skin off my index finger trying to get into the icy back of the van to get out the new cardtable, but I was otherwise unscathed.
It was all pretty tasty. Next time I will add more sweetener --- maybe Safeway's Splenda maple syrup --- to the pumpkin pie filling. I won't bake the rolls as early and I will definitely not try to cool them on two spread-apart cooling racks set over Mom's plastic placemats. I owe her a new set, as one has a hole from the hot roll pan.
We had dessert this evening, just before "Jeopardy."
The last time I saw Mom, she was trying to find matching pieces of a new 1,000-piece wild bird puzzle spread out on the new card table.
I'm sequestered in my bedroom on the computer, waiting for the freezing rain to hit.
As Scarlett said,"Tomorrow is another day." There's always the leftovers, some of which are in a cooler out on the porch, which is why freezing rain isn't always a bad thing.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Fannie the Hike, rehabilitated by her stove
I wrote about Fannie Quigley and her wild rhubarb pies last July 4, in memory of an earlier Fourth spent baking pies for a celebration at Kantishna. I made a short Alaska pilgrimage this August, photographing her final home and that well-worn rusty cookstove.
Frances Sedlacek was born in 1870 on a homestead into a Bohemian family in Nebraska. Her father remarried after her mother died when she was six. Those farming years in Nebraska were marked by locusts, low crop prices, and Arctic-style blizzards.
Fannie left home at an early age, learning English as she followed the railroads west, then heading north at age 27 to the Klondike. Lugging a portable Yukon cookstove, groceries and a tent, she prided herself on arriving at new gold strikes to sell meals to the prospectors.
Her nickname, "Fannie the Hike," was purportedly from the distances her diminutive legs could cover while toting her portable kitchen, although some said it also came from her stint as a dance hall girl.
Clutching her free miner's certificate, Fannie staked a claim in 1900 on a tributary of the Stewart River, 125 miles from Dawson. She married miner Angus McKenzie Oct. 1, 1900, after returning to Dawson.
They opened a roadhouse near Gold Bottom. In January 1903, she departed the Klondike and Angus and headed off on an 800-mile hike down the Yukon River.
Miners were arriving at the Tanana, a large river that meets the Yukon, and she stopped near Chena. In August 1906, Fannie then headed for the Kantishna strike discovered by Joe Quigley and his partner.
She staked 26 claims in the area in a dozen years. Her first claim, staked on Jan. 1 1907, was witnessed by J. X. Quigley, and filed on April 15, 1907. Groups of miners, including Fannie, joined to file for large association claims on Glacier and Caribou creeks.
In November 1910, Joe Quigley found the first of his claims on Quigley Ridge between Eureka and Friday Creeks. Fannie and Joe were married in 1918 and moved from Glacier Creek to the western end of Quigley Ridge near Kantishna, at a cabin site at Friday Creek where Fannie had her own placer claims. They leased a strike that produced 1,435 tons of silver lead ore to Tom Aitken, who developed an underground mine, but declining silver prices and lease disagreements closed the mine in 1924.
Fannie's abilities in the kitchen were a means of support, and she hunted game and grew a garden to supply meals to the mining camp. Trapping also brought in extra income.
She shot caribou, moose, sheep, and bears, rendering the fat from berry-fed fall bears for use in baking her famous blueberry pies. Fannie ran her dog team many miles into the Denali drainages, trapping furs and hauling wood for the cabin and bunkhouse. Although sharing her largesse as a gardener and cook with the passing public as a means of support, she also continued to prospect for gold for additional spending cash. Alaska Magazine reported in July 1940 that "Fannie Quigley of Friday Creek shot a moose from her back porch last winter. While lugging the meat up to the cabin she picked up a gold nugget worth sixty dollars. "Heck!" she said, "I seen the dern thing layin' there all the time--but I just didn't believe it. Friday Creek's been worked four times."
In 1912, artist and frontier chronicler Belmore Browne partook of Fannie's hospitality. He said, "That meal was one of the most delicious that I have eaten. First came spiced, corned moose-meat, followed by moose muffle jelly. Several varieties of jelly made from native berries covered the large slices of yeast bread, but what interested me more was rhubarb sauce made from wild rhubarb of that region…These delicacies were washed down with great bowls of potato beer, ice-cold, from the underground cellar."
As the survivor of a rough and tumble existence --- a look at the mountains she had mined and the rivers she'd crossed are the hard evidence --- she picked up a salty vocabulary, and her thirst was legendary. In the end, she died alone, leaving her stove to rust. I think of her as someone who managed to turn moose muffle and wild rhubarb into extraordinary fare.
Frances Sedlacek was born in 1870 on a homestead into a Bohemian family in Nebraska. Her father remarried after her mother died when she was six. Those farming years in Nebraska were marked by locusts, low crop prices, and Arctic-style blizzards.
Fannie left home at an early age, learning English as she followed the railroads west, then heading north at age 27 to the Klondike. Lugging a portable Yukon cookstove, groceries and a tent, she prided herself on arriving at new gold strikes to sell meals to the prospectors.
Her nickname, "Fannie the Hike," was purportedly from the distances her diminutive legs could cover while toting her portable kitchen, although some said it also came from her stint as a dance hall girl.
Clutching her free miner's certificate, Fannie staked a claim in 1900 on a tributary of the Stewart River, 125 miles from Dawson. She married miner Angus McKenzie Oct. 1, 1900, after returning to Dawson.
They opened a roadhouse near Gold Bottom. In January 1903, she departed the Klondike and Angus and headed off on an 800-mile hike down the Yukon River.
Miners were arriving at the Tanana, a large river that meets the Yukon, and she stopped near Chena. In August 1906, Fannie then headed for the Kantishna strike discovered by Joe Quigley and his partner.
She staked 26 claims in the area in a dozen years. Her first claim, staked on Jan. 1 1907, was witnessed by J. X. Quigley, and filed on April 15, 1907. Groups of miners, including Fannie, joined to file for large association claims on Glacier and Caribou creeks.
In November 1910, Joe Quigley found the first of his claims on Quigley Ridge between Eureka and Friday Creeks. Fannie and Joe were married in 1918 and moved from Glacier Creek to the western end of Quigley Ridge near Kantishna, at a cabin site at Friday Creek where Fannie had her own placer claims. They leased a strike that produced 1,435 tons of silver lead ore to Tom Aitken, who developed an underground mine, but declining silver prices and lease disagreements closed the mine in 1924.
Fannie's abilities in the kitchen were a means of support, and she hunted game and grew a garden to supply meals to the mining camp. Trapping also brought in extra income.
She shot caribou, moose, sheep, and bears, rendering the fat from berry-fed fall bears for use in baking her famous blueberry pies. Fannie ran her dog team many miles into the Denali drainages, trapping furs and hauling wood for the cabin and bunkhouse. Although sharing her largesse as a gardener and cook with the passing public as a means of support, she also continued to prospect for gold for additional spending cash. Alaska Magazine reported in July 1940 that "Fannie Quigley of Friday Creek shot a moose from her back porch last winter. While lugging the meat up to the cabin she picked up a gold nugget worth sixty dollars. "Heck!" she said, "I seen the dern thing layin' there all the time--but I just didn't believe it. Friday Creek's been worked four times."
In 1912, artist and frontier chronicler Belmore Browne partook of Fannie's hospitality. He said, "That meal was one of the most delicious that I have eaten. First came spiced, corned moose-meat, followed by moose muffle jelly. Several varieties of jelly made from native berries covered the large slices of yeast bread, but what interested me more was rhubarb sauce made from wild rhubarb of that region…These delicacies were washed down with great bowls of potato beer, ice-cold, from the underground cellar."
As the survivor of a rough and tumble existence --- a look at the mountains she had mined and the rivers she'd crossed are the hard evidence --- she picked up a salty vocabulary, and her thirst was legendary. In the end, she died alone, leaving her stove to rust. I think of her as someone who managed to turn moose muffle and wild rhubarb into extraordinary fare.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Platonic summer pleasures
Having endured a spate of 95-103 degree heat that nearly floored me, I have added a few new weapons to my arsenal of heat survival methods.
As noted in the previous blog, I 've been experimenting with homemade popsicles. I had given one of my two sets of popsicle molds to Jean and her sons, who helped install a new air conditioner at my home, now a source of profound respite. On my way home from Seattle, I was fortunate to locate an exact popsicle mold duplicate in the $2 bin at a Rite Aid.
Discoveries: DEA Harissa purchased in the tube at the French Market, is incendiary and best used in dibs and dabs, but worth the burn. The name alone should have been a clue. However, as I have previously discovered, a few red pepper flakes or some Frank's Red Hot are useful in battling warm weather, as those gustatory types in Louisiana will tell you in a hot minute. There's a reason other southern folk, in this case East Indians, eat vindaloo.
Also, it is possible to make homemade fudgesicles. I took good undutched dark cocoa powder, a can of evaporated milk, erythritol, cornstarch, vanilla and a little milk and stirred up a cooked chocolate pudding with a few low-fat white chocolate Guittard chips tossed in at the last second. Then I froze it in the replacement popsicle molds. Give it at least 24 hours in the freezer. It's not icy, and it is refreshing, an acceptable substitute for a noisy ice cream truck's offerings.
As noted in the previous blog, I 've been experimenting with homemade popsicles. I had given one of my two sets of popsicle molds to Jean and her sons, who helped install a new air conditioner at my home, now a source of profound respite. On my way home from Seattle, I was fortunate to locate an exact popsicle mold duplicate in the $2 bin at a Rite Aid.
Discoveries: DEA Harissa purchased in the tube at the French Market, is incendiary and best used in dibs and dabs, but worth the burn. The name alone should have been a clue. However, as I have previously discovered, a few red pepper flakes or some Frank's Red Hot are useful in battling warm weather, as those gustatory types in Louisiana will tell you in a hot minute. There's a reason other southern folk, in this case East Indians, eat vindaloo.
Also, it is possible to make homemade fudgesicles. I took good undutched dark cocoa powder, a can of evaporated milk, erythritol, cornstarch, vanilla and a little milk and stirred up a cooked chocolate pudding with a few low-fat white chocolate Guittard chips tossed in at the last second. Then I froze it in the replacement popsicle molds. Give it at least 24 hours in the freezer. It's not icy, and it is refreshing, an acceptable substitute for a noisy ice cream truck's offerings.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Frozen equals comfort
It was 103 degrees on the bank thermometer in the center of town Thursday afternoon as I left for Seattle. I had stopped by NAPA earlier to have my battery and alternator checked because turning on the air conditioner meant a plunge to zero charging, and I didn't want to end up by the side of the road.
Rick at NAPA swore both were okay, but a trial shot at using the air conditioner lasted less than three minutes as the charging needle headed for zero again.
That's why when I arrived in Seattle around 10:30 p.m., three or four construction zones later with the truck's temperature not cooperating, I was in melt-down mode.
My sister lived in Saudi Arabia more than three years, and her home is filled with the remnants of that experience, but she had to forego sleeping upstairs, as her house wasn't even beginning to cool down.
I met a woman the next morning at a meeting of the Washington Coalition for Open Government who had also lived in the Middle East several years. She said people in Seattle had no idea what real heat can be. My sister's husband is in the Emirates; I know he would agree.
This summer has seen a revival of the popsicle. Only because Jean and her boys helped install an air conditioner last week did I relinquish one of my two sets of popsicle molds. I have hung onto the Volcano Pops; they are worth their weight in gold.
The principle is simple: Fruit, juice, yogurt and whatever else you can throw in. It doesn't take much. Recent batches have included variations incorporating raspberries, blackberries, bananas, orange juice concentrate, pomegranate juice and melon.
Here are some combinations to try:
Pineapple and light coconut milk whipped up in the blender. (You perverse drinker types will immediately think of a pina colada, in which case you should know that alcohol inhibits freezing, so don't add much, and let it remain in the freezer longer.)
An orange juice concentrate, banana and raspberry combination was spectacular. So was a simple frozen pop of whole frozen blackberries in pomegranate juice with some Splenda --- but so refreshing.
Experimenting is half the fun. Little Volcano Pops are just the right size, and have a collection area for melted juice. What could be better while sitting in a lawn swing in the shade?
Rick at NAPA swore both were okay, but a trial shot at using the air conditioner lasted less than three minutes as the charging needle headed for zero again.
That's why when I arrived in Seattle around 10:30 p.m., three or four construction zones later with the truck's temperature not cooperating, I was in melt-down mode.
My sister lived in Saudi Arabia more than three years, and her home is filled with the remnants of that experience, but she had to forego sleeping upstairs, as her house wasn't even beginning to cool down.
I met a woman the next morning at a meeting of the Washington Coalition for Open Government who had also lived in the Middle East several years. She said people in Seattle had no idea what real heat can be. My sister's husband is in the Emirates; I know he would agree.
This summer has seen a revival of the popsicle. Only because Jean and her boys helped install an air conditioner last week did I relinquish one of my two sets of popsicle molds. I have hung onto the Volcano Pops; they are worth their weight in gold.
The principle is simple: Fruit, juice, yogurt and whatever else you can throw in. It doesn't take much. Recent batches have included variations incorporating raspberries, blackberries, bananas, orange juice concentrate, pomegranate juice and melon.
Here are some combinations to try:
Pineapple and light coconut milk whipped up in the blender. (You perverse drinker types will immediately think of a pina colada, in which case you should know that alcohol inhibits freezing, so don't add much, and let it remain in the freezer longer.)
An orange juice concentrate, banana and raspberry combination was spectacular. So was a simple frozen pop of whole frozen blackberries in pomegranate juice with some Splenda --- but so refreshing.
Experimenting is half the fun. Little Volcano Pops are just the right size, and have a collection area for melted juice. What could be better while sitting in a lawn swing in the shade?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The 4th. Nothing combustible here.
This 4th of July has turned into a Shrinky-Dinks. Remember them? Long gone after a brief mania in the '70s, they were little plastic things that you cut out one size then put in the oven to shrink into manageable tops for keychains, etc.
Just a few years ago, the county sponsored a series of family games at Rock Creek Park on the 4th of July starting around noon with the "National Anthem." There were prizes, and activities included watermelon-eating contests for several age groups, sack races, tugs-of-war, sidewalk chalk art, horseshoes, candy and prizes in a straw pile for the little ones, etc.
That commemoration quietly faded away last year, when it was too damn hot and no one showed up. This year, the county's events begin at 8 with a local cover band at the fairgrounds and fireworks when the sun finally disappears and the moon rises over the mountains across the river.
I was in a cooking frenzy, starting at 7 a.m. with sourdough waffles and red, white and blue fruit compote to top them (raspberries, blueberries and a little banana, cooked in a little juice, Splenda and cornstarch). I outdid myself for lunch, making my own barbecue sauce using applewood smoked salt from Yakima my sister sent over as a replacement for actual flames. I had some chicken breasts and a couple of boneless pork ribs (my indulgence) in the freezer. I made a pasta salad (vegetable bow ties and rotelli) with a dressing featuring an actual Gorge-grown lemon plus balsamic vinegar, garlic, rice wine vinegar, agave syrup, sesame oil, and herbs from the garden (two kinds of thyme, chives, rosemary, three kinds of sage including pineapple, marjoram and oregano), plus baby sweet peppers, kalamata olives, Italian preserved wild mushrooms, artichoke hearts, water chestnuts, scallions, and six tender edible pod peas from our garden.
Another side dish was baked beans, using the baby limas with carrots, onion and sweet peppers I made yesterday in the crockpot plus a drained can of canellini, blackstrap molasses and Dijon mustard, combined and baked in a glass casserole for a couple of hours.
The "look ma, no barbecue" was especially good.
For later this evening, I have baked an apple crisp with a few dried cranberries and blueberries to top with no-sugar Dreyer's vanilla ice cream.
We'll see if the fireworks are as inspiring and incendiary this year.
It's supposed to get to 95 or hotter by Wednesday. Stick a fork in me. I'm done.
Just a few years ago, the county sponsored a series of family games at Rock Creek Park on the 4th of July starting around noon with the "National Anthem." There were prizes, and activities included watermelon-eating contests for several age groups, sack races, tugs-of-war, sidewalk chalk art, horseshoes, candy and prizes in a straw pile for the little ones, etc.
That commemoration quietly faded away last year, when it was too damn hot and no one showed up. This year, the county's events begin at 8 with a local cover band at the fairgrounds and fireworks when the sun finally disappears and the moon rises over the mountains across the river.
I was in a cooking frenzy, starting at 7 a.m. with sourdough waffles and red, white and blue fruit compote to top them (raspberries, blueberries and a little banana, cooked in a little juice, Splenda and cornstarch). I outdid myself for lunch, making my own barbecue sauce using applewood smoked salt from Yakima my sister sent over as a replacement for actual flames. I had some chicken breasts and a couple of boneless pork ribs (my indulgence) in the freezer. I made a pasta salad (vegetable bow ties and rotelli) with a dressing featuring an actual Gorge-grown lemon plus balsamic vinegar, garlic, rice wine vinegar, agave syrup, sesame oil, and herbs from the garden (two kinds of thyme, chives, rosemary, three kinds of sage including pineapple, marjoram and oregano), plus baby sweet peppers, kalamata olives, Italian preserved wild mushrooms, artichoke hearts, water chestnuts, scallions, and six tender edible pod peas from our garden.
Another side dish was baked beans, using the baby limas with carrots, onion and sweet peppers I made yesterday in the crockpot plus a drained can of canellini, blackstrap molasses and Dijon mustard, combined and baked in a glass casserole for a couple of hours.
The "look ma, no barbecue" was especially good.
For later this evening, I have baked an apple crisp with a few dried cranberries and blueberries to top with no-sugar Dreyer's vanilla ice cream.
We'll see if the fireworks are as inspiring and incendiary this year.
It's supposed to get to 95 or hotter by Wednesday. Stick a fork in me. I'm done.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
That Wild Rhubarb 4th of July
For the Fourth of July celebration at Kantishna Roadhouse in 1995, the owner asked me to bake wild rhubarb pies.
Polygonum Alpinum, known as Alaska Wild Rhubarb, grew next to the cultivated garden at Kantishna. It was prolific there, possibly encouraged by Fannie Quigley.
Fannie Sedlacek McKenzie Quigley died at age 73 at Kantishna at her cabin, where she had lived for 38 years. Her ex-husband, Joe Quigley, went back to civilization after a mining accident nearly killed him. In 1906, Fannie had gone to Kantishna for the newest strike. With Joe Quigley, she staked several claims. Fannie and Joe married and mined, trapped and hunted together until they were divorced seven years before her death and Joe moved to Seattle for the company of his younger nurse.
Fannie was known for her skills hunting, butchering and packing out her own game, although she was barely five feet tall.
In 1912, a traveler, Belmore Brown, came to Kantishna and described the delicious meals made by Fannie, who made her pie crust with bear fat and managed to raise a prolific garden at 1,900 feet. The year I was there, much of the garden froze during an August snowstorm.
Fannie made her own corned moose meat, roasted porcupines to succulence, and made jelly from wild berries to be spread on her hot homemade bread. She grew cabbage, cauliflower, radishes, small potatoes, lettuce, onions, even certain types of tomatoes. She made the wild rhubarb into a sauce she served with meat. (I also picked wild blueberries and cranberries when I was there, and baked them into muffins and quick breads.)
Athabascan natives living in the upper Tanana region chewed the raw roots and stems of Alaska wild rhubarb for colds, as reported in "Upper Tanana Ethnobotany," a publication of the Alaska Historical Commission.
According to a 1953 book, "Edible and Poisonous Plants of Alaska," published by the University of Alaska, wild rhubarb leaves and stems were chopped and added to a pudding of flour and sugar, much like domestic rhubarb. Also, the young leaves were mixed with other greens and cooked like spinach.
Arctic Inuit sweetened the juice and made it into a beverage, according to another 1953 book, "Edible Plants of the Arctic." That book also said the stems were stewed and used as a pie filling.
The Inupiat made a dessert with the stored stalks, which were boiled, mixed with cranberries, raisins, dried apples or peaches and eaten as a dessert, according to a 1983 report, "Plants That We Eat," published in Kotzebue for the Maniilaq Association Traditional Nutrition Program .
That report also stated the stalks were "boiled into a sauce and used on cooked fish." Similarly, the fresh, chopped stalks were "mixed with whitefish or pike eggs and livers, oil, and sugar and eaten," and "eaten raw with seal oil and meat or fish."
Wild rhubarb was also boiled, "mixed with oil and sugar and used as a sauce for dumplings, cake or sweet breads."
According to the same report, Alaska wild rhubarb was used like celery and eaten with peanut butter (remember "ants on a log?).
Inupiat people also boiled the leaves and ate them as hot greens. The stalks were boiled and stored in a barrel for winter use.
When I was asked by Roberta to make pies for the Fourth of July celebration, I didn't make the connection with Fannie Quigley, although I knew about her old cabin nearby.
I used my Grandma Smith's Rhubarb Meringue Pie recipe that Fourth of July, as the hollow rhubarb cooked down a lot and had to be stretched to make four or five pies.
This recipe makes one pie:
1 T. butter, 2 cups diced rhubarb, 1 cup sugar.
Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the diced rhubarb and cup of sugar. Cook slowly until the rhubarb softens. Mix 1/4 cup sugar, 2 T. cornstarch, 2 egg yolks and 1/4 cup sweet cream, mix well and add to the hot rhubarb mixture. Cook until thick and poiur into a baked pie shell. Use the egg whites to make a meringue, adding 1/3 cup sugar and a 1/4 tsp. cream of tartar to the two whipped whites. Spread on the rhubarb filling, piling it into peaks, and bake until meringue is light brown.
Cool before serving, and refrigerate any leftovers.
Polygonum Alpinum, known as Alaska Wild Rhubarb, grew next to the cultivated garden at Kantishna. It was prolific there, possibly encouraged by Fannie Quigley.
Fannie Sedlacek McKenzie Quigley died at age 73 at Kantishna at her cabin, where she had lived for 38 years. Her ex-husband, Joe Quigley, went back to civilization after a mining accident nearly killed him. In 1906, Fannie had gone to Kantishna for the newest strike. With Joe Quigley, she staked several claims. Fannie and Joe married and mined, trapped and hunted together until they were divorced seven years before her death and Joe moved to Seattle for the company of his younger nurse.
Fannie was known for her skills hunting, butchering and packing out her own game, although she was barely five feet tall.
In 1912, a traveler, Belmore Brown, came to Kantishna and described the delicious meals made by Fannie, who made her pie crust with bear fat and managed to raise a prolific garden at 1,900 feet. The year I was there, much of the garden froze during an August snowstorm.
Fannie made her own corned moose meat, roasted porcupines to succulence, and made jelly from wild berries to be spread on her hot homemade bread. She grew cabbage, cauliflower, radishes, small potatoes, lettuce, onions, even certain types of tomatoes. She made the wild rhubarb into a sauce she served with meat. (I also picked wild blueberries and cranberries when I was there, and baked them into muffins and quick breads.)
Athabascan natives living in the upper Tanana region chewed the raw roots and stems of Alaska wild rhubarb for colds, as reported in "Upper Tanana Ethnobotany," a publication of the Alaska Historical Commission.
According to a 1953 book, "Edible and Poisonous Plants of Alaska," published by the University of Alaska, wild rhubarb leaves and stems were chopped and added to a pudding of flour and sugar, much like domestic rhubarb. Also, the young leaves were mixed with other greens and cooked like spinach.
Arctic Inuit sweetened the juice and made it into a beverage, according to another 1953 book, "Edible Plants of the Arctic." That book also said the stems were stewed and used as a pie filling.
The Inupiat made a dessert with the stored stalks, which were boiled, mixed with cranberries, raisins, dried apples or peaches and eaten as a dessert, according to a 1983 report, "Plants That We Eat," published in Kotzebue for the Maniilaq Association Traditional Nutrition Program .
That report also stated the stalks were "boiled into a sauce and used on cooked fish." Similarly, the fresh, chopped stalks were "mixed with whitefish or pike eggs and livers, oil, and sugar and eaten," and "eaten raw with seal oil and meat or fish."
Wild rhubarb was also boiled, "mixed with oil and sugar and used as a sauce for dumplings, cake or sweet breads."
According to the same report, Alaska wild rhubarb was used like celery and eaten with peanut butter (remember "ants on a log?).
Inupiat people also boiled the leaves and ate them as hot greens. The stalks were boiled and stored in a barrel for winter use.
When I was asked by Roberta to make pies for the Fourth of July celebration, I didn't make the connection with Fannie Quigley, although I knew about her old cabin nearby.
I used my Grandma Smith's Rhubarb Meringue Pie recipe that Fourth of July, as the hollow rhubarb cooked down a lot and had to be stretched to make four or five pies.
This recipe makes one pie:
1 T. butter, 2 cups diced rhubarb, 1 cup sugar.
Melt the butter in a saucepan and add the diced rhubarb and cup of sugar. Cook slowly until the rhubarb softens. Mix 1/4 cup sugar, 2 T. cornstarch, 2 egg yolks and 1/4 cup sweet cream, mix well and add to the hot rhubarb mixture. Cook until thick and poiur into a baked pie shell. Use the egg whites to make a meringue, adding 1/3 cup sugar and a 1/4 tsp. cream of tartar to the two whipped whites. Spread on the rhubarb filling, piling it into peaks, and bake until meringue is light brown.
Cool before serving, and refrigerate any leftovers.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Milepost 61
The big '6-1' milestone is thankfully in the rearview mirror. I don't feel much different.
Maybe it's just the number, but I've twice caught myself thinking about Bob Dylan's "Highway 61." You know, "God said to Abraham, kill me a son....Well, Abe says, 'Where you want this killin' done?' God says, 'Out on Highway 61.'"
When I visited my brother in Louisiana, he took me up the Natchez Trace via Highway 61 from his home in Monterey, which was at that time across the river from Natchez. I got a photo of Mammy's Cupboard at 555 Highway 61, a restaurant in a 28-foot tall black woman's skirt.
I'd heard one of the verses to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61" a number of times over the years, but it wasn't until I went down there that I understood it:
"Now the fifth daughter on the twelfth night told the first father that things weren't right.
'My complexion, she said, is much too white.'
He said, 'Come here and step into the light.' He says, 'Hmm you're right.
'Let me tell the second mother this has been done.'
Aw, but the second mother was with the seventh son and they were both out on Highway 61."
Okay, maybe I don't understand it all, but I have an inkling.
While the old Southern ways are mostly a thing of the past, all you have to do is scratch the surface and they are there. Some of the antebellum mansions offer a revisionist version of the slave quarters tour. Others don't.
One legacy of the old South is its cuisine. I don't think there are that many bad Southern cooks (okay, maybe Paula Deen on a bad butter day), male or female.
I'm getting our light Sunday supper ready soon, nothing more than maybe a salad and some strawberry shortcake.
I'm doing it the old Southern way, piling the strawberries (sweetened with Splenda/erythritol) on cut leftover low-fat biscuits. I'll give them just under 30 seconds in the microwave, put the macerated berries on top, and crown it all with some (low-fat, no sugar) vanilla Breyer's ice cream.
Hey, it will be pretty damn good.
So was lunch. Mom wanted to take me out for my (post)birthday, but as I told her, there's nowhere around here that I'd rather eat. Before the Moira Smily and VOCO concert, we went to Skamania Lodge's River Rock Room, and I had an Asian seafood appetizer plate that was tasty. Mom had a chicken wrap.
My sis and her husband treated me to birthday lunch at Big River Grill, and I had grilled salmon with a salad and their tomato basil dressing, which was also excellent. I splurged, and had citrus cheesecake for the (birthday cake) dessert, scraping off the whipped cream and leaving most of the crust.
Having been to two out of three of the best restaurants in the area in two days, I opted instead for a trip to the store for Sunday dinner makings. I already had some asparagus, scallions and mushrooms. I bought two chicken breasts, strawberries, wine and other groceries. (Including a frozen two-pound bag of shrimp in their jackets, on sale for $7.99, as I figure the Gulf oil spill will soon make them a thing of the past.) Crossing to the street after buying my Sunday New York Times at Lesley's Books, I saw a red car cruise by --- my sis and her husband, on their way out of town after a cruise up Wind River and a night at Bonneville Hot Springs. I invited them to lunch, but they were on their way to meet his parents at Corbett at 1 p.m.
Hurrying home, I turned the oven to 425 degrees and threw the two chicken breasts on foil on a sheet pan, sprinkling them with salt, fresh pepper, garlic, a little wine, fresh thyme and chive sprigs. I also split the skinny loaf of sourdough french bread I'd just bought and chopped two big cloves of garlic, a little Hungarian paprika and fake butter (Smart Squeeze), wrapping the bread in foil and throwing it on the other oven rack. I turned up the heat on one burner with salted water for pasta, (Ronzoni Smart Taste supposedly more healthful spaghetti), then fired up the burner my brother-in-law fixed yesterday (my best birthday present, as I told him, along with the now non-dribbling toilet he tinkered with).
I added a little canola to a non-stick skillet, and cut up two more cloves of garlic, a dozen or so asparagus spears, half a red sweet pepper, three mushrooms, a scallion, and a handful of fresh herbs from our containers and beds --- two kinds of thyme, three kinds of basil, some marjoram, oregano, chives and a touch of sage. I cut the herbs with scissors directly into the sauteeing vegetables, after splashing a little wine in that pan, too.
The pasta was still al dente and it was 25 minutes after 12 when I added small amounts of fat-free half and half, a little evaporated milk, some no-fat cream cheese and low-fat sour cream to the pan with the pasta and vegetables, tossing it all.
It was ready to plate when Mom stepped in the door at 12:35. I don't think we could have done better at any local restaurant, and it was all low fat.
Besides, I was tired of going out. However, I learned that Moira Smiley and VOCO are at the Alberta Street Public House in Portland tonight, and I am mightily tempted....
Maybe it's just the number, but I've twice caught myself thinking about Bob Dylan's "Highway 61." You know, "God said to Abraham, kill me a son....Well, Abe says, 'Where you want this killin' done?' God says, 'Out on Highway 61.'"
When I visited my brother in Louisiana, he took me up the Natchez Trace via Highway 61 from his home in Monterey, which was at that time across the river from Natchez. I got a photo of Mammy's Cupboard at 555 Highway 61, a restaurant in a 28-foot tall black woman's skirt.
I'd heard one of the verses to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61" a number of times over the years, but it wasn't until I went down there that I understood it:
"Now the fifth daughter on the twelfth night told the first father that things weren't right.
'My complexion, she said, is much too white.'
He said, 'Come here and step into the light.' He says, 'Hmm you're right.
'Let me tell the second mother this has been done.'
Aw, but the second mother was with the seventh son and they were both out on Highway 61."
Okay, maybe I don't understand it all, but I have an inkling.
While the old Southern ways are mostly a thing of the past, all you have to do is scratch the surface and they are there. Some of the antebellum mansions offer a revisionist version of the slave quarters tour. Others don't.
One legacy of the old South is its cuisine. I don't think there are that many bad Southern cooks (okay, maybe Paula Deen on a bad butter day), male or female.
I'm getting our light Sunday supper ready soon, nothing more than maybe a salad and some strawberry shortcake.
I'm doing it the old Southern way, piling the strawberries (sweetened with Splenda/erythritol) on cut leftover low-fat biscuits. I'll give them just under 30 seconds in the microwave, put the macerated berries on top, and crown it all with some (low-fat, no sugar) vanilla Breyer's ice cream.
Hey, it will be pretty damn good.
So was lunch. Mom wanted to take me out for my (post)birthday, but as I told her, there's nowhere around here that I'd rather eat. Before the Moira Smily and VOCO concert, we went to Skamania Lodge's River Rock Room, and I had an Asian seafood appetizer plate that was tasty. Mom had a chicken wrap.
My sis and her husband treated me to birthday lunch at Big River Grill, and I had grilled salmon with a salad and their tomato basil dressing, which was also excellent. I splurged, and had citrus cheesecake for the (birthday cake) dessert, scraping off the whipped cream and leaving most of the crust.
Having been to two out of three of the best restaurants in the area in two days, I opted instead for a trip to the store for Sunday dinner makings. I already had some asparagus, scallions and mushrooms. I bought two chicken breasts, strawberries, wine and other groceries. (Including a frozen two-pound bag of shrimp in their jackets, on sale for $7.99, as I figure the Gulf oil spill will soon make them a thing of the past.) Crossing to the street after buying my Sunday New York Times at Lesley's Books, I saw a red car cruise by --- my sis and her husband, on their way out of town after a cruise up Wind River and a night at Bonneville Hot Springs. I invited them to lunch, but they were on their way to meet his parents at Corbett at 1 p.m.
Hurrying home, I turned the oven to 425 degrees and threw the two chicken breasts on foil on a sheet pan, sprinkling them with salt, fresh pepper, garlic, a little wine, fresh thyme and chive sprigs. I also split the skinny loaf of sourdough french bread I'd just bought and chopped two big cloves of garlic, a little Hungarian paprika and fake butter (Smart Squeeze), wrapping the bread in foil and throwing it on the other oven rack. I turned up the heat on one burner with salted water for pasta, (Ronzoni Smart Taste supposedly more healthful spaghetti), then fired up the burner my brother-in-law fixed yesterday (my best birthday present, as I told him, along with the now non-dribbling toilet he tinkered with).
I added a little canola to a non-stick skillet, and cut up two more cloves of garlic, a dozen or so asparagus spears, half a red sweet pepper, three mushrooms, a scallion, and a handful of fresh herbs from our containers and beds --- two kinds of thyme, three kinds of basil, some marjoram, oregano, chives and a touch of sage. I cut the herbs with scissors directly into the sauteeing vegetables, after splashing a little wine in that pan, too.
The pasta was still al dente and it was 25 minutes after 12 when I added small amounts of fat-free half and half, a little evaporated milk, some no-fat cream cheese and low-fat sour cream to the pan with the pasta and vegetables, tossing it all.
It was ready to plate when Mom stepped in the door at 12:35. I don't think we could have done better at any local restaurant, and it was all low fat.
Besides, I was tired of going out. However, I learned that Moira Smiley and VOCO are at the Alberta Street Public House in Portland tonight, and I am mightily tempted....
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Rising to the occasion...
This week my calendar rolls over to 61. That's an achievement of sorts --- I have survived this long, in spite of myself.
I have been tempted to do something dramatic. I may cut my hair. It's now almost totally white and it's down to my waist. I have been wearing it in a hair appliance-enclosed bun for work much of the time, or in a pony tail. Now that summer is (maybe) arriving, it would be less of an encumbrance short. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see a school marm, a librarian or a nun. William once told me he had a dream that I became a nun. It's almost come true.
At a company Christmas party for employees of the tiny newspaper chain we belong to, I blurted out "news nun" as a description, something that just came to me instantly, but it fits.
I am determined I will not spend my pre-retirement years mired in a rut, especially difficult when living with an aging mother.
One small, swift jolt out of the rut: I will be going to Alaska for a week at the end of July. I already have my plane ticket and have paid for the bus ride to the end of the road in Denali. I hope to get some wildlife and scenery pictures to add to my Alaska DVD.
My sister will be coming on the bus trip. We will stay the two nights somewhere at the entrance to the park, then drive back to her home in Eagle River. I may try to drive down the Kenai for a couple of days while I am there. Perhaps I'll stop by and see Glenn at his restaurant, who liked the couple of recipes I gave him and said he will use them. I worked a season at the end of the road in Denali, at the Kantishna Roadhouse as the baker.
Here is my recipe for Kantishna Sourdough Bread:
This recipe is huge --- I used a floor Hobart and it made 8 large French-style loaves. A good starter is needed. I originally used “Gold Rush” brand, which supposedly dated from that era and was available in yellow packets in Anchorage. However, any good sourdough starter will work. Some are slower than others. I have made this bread without adding supplemental yeast --- it just takes longer to rise, at least 4-5 hours as opposed to 1-1/2 hours or so, depending on the temperature, etc.
I fed my starter every time I baked. It needs to be fed at least once a week; I used my starter every night and it didn't seem to suffer. Double the volume by adding flour, water and a teaspoon or so of sugar for a quart or so of starter (I kept mine in the walk-in in a large heavy earthenware bread bowl covered with plastic wrap, admittedly messy but it worked.) It needs to be the consistency of heavy pancake batter. Put half the replenished starter back in the refrigerator after letting it sit out until it bubbles.
I used a floor Hobart for this, but any large, sturdy machine with a dough hook will work. You can quarter the recipe and do it by hand in a large ceramic bowl, which is what I do now, except I don't measure.
In a large mixer with dough hook, add 6 cups lukewarm water (between 95-105 degrees) to 4 cups of starter, 4 tsp. yeast, 6 cups unbleached bread flour (or add 5 cups regular unbleached flour plus 1 cup gluten flour), 8 tsp. sugar and 8 tsp. salt. Beat together until smooth. Let rest a minute, then add 6 more cups of flour (I used 4 cups unbleached and 2 cups of a special very light rye flour for a French feel and taste) while beating vigorously on high with the dough hook until you see the gluten developing. Add about 4 more cups of flour to form a dough that starts to pull away from the edge of the mixer as the dough hook works. This could take five minutes or more. Let rise 60 to 90 minutes until spongy, then gradually add up to 4 more cups flour until you have stiffer dough that forms a good ball that pulls away from the sides on every stroke and starts climbing up the hook. Grease a large stainless steel bowl (only thing big enough), or a nice ceramic bowl if it's a smaller batch, and turn the dough into it. Let it rise covered with a flour sack kitchen towel for 45 minute to an hour. Turn it onto a lightly floured board and knead. Make a rectangle of dough. Let it rest. Using a dough knife/ulu, cut into lengths and form into loaves. Spray long sheet pans or trench bread pans and sprinkle with coarse yellow corn meal, then place the dough lengths on the pans with room to rise, handling gently. Brush lightly with water and make slits at regular intervals on top of the loaves (I use scissors but a very sharp serrated knife or a single-edge razor blade also work.) Let rise until almost double. Bake in a preheated oven at 425 - 450 degrees Fahrenheit on a rack above a large shallow pan of water in the bottom of the oven. Or use a clean spray bottle filled with water and periodically spray inside the oven. (Don't do this in an oven with an exposed glass light bulb. Yes, I learned the hard way.) When the loaves are nicely browned and sound hollow when tapped, they're done. Cool on racks.
Variations: Before baking, sprinkle with sesame or poppy seeds after brushing with water.
You can substitute 8 cups of whole wheat flour for part of the flour; add one-half cup honey.
For rye bread, use half dark rye flour plus one cup gluten flour if it’s not a high protein unbleached bread flour, and add 1 cup dark unsulphured molasses and 1/2 cup caraway seeds. Bake a little longer in a little slower oven for rye or whole wheat.
I have been tempted to do something dramatic. I may cut my hair. It's now almost totally white and it's down to my waist. I have been wearing it in a hair appliance-enclosed bun for work much of the time, or in a pony tail. Now that summer is (maybe) arriving, it would be less of an encumbrance short. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see a school marm, a librarian or a nun. William once told me he had a dream that I became a nun. It's almost come true.
At a company Christmas party for employees of the tiny newspaper chain we belong to, I blurted out "news nun" as a description, something that just came to me instantly, but it fits.
I am determined I will not spend my pre-retirement years mired in a rut, especially difficult when living with an aging mother.
One small, swift jolt out of the rut: I will be going to Alaska for a week at the end of July. I already have my plane ticket and have paid for the bus ride to the end of the road in Denali. I hope to get some wildlife and scenery pictures to add to my Alaska DVD.
My sister will be coming on the bus trip. We will stay the two nights somewhere at the entrance to the park, then drive back to her home in Eagle River. I may try to drive down the Kenai for a couple of days while I am there. Perhaps I'll stop by and see Glenn at his restaurant, who liked the couple of recipes I gave him and said he will use them. I worked a season at the end of the road in Denali, at the Kantishna Roadhouse as the baker.
Here is my recipe for Kantishna Sourdough Bread:
This recipe is huge --- I used a floor Hobart and it made 8 large French-style loaves. A good starter is needed. I originally used “Gold Rush” brand, which supposedly dated from that era and was available in yellow packets in Anchorage. However, any good sourdough starter will work. Some are slower than others. I have made this bread without adding supplemental yeast --- it just takes longer to rise, at least 4-5 hours as opposed to 1-1/2 hours or so, depending on the temperature, etc.
I fed my starter every time I baked. It needs to be fed at least once a week; I used my starter every night and it didn't seem to suffer. Double the volume by adding flour, water and a teaspoon or so of sugar for a quart or so of starter (I kept mine in the walk-in in a large heavy earthenware bread bowl covered with plastic wrap, admittedly messy but it worked.) It needs to be the consistency of heavy pancake batter. Put half the replenished starter back in the refrigerator after letting it sit out until it bubbles.
I used a floor Hobart for this, but any large, sturdy machine with a dough hook will work. You can quarter the recipe and do it by hand in a large ceramic bowl, which is what I do now, except I don't measure.
In a large mixer with dough hook, add 6 cups lukewarm water (between 95-105 degrees) to 4 cups of starter, 4 tsp. yeast, 6 cups unbleached bread flour (or add 5 cups regular unbleached flour plus 1 cup gluten flour), 8 tsp. sugar and 8 tsp. salt. Beat together until smooth. Let rest a minute, then add 6 more cups of flour (I used 4 cups unbleached and 2 cups of a special very light rye flour for a French feel and taste) while beating vigorously on high with the dough hook until you see the gluten developing. Add about 4 more cups of flour to form a dough that starts to pull away from the edge of the mixer as the dough hook works. This could take five minutes or more. Let rise 60 to 90 minutes until spongy, then gradually add up to 4 more cups flour until you have stiffer dough that forms a good ball that pulls away from the sides on every stroke and starts climbing up the hook. Grease a large stainless steel bowl (only thing big enough), or a nice ceramic bowl if it's a smaller batch, and turn the dough into it. Let it rise covered with a flour sack kitchen towel for 45 minute to an hour. Turn it onto a lightly floured board and knead. Make a rectangle of dough. Let it rest. Using a dough knife/ulu, cut into lengths and form into loaves. Spray long sheet pans or trench bread pans and sprinkle with coarse yellow corn meal, then place the dough lengths on the pans with room to rise, handling gently. Brush lightly with water and make slits at regular intervals on top of the loaves (I use scissors but a very sharp serrated knife or a single-edge razor blade also work.) Let rise until almost double. Bake in a preheated oven at 425 - 450 degrees Fahrenheit on a rack above a large shallow pan of water in the bottom of the oven. Or use a clean spray bottle filled with water and periodically spray inside the oven. (Don't do this in an oven with an exposed glass light bulb. Yes, I learned the hard way.) When the loaves are nicely browned and sound hollow when tapped, they're done. Cool on racks.
Variations: Before baking, sprinkle with sesame or poppy seeds after brushing with water.
You can substitute 8 cups of whole wheat flour for part of the flour; add one-half cup honey.
For rye bread, use half dark rye flour plus one cup gluten flour if it’s not a high protein unbleached bread flour, and add 1 cup dark unsulphured molasses and 1/2 cup caraway seeds. Bake a little longer in a little slower oven for rye or whole wheat.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Dream on...
I think I'll be contacting the U.S. Patent Office about the dream I had last night. It was quite detailed. I think I could do some drawings of the apparatus, which would offer a unique boon to humanity. I'm talking about a nursing support system that A) would give the baby the illusion of nursing at the breast, and B) allow non-milk producing moms and dads to offer nourishment in an authentic manner. In my dream, it was a man wearing it to feed an adopted baby.
There was a silicone pseudo-nipple fitted over the (man)breast, with a small line to the center that produced milk when sucked. The milk came from a flexible receptacle, something akin to those baby bottle liners with some structural support, strapped around the chest or waist with Velcro.
Who knows what prompted that dream? I had no glass of milk before going to bed, and I've never had a child, so it's not like I was drawing on that experience as inspiration.
It was extraordinarily vivid because the dream occurred right before I woke up at 5:30 a.m. Earlier in the night, I had dreamed my nephew was sternly kicked out of my place of work for consuming sunflower seeds and taking them out of the shell. (That one is not worthy of mention to the Patent Office, unless I can come up with a no-mess sunflower seed sheller.)
There was a silicone pseudo-nipple fitted over the (man)breast, with a small line to the center that produced milk when sucked. The milk came from a flexible receptacle, something akin to those baby bottle liners with some structural support, strapped around the chest or waist with Velcro.
Who knows what prompted that dream? I had no glass of milk before going to bed, and I've never had a child, so it's not like I was drawing on that experience as inspiration.
It was extraordinarily vivid because the dream occurred right before I woke up at 5:30 a.m. Earlier in the night, I had dreamed my nephew was sternly kicked out of my place of work for consuming sunflower seeds and taking them out of the shell. (That one is not worthy of mention to the Patent Office, unless I can come up with a no-mess sunflower seed sheller.)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Faux frying....
I started out more than an hour early this morning (Tuesday, April 20) for a 10 a.m. meeting with my state senator and two state representatives to do a story about the close of a very contentious special session. The meeting was at the White Salmon Library, which is only 20 or so miles east of here. However, the state Department of Transportation is removing excess rock from S.R. 14 and I was warned the road would be completely closed for blasting from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. I left before 8 a.m., more than enough time, and was amused to discover rock was already blocking one lane and crews were frantically trying to open the lane to let people through for a few minutes before closing the road again for two hours. They accomplished their temporary clearance, and I proceeded to another detour at M.P. 64, which is up the White Salmon River via Alternate 141 and through a lovely section of curves and narrow roadway, guaranteeing that people will stop in the City of White Salmon just to catch their breaths before proceeding on.
I did, and arrived in time for my rendezvous with the lower Yakima Valley legislators, who had no idea what I had just traversed to arrive for their version of the state meltdown budget. We are not yet California, but give us a couple of years.
After our meeting and renewing my driver's license at the White Salmon office (the new photo looks like someone's grandmother), I headed to Hood River. I bought some fuschia starts in five colors at RiteAid, and went grocery shopping at Rosauer's in the Heights. It has a few faults, but it has lovely produce and a wonderful health food section. I found a large 22-ounce bottle of agave syrup on sale, and a 12-ounce bag of erythritol, which is supposedly in short supply now due to its sudden popularity. I had tried to order some online from Emerald Forest, the source of my 5-pound bags, and was notified that all but the individual one-serving packets were unavailable in Colorado due to high demand. So I paid $11 (on sale!) for a 12-ounce bag in Hood River. At least I didn't have to pay shipping.
I also got a package of turkey breast tenderloins at Rosauer's, and other items, including parmesan, frozen seafood mix and ham, all under 3 percent fat.
After I arrived home, we planted the fuschia in a hanging basket (cheaper at five plants for 89 cents each than a Mother's Day hanging basket would be at $25). I will make up for it another way, such as a Mother's Day sternwheeler cruise.
Preparing dinner, I took out a big fat sweet potato, peeled it and cut it into strips, placing the pieces on a rectangular baking sheet sprayed with canola. Then I took the turkey tenderloins, cut them into smaller strips and put them in a shallow container of leftover pancake batter with extra Eggbeaters, buttermilk, Hungarian paprika, garlic and onion powder and fresh ground pepper. I then rolled the turkey strips in panko crumbs, and placed them on a canola-sprayed cookie sheet into a 400 degree oven, after giving them a light spritz with the cooking spray. They were all done about the same time, and I added raspberry mustard to the plate as a dipping sauce. It was a marriage made in heaven. Mom was thrilled at a supposedly "verboten" dinner menu. Who needs deep frying? Hooray for panko crumbs.
I did, and arrived in time for my rendezvous with the lower Yakima Valley legislators, who had no idea what I had just traversed to arrive for their version of the state meltdown budget. We are not yet California, but give us a couple of years.
After our meeting and renewing my driver's license at the White Salmon office (the new photo looks like someone's grandmother), I headed to Hood River. I bought some fuschia starts in five colors at RiteAid, and went grocery shopping at Rosauer's in the Heights. It has a few faults, but it has lovely produce and a wonderful health food section. I found a large 22-ounce bottle of agave syrup on sale, and a 12-ounce bag of erythritol, which is supposedly in short supply now due to its sudden popularity. I had tried to order some online from Emerald Forest, the source of my 5-pound bags, and was notified that all but the individual one-serving packets were unavailable in Colorado due to high demand. So I paid $11 (on sale!) for a 12-ounce bag in Hood River. At least I didn't have to pay shipping.
I also got a package of turkey breast tenderloins at Rosauer's, and other items, including parmesan, frozen seafood mix and ham, all under 3 percent fat.
After I arrived home, we planted the fuschia in a hanging basket (cheaper at five plants for 89 cents each than a Mother's Day hanging basket would be at $25). I will make up for it another way, such as a Mother's Day sternwheeler cruise.
Preparing dinner, I took out a big fat sweet potato, peeled it and cut it into strips, placing the pieces on a rectangular baking sheet sprayed with canola. Then I took the turkey tenderloins, cut them into smaller strips and put them in a shallow container of leftover pancake batter with extra Eggbeaters, buttermilk, Hungarian paprika, garlic and onion powder and fresh ground pepper. I then rolled the turkey strips in panko crumbs, and placed them on a canola-sprayed cookie sheet into a 400 degree oven, after giving them a light spritz with the cooking spray. They were all done about the same time, and I added raspberry mustard to the plate as a dipping sauce. It was a marriage made in heaven. Mom was thrilled at a supposedly "verboten" dinner menu. Who needs deep frying? Hooray for panko crumbs.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Our Easter Dinner
Every year I have the same Easter routine: I take photos of the youngsters at the noon Lions Club Easter egg hunt on the courthouse lawn, then at 1 p.m., go to Wind River Middle School for the American Legion Easter egg hunt. Last year, it poured. This was one cold and blustery day, and I think I preferred the rain. I could see fresh snow falling on the top third of the mountains across the way from the 1 p.m. hunt.
In other years while living by myself, I wasn't worried about producing an Easter dinner, maybe throwing a half chicken, a potato or a squash in the oven for when I returned home. Now I'm living with Mom. Her mother was an old-fashioned cooks, roasting a goose or a whole ham, meanwhile knocking out Jello salad, a batch of yeasty dinner rolls and a couple of pies with a sweet potato casserole or mashed potatoes as accompaniment.
Mom went to church services this morning, and usually arrives back home at 12:30 p.m. I set to work on my menu a little after 9:30 a.m., just after she left.
The menu, working within Mom's low sugar, low fat restraints:
My version of a gelatin salad -
Bloom two packets of unflavored gelatin with a little water and/or juice in a glass measuring cup and microwave a minute, stirring twice. In large glass bowl or casserole dish, add bloomed gelatin plus 1/3 cup erythritol or equivalent of Splenda, 3 cups of unsweetened pomegranate juice (Trader Joe's, or a cranberry-raspberry cocktail with Splenda.) and stir until dissolved, then add half a pound of fresh or frozen raspberries, and one can of peach slices canned in Splenda, drained. Refrigerate until set.
Fruity Clafouti -
Take half a bag of frozen raw cranberries, dice three large apples and place together in a large glass casserole dish with a lid. Add the peach juice from the gelatin, 1/2 cup of erythritol, and 1 T. little tapioca. Grate a little fresh nutmeg over the top and mix well.
For the topping, take 1-1/2 cups low fat Bisquick, 1/3 cup erythritol or the equivalent of Splenda, a pinch each of soda and salt, 1/3 cup Eggbeaters or two beaten eggs, 2/3 cup buttermilk, 1 tsp. vanilla and a couple grates of nutmeg. Mix up quickly, just removing lumps, and pour over the fruit. Grate a little nutmeg over the top. Bake in a 325 degree oven for one hour.
Pineapple/Ginger/Raspberry Mustard Ham
Take a 1-1/2 to two-pound chunk of Black Forest ham (2 percent fat), slicing thickly and trimming off the black edges from each slice. Mix 3 T. agave syrup, 3 T. Splenda maple syrup (Safeway house brand is best), 4 T. Beacon Rock brand raspberry mustard (or substitute 2 T. low sugar raspberry jam plus 2 T. Dijon mustard), a one inch knob of freshly grated ginger, 1/2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce, 1/4 cup white wine, 2 T. finely grated orange peel, two grinds fresh pepper, 1 large clove of garlic put through a garlic press or 1/2 tsp. garlic powder, one-half 16-ounce can pineapple chunks in its own juice (drain -- save the juice). Optional -- 1/2 tsp. dried red pepper flakes. Mix together.
Put down a thin layer of the sauce and a few pineapple pieces in a glass/enamel-coated shallow casserole dish with a cover. Lay down a layer of ham slices, add another layer of sauce, add a layer of ham, etc., ending with a layer of the sauce and pineapple. Bake in a 325 degree oven for 35-40 minutes.
Orange Sweet Potatoes
Meanwhile, peel and cut into chunks one very large sweet potato, or two small ones. Place in a covered casserole dish; salt and pepper, adding one-third cup of the reserved pineapple juice from the ham. Take the whole orange from the grated peel for the ham, and section it, placing membraned pieces with the sweet potato chunks in the casserole dish. Toss with 3 T. agave nectar. Cover and bake in a slow oven with the ham until tender, uncovering if it gets too juicy.
Side dish: frozen green beans cooked with 3 T. water and a little Smart Squeeze. Add 1 tsp. dried dillweed and salt; lower heat to keep warm.
I was gone when Mom got home, and because I insisted due to her tendency to become hypoglycemic, she was eating. I had 15 minutes between Easter egg hunts and the last one was close to home, so I had a little ham and sweet potatoes, then had the rest of my Easter dinner after returning.
You will note some ingredient and flavor overlap --- It all worked out, and best of all, we have leftovers. But alas, no fresh hot dinner rolls.
In other years while living by myself, I wasn't worried about producing an Easter dinner, maybe throwing a half chicken, a potato or a squash in the oven for when I returned home. Now I'm living with Mom. Her mother was an old-fashioned cooks, roasting a goose or a whole ham, meanwhile knocking out Jello salad, a batch of yeasty dinner rolls and a couple of pies with a sweet potato casserole or mashed potatoes as accompaniment.
Mom went to church services this morning, and usually arrives back home at 12:30 p.m. I set to work on my menu a little after 9:30 a.m., just after she left.
The menu, working within Mom's low sugar, low fat restraints:
My version of a gelatin salad -
Bloom two packets of unflavored gelatin with a little water and/or juice in a glass measuring cup and microwave a minute, stirring twice. In large glass bowl or casserole dish, add bloomed gelatin plus 1/3 cup erythritol or equivalent of Splenda, 3 cups of unsweetened pomegranate juice (Trader Joe's, or a cranberry-raspberry cocktail with Splenda.) and stir until dissolved, then add half a pound of fresh or frozen raspberries, and one can of peach slices canned in Splenda, drained. Refrigerate until set.
Fruity Clafouti -
Take half a bag of frozen raw cranberries, dice three large apples and place together in a large glass casserole dish with a lid. Add the peach juice from the gelatin, 1/2 cup of erythritol, and 1 T. little tapioca. Grate a little fresh nutmeg over the top and mix well.
For the topping, take 1-1/2 cups low fat Bisquick, 1/3 cup erythritol or the equivalent of Splenda, a pinch each of soda and salt, 1/3 cup Eggbeaters or two beaten eggs, 2/3 cup buttermilk, 1 tsp. vanilla and a couple grates of nutmeg. Mix up quickly, just removing lumps, and pour over the fruit. Grate a little nutmeg over the top. Bake in a 325 degree oven for one hour.
Pineapple/Ginger/Raspberry Mustard Ham
Take a 1-1/2 to two-pound chunk of Black Forest ham (2 percent fat), slicing thickly and trimming off the black edges from each slice. Mix 3 T. agave syrup, 3 T. Splenda maple syrup (Safeway house brand is best), 4 T. Beacon Rock brand raspberry mustard (or substitute 2 T. low sugar raspberry jam plus 2 T. Dijon mustard), a one inch knob of freshly grated ginger, 1/2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce, 1/4 cup white wine, 2 T. finely grated orange peel, two grinds fresh pepper, 1 large clove of garlic put through a garlic press or 1/2 tsp. garlic powder, one-half 16-ounce can pineapple chunks in its own juice (drain -- save the juice). Optional -- 1/2 tsp. dried red pepper flakes. Mix together.
Put down a thin layer of the sauce and a few pineapple pieces in a glass/enamel-coated shallow casserole dish with a cover. Lay down a layer of ham slices, add another layer of sauce, add a layer of ham, etc., ending with a layer of the sauce and pineapple. Bake in a 325 degree oven for 35-40 minutes.
Orange Sweet Potatoes
Meanwhile, peel and cut into chunks one very large sweet potato, or two small ones. Place in a covered casserole dish; salt and pepper, adding one-third cup of the reserved pineapple juice from the ham. Take the whole orange from the grated peel for the ham, and section it, placing membraned pieces with the sweet potato chunks in the casserole dish. Toss with 3 T. agave nectar. Cover and bake in a slow oven with the ham until tender, uncovering if it gets too juicy.
Side dish: frozen green beans cooked with 3 T. water and a little Smart Squeeze. Add 1 tsp. dried dillweed and salt; lower heat to keep warm.
I was gone when Mom got home, and because I insisted due to her tendency to become hypoglycemic, she was eating. I had 15 minutes between Easter egg hunts and the last one was close to home, so I had a little ham and sweet potatoes, then had the rest of my Easter dinner after returning.
You will note some ingredient and flavor overlap --- It all worked out, and best of all, we have leftovers. But alas, no fresh hot dinner rolls.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Those wonderful cookies I can't eat
This old body is betraying me today. Not only do I have a toothache, actually a jaw ache under a long-broken molar, I have the beginnings of a new shingles attack and an unexplained twinge in my chest.
I sound like a decrepit denizen of a nursing home, for which I apologize. The right knee is healing from the fall in the grocery store parking lot due to a hole in the asphalt (fixed the next day).
The cat is sitting in my doorway because she is psychic and knows I am hurting. I just got an email confirmation for my sudden whim, a week-long Alaska trip starting in late July. Feeling infirm does not inspire confidence in my stamina for this trip. I haven't had a real vacation for something like a dozen years. I have already paid for the 13-hour bus trip to Kantishna, 90 miles inside Denali National Park, where I was once the baker for a season.
Staying there one night is a little rich for my blood at more than $400. I can't even really afford the tour bus that stops for lunch at the Kantishna Roadhouse. Instead I am taking the Park Service shuttle, $54 versus $159, and will pack a sack lunch.
I used to bake my signature chocolate chip cookie recipe for the guests, hiker lunches, and sack lunches for the guests' road trip out. I also produced all the baked goods, including pies or cakes and my sourdough bread for the lunch buffet.
Here is my chocolate chip cookie recipe:
The Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever
Preheat oven to 325; spread 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans on large sheet pan. Toast about 10 minutes, stirring them around a couple of times.
Remove and add 2 T. unsalted butter, stirring it into the nuts. Set aside to cool. Put the oven temp up to 350.
Measure 1-1/2 cups cake flour, if you have it. Otherwise use all-purpose.
(If all-purpose flour is used, the cookies are crisper --- it’s the protein in the flour.)
Sift with 3/4 tsp. salt, 1-1/2 tsp. baking powder.
Cream 10 T. unsalted butter.
Add 3/4 cup brown sugar and 2 T. corn syrup (the latter makes them chewier --- leave it out if you like them crunchier) and beat together until fluffy.
Add 1 large egg,
1 T. real vanilla extract (I made my own, brandy and a couple of Tahitian vanilla beans soaking in it.)
Beat again. Gradually add flour. Add 1 c. good chocolate chips (Guittard or something similar) or small chocolate chunks, plus the pecans. Use a rubber spatula to mix.
Lightly spray sheet or cookie pans. (I used parchment paper to line pans.) Drop heaping tablespoons two inches apart --- a melon baller works great for uniform cookie size. Bake 12 minutes, or only until edges start to brown. Let sit for a minute then remove to racks and let cool. This version makes more than two dozen cookies. - Joanna
If you ever need it, I have the original recipe, which is for 25 dozen. I made that many every night when I baked at Kantishna. The pilots would drop by around 1 a.m. after the bar closed for a taste of the raw cookie dough.
I sound like a decrepit denizen of a nursing home, for which I apologize. The right knee is healing from the fall in the grocery store parking lot due to a hole in the asphalt (fixed the next day).
The cat is sitting in my doorway because she is psychic and knows I am hurting. I just got an email confirmation for my sudden whim, a week-long Alaska trip starting in late July. Feeling infirm does not inspire confidence in my stamina for this trip. I haven't had a real vacation for something like a dozen years. I have already paid for the 13-hour bus trip to Kantishna, 90 miles inside Denali National Park, where I was once the baker for a season.
Staying there one night is a little rich for my blood at more than $400. I can't even really afford the tour bus that stops for lunch at the Kantishna Roadhouse. Instead I am taking the Park Service shuttle, $54 versus $159, and will pack a sack lunch.
I used to bake my signature chocolate chip cookie recipe for the guests, hiker lunches, and sack lunches for the guests' road trip out. I also produced all the baked goods, including pies or cakes and my sourdough bread for the lunch buffet.
Here is my chocolate chip cookie recipe:
The Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever
Preheat oven to 325; spread 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans on large sheet pan. Toast about 10 minutes, stirring them around a couple of times.
Remove and add 2 T. unsalted butter, stirring it into the nuts. Set aside to cool. Put the oven temp up to 350.
Measure 1-1/2 cups cake flour, if you have it. Otherwise use all-purpose.
(If all-purpose flour is used, the cookies are crisper --- it’s the protein in the flour.)
Sift with 3/4 tsp. salt, 1-1/2 tsp. baking powder.
Cream 10 T. unsalted butter.
Add 3/4 cup brown sugar and 2 T. corn syrup (the latter makes them chewier --- leave it out if you like them crunchier) and beat together until fluffy.
Add 1 large egg,
1 T. real vanilla extract (I made my own, brandy and a couple of Tahitian vanilla beans soaking in it.)
Beat again. Gradually add flour. Add 1 c. good chocolate chips (Guittard or something similar) or small chocolate chunks, plus the pecans. Use a rubber spatula to mix.
Lightly spray sheet or cookie pans. (I used parchment paper to line pans.) Drop heaping tablespoons two inches apart --- a melon baller works great for uniform cookie size. Bake 12 minutes, or only until edges start to brown. Let sit for a minute then remove to racks and let cool. This version makes more than two dozen cookies. - Joanna
If you ever need it, I have the original recipe, which is for 25 dozen. I made that many every night when I baked at Kantishna. The pilots would drop by around 1 a.m. after the bar closed for a taste of the raw cookie dough.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Nights at the Red Rooster
I read about chef Marcus Samuelsson’s reopening a Red Rooster restaurant in Harlem near 125th Street. For a period of about six months from 1979 into 1980, I sang three and four nights a week at the original Red Rooster on 138th and Adam Clayton Powell, working in a quintet with leader and trumpeter Bucky Thorpe; Don Pullen, who played Hammond B-3 on the gig but was best known for his years on piano with Charles Mingus; drummer Bobby Battle, who was also playing at that time with altoist Arthur Blythe; and guitarist Roland Prince from Antigua, who left to tour Europe with drummer Elvin Jones and was replaced by the late Ted Dunbar, teaching at Rutgers at the time. I was the only white face in the club most nights. It was a pivotal experience — the music was great, and I was able to stretch out on some of the tunes. Since several of the players had West Indian backgrounds, we would stray into a calypso or island-tinged original some of the time, but it was pretty straight ahead. The club was owned by Buster, a numbers banker putting his beautiful daughter/club manager, Pat, through law school at Yale. The crab cakes were excellent; I think the cook was from Baltimore.
There was Jock’s and another place across the street where organ duos or trios, including the likes of Jack McDuff and Charles Earland, would play. We would take our breaks and head next door for a listen, and vice versa.
By the way, I often took the subway to my gig, walking from the stop at 135th Street on St. Nicholas. I was perfectly safe although I was dressed up because they knew I worked for Buster. The gigs were long, five or six hours a night, and I would either get a gypsy cab home or Bucky and several of us would drive through Central Park in the moonlight. It was quite magical.
Up a block or so on the corner (139th?) and Adam Clayton Powell was a place that sold the best little sweet potato pies.
That was also the area of the Striver’s Row blocks. I was friends for a couple of years with the pianist John Hicks, whose three generations of family members shared one of those brownstones, which were designed by Stanford White. His dad was a very respected Methodist minister.
There were — and still are — other pockets of elegance in Harlem. Bucky, who was a retired postal employee, lived in a beautiful building on Riverside Drive with quite an amazing entryway. The band eventually dissolved because Bucky had diabetic complications. He had one leg amputated, but was still able to play with his stump propped on a bar stool. Then he got worse, and lost the other leg. We had several benefits for him. Somewhere I have the tapes.
There was Jock’s and another place across the street where organ duos or trios, including the likes of Jack McDuff and Charles Earland, would play. We would take our breaks and head next door for a listen, and vice versa.
By the way, I often took the subway to my gig, walking from the stop at 135th Street on St. Nicholas. I was perfectly safe although I was dressed up because they knew I worked for Buster. The gigs were long, five or six hours a night, and I would either get a gypsy cab home or Bucky and several of us would drive through Central Park in the moonlight. It was quite magical.
Up a block or so on the corner (139th?) and Adam Clayton Powell was a place that sold the best little sweet potato pies.
That was also the area of the Striver’s Row blocks. I was friends for a couple of years with the pianist John Hicks, whose three generations of family members shared one of those brownstones, which were designed by Stanford White. His dad was a very respected Methodist minister.
There were — and still are — other pockets of elegance in Harlem. Bucky, who was a retired postal employee, lived in a beautiful building on Riverside Drive with quite an amazing entryway. The band eventually dissolved because Bucky had diabetic complications. He had one leg amputated, but was still able to play with his stump propped on a bar stool. Then he got worse, and lost the other leg. We had several benefits for him. Somewhere I have the tapes.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Winter's Day Barley Soup
After three sunny days, returning winter rains are smothering all that joyful light. It's not that cold, but I decided it was time to make a cauldron of soup in my big red pseudo-Creuset. This batch turned out to be quite restorative.
To a 32-ounce box of low-salt chicken broth, plus another cup of water, add:
2 bay leaves
1 cup barley
2 carrots, cut up
2 stalks of celery, ditto
3 scallions, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/3 small cellophane packet Trader Joe's dried wild mushrooms, crushed up
3 crimini or other domestic mushrooms, diced
1/2 sweet red pepper, chopped
1 can Italian diced tomatoes
1 cup frozen green beans
1/2 cup white wine
1 chicken sausage, cut up
1/3 lb. chunk of ham, diced
1 tsp. Spanish smoked sweet pepper, plus 1/2 tsp. Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp. dried basil (1 tsp. fresh, chopped)
1/2 tsp. parsley (ditto)
1/3 tsp. dried tarragon, 1/3 tsp. dried marjoram
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Simmer until the barley and vegetables are done.
Adjust salt, add freshly ground pepper.
Serve in large soup cups.
To a 32-ounce box of low-salt chicken broth, plus another cup of water, add:
2 bay leaves
1 cup barley
2 carrots, cut up
2 stalks of celery, ditto
3 scallions, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/3 small cellophane packet Trader Joe's dried wild mushrooms, crushed up
3 crimini or other domestic mushrooms, diced
1/2 sweet red pepper, chopped
1 can Italian diced tomatoes
1 cup frozen green beans
1/2 cup white wine
1 chicken sausage, cut up
1/3 lb. chunk of ham, diced
1 tsp. Spanish smoked sweet pepper, plus 1/2 tsp. Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp. dried basil (1 tsp. fresh, chopped)
1/2 tsp. parsley (ditto)
1/3 tsp. dried tarragon, 1/3 tsp. dried marjoram
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Simmer until the barley and vegetables are done.
Adjust salt, add freshly ground pepper.
Serve in large soup cups.
All in a day's work
I sat in the courtroom this morning listening to the chilling testimony of a nice guy, a cross-country skiing guitar player who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and lived to tell about it.
While enjoying his snowy solitude on skis near Dougan Falls the morning of Feb. 9, 2009, Kevin Tracy met up with the father and son duo from hell. They had been camping out in the snow, basically homeless. Dad was on the lam, a seldom-seen father with his punk kid in tow, hiding because he had failed to register as a sex offender. They were likely hungry and tired of camping in the woods, carless, in the winter, but there is absolutely no excuse for what they did. First they asked him for directions, then demanded his truck and told him they'd have to kill him because he could identify them. He tried to ski away, then kicked off his skis and tried to run, but he couldn't get away. Sixteen-year-old, Teven Collins bashed him on the head repeatedly with a club, knocking a hole in his skull. Then dad, Michael Collins, tried to garotte him. They stashed him under a bush in the snow and left him for dead.
Three Clark County students out for their twice-a-week hike, this time trying a new area, found Tracy clinging to a tree, bloody from head to toe and barely hanging on.
The Collins fled in Tracy's truck, first to California, then to Mexico, merrily posting photos on Facebook of their adventures on drugs and among the palm trees. An airing of 'America's Most Wanted' finally got them captured.
Now the kid is testifying against his father in exchange for an eight-year sentence. Dad is not quite 'three strikes, you're out' because his first sex offense occurred as a juvenile.
Listening to the testimony today, I kept glancing at Michael Collins as he sat next to his attorney, slumping in his seat. He looked young, and a little remorseful. How did he and his devil spawn think that whole deadly escapade was going to play out? Did they care?
Meanwhile, Kevin Tracy faces more plastic surgery --- an angry red line runs jaggedly from the top of his head down his face., and while the hole in his skull is healing, he will never be the same. His speech is a little halting, but his testimony was deliberate and damning. He survived. They are going to jail. The only better justice would be to take them to a tree in the middle of the woods in the winter snow, tie them up, and leave them there to die, just as they left Kevin Tracy.
While enjoying his snowy solitude on skis near Dougan Falls the morning of Feb. 9, 2009, Kevin Tracy met up with the father and son duo from hell. They had been camping out in the snow, basically homeless. Dad was on the lam, a seldom-seen father with his punk kid in tow, hiding because he had failed to register as a sex offender. They were likely hungry and tired of camping in the woods, carless, in the winter, but there is absolutely no excuse for what they did. First they asked him for directions, then demanded his truck and told him they'd have to kill him because he could identify them. He tried to ski away, then kicked off his skis and tried to run, but he couldn't get away. Sixteen-year-old, Teven Collins bashed him on the head repeatedly with a club, knocking a hole in his skull. Then dad, Michael Collins, tried to garotte him. They stashed him under a bush in the snow and left him for dead.
Three Clark County students out for their twice-a-week hike, this time trying a new area, found Tracy clinging to a tree, bloody from head to toe and barely hanging on.
The Collins fled in Tracy's truck, first to California, then to Mexico, merrily posting photos on Facebook of their adventures on drugs and among the palm trees. An airing of 'America's Most Wanted' finally got them captured.
Now the kid is testifying against his father in exchange for an eight-year sentence. Dad is not quite 'three strikes, you're out' because his first sex offense occurred as a juvenile.
Listening to the testimony today, I kept glancing at Michael Collins as he sat next to his attorney, slumping in his seat. He looked young, and a little remorseful. How did he and his devil spawn think that whole deadly escapade was going to play out? Did they care?
Meanwhile, Kevin Tracy faces more plastic surgery --- an angry red line runs jaggedly from the top of his head down his face., and while the hole in his skull is healing, he will never be the same. His speech is a little halting, but his testimony was deliberate and damning. He survived. They are going to jail. The only better justice would be to take them to a tree in the middle of the woods in the winter snow, tie them up, and leave them there to die, just as they left Kevin Tracy.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Mild but sloggy blog
I am grateful to be alive. Last Saturday was one of those times when everything is on snooze-bar, until a sudden rude awakening. I had nearly made it to Washougal when I felt the van's engine lurch and die as I was headed up the last hill. With little momentum and fading power steering and brakes, I had no choice but to head for a very narrow area of shoulder on the other side of the road, facing traffic. I was literally inches from the road, but managed to pull it off, literally.
I sat there shaking with the blinkers on as I thought about my situation. I had foregone breakfast in anticipation of a sushi lunch in Vancouver. Low blood sugar was exacerbated by adrenalin, the fight-or-flight of having to wrestle the van onto the shoulder, a snap second choice that easily could have ended in disaster with rock on one side and a very steep hard place on the other.
There were a couple of Mom's little apple juice boxes in the van. I gulped one down and got on my cell phone as each passing vehicle rocked the van. I could smell gas.
The Skamania County Sheriff's Office gave me the number for Reddi Towing, and Larry said he was on his way. It took him about 45 minutes to get there. Meanwhile, giant trucks passed within inches, and a phalanx of Harleys roared by. I had to pee. My coat was in the back, and I was afraid to climb behind the seat because of the oncoming vehicles. I was so close to the guardrail I seriously wondered if I could get out.
Finally, I spotted Larry's giant blue truck. It is not exactly nimble, and he had to maneuver to get it in front of the van, due to the hill and shrinking shoulder. He had to do a high wire act, balancing on top of the guardrail posts to get back to me. There was no room for him to work as he lowered the giant teeter-totter and winched the van onto the back, while balancing precariously on the downhill side of the guardrail.
He immediately spotted the problem --- the fuel line underneath the van had come off at the bottom of the hill, and what I had smelled --- and felt --- was spewing fuel that wasn't reaching the engine.
After I took Mom to the airport to go to Louisiana for a month, the van sat in the driveway two weeks. Before she left, we had taken it in for an oil change and servicing. The garage had replaced the fuel filter. Larry said they hadn't reattached the fuel line securely, and it had worked its way loose. A minor oversight --- and it could have had fatal consequences. Yesterday was the first time I had driven the van since Mom left. I had loaded the back with recycling, and intended to take some framed photos into Portland for the walls at Beaterville --- after my much anticipated sushi lunch.
Larry is a prince in my eyes right now. This is not the first time he has come to the rescue. He didn't charge me to fix the van, but it was $197 for the tow, and no AAA. The garage that did the oil change also did not bolt down the fuel filter, and it was "rattling around in there," Larry said. Meanwhile, I am calculating the cost of that tow. Right before heading to Washougal, I had mailed a $407.85 check to Skyline Hospital for costs not covered by insurance after my two-month bout of pneumonia. That bill was slightly more than the amount of my tax refund, direct-deposited into my account Friday. Easy come, easy go.
I am at the mid-point of my solitary month as Mom spends some time with Clyde in Louisiana.
The South has gotten hammered this year, and it has sometimes been bitterly cold, alternating with a few 75-degree days. We thought Mom needed to get away during what is usually the harshest time here. This time last year, the snow was piled up and Mom had a serious case of cabin fever. January and February are also months of painful reminders --- the anniversaries of Dad's birthdays and his death, plus her birthday and another Valentine's Day without him.
Since our sleety, windy trip to the airport, it has been relatively warm, an El Nino non-winter here. We had one good snowstorm, but Winterfest is cancelled (again) for lack of snow. The swans left Franz Lake a month early for their tundra nesting grounds, the sea lions are back at Bonneville Dam chowing down on sturgeon while waiting for their spring Chinook sushi fix, and there are are three brave pansies blooming in front of the house.
As a sop to my missed sushi yesterday, I made an early Sunday lunch/brunch:
Salute to Spring Smoked Salmon Pasta
Cook 1/2 package of multi-grain penne or fusilli very al dente, saving 1 inch of the salted water in the bottom of the pan with the pasta. Mix in one chopped green onion, two cloves minced garlic, 1 tsp. each smoked and Hungarian paprika, half a can of evaporated milk, 1/3 of an 8-ounce package of low-fat cream cheese, a dash of Worcestershire and Frank's Red Hot, plus 1/3 cup white wine. Crumble in 1/3 pound deboned hot-smoked salmon, and sprinkle on 1 T. parsley and 1 tsp. basil. At the last minute, add 2/3 cup frozen peas (no need to thaw), and a little milk if more moisture is needed. Finish with 1 tsp. balsamic vinegar and a couple of grinds of black pepper. Sprinkle with a little grated parmesan, if you like.
I sat there shaking with the blinkers on as I thought about my situation. I had foregone breakfast in anticipation of a sushi lunch in Vancouver. Low blood sugar was exacerbated by adrenalin, the fight-or-flight of having to wrestle the van onto the shoulder, a snap second choice that easily could have ended in disaster with rock on one side and a very steep hard place on the other.
There were a couple of Mom's little apple juice boxes in the van. I gulped one down and got on my cell phone as each passing vehicle rocked the van. I could smell gas.
The Skamania County Sheriff's Office gave me the number for Reddi Towing, and Larry said he was on his way. It took him about 45 minutes to get there. Meanwhile, giant trucks passed within inches, and a phalanx of Harleys roared by. I had to pee. My coat was in the back, and I was afraid to climb behind the seat because of the oncoming vehicles. I was so close to the guardrail I seriously wondered if I could get out.
Finally, I spotted Larry's giant blue truck. It is not exactly nimble, and he had to maneuver to get it in front of the van, due to the hill and shrinking shoulder. He had to do a high wire act, balancing on top of the guardrail posts to get back to me. There was no room for him to work as he lowered the giant teeter-totter and winched the van onto the back, while balancing precariously on the downhill side of the guardrail.
He immediately spotted the problem --- the fuel line underneath the van had come off at the bottom of the hill, and what I had smelled --- and felt --- was spewing fuel that wasn't reaching the engine.
After I took Mom to the airport to go to Louisiana for a month, the van sat in the driveway two weeks. Before she left, we had taken it in for an oil change and servicing. The garage had replaced the fuel filter. Larry said they hadn't reattached the fuel line securely, and it had worked its way loose. A minor oversight --- and it could have had fatal consequences. Yesterday was the first time I had driven the van since Mom left. I had loaded the back with recycling, and intended to take some framed photos into Portland for the walls at Beaterville --- after my much anticipated sushi lunch.
Larry is a prince in my eyes right now. This is not the first time he has come to the rescue. He didn't charge me to fix the van, but it was $197 for the tow, and no AAA. The garage that did the oil change also did not bolt down the fuel filter, and it was "rattling around in there," Larry said. Meanwhile, I am calculating the cost of that tow. Right before heading to Washougal, I had mailed a $407.85 check to Skyline Hospital for costs not covered by insurance after my two-month bout of pneumonia. That bill was slightly more than the amount of my tax refund, direct-deposited into my account Friday. Easy come, easy go.
I am at the mid-point of my solitary month as Mom spends some time with Clyde in Louisiana.
The South has gotten hammered this year, and it has sometimes been bitterly cold, alternating with a few 75-degree days. We thought Mom needed to get away during what is usually the harshest time here. This time last year, the snow was piled up and Mom had a serious case of cabin fever. January and February are also months of painful reminders --- the anniversaries of Dad's birthdays and his death, plus her birthday and another Valentine's Day without him.
Since our sleety, windy trip to the airport, it has been relatively warm, an El Nino non-winter here. We had one good snowstorm, but Winterfest is cancelled (again) for lack of snow. The swans left Franz Lake a month early for their tundra nesting grounds, the sea lions are back at Bonneville Dam chowing down on sturgeon while waiting for their spring Chinook sushi fix, and there are are three brave pansies blooming in front of the house.
As a sop to my missed sushi yesterday, I made an early Sunday lunch/brunch:
Salute to Spring Smoked Salmon Pasta
Cook 1/2 package of multi-grain penne or fusilli very al dente, saving 1 inch of the salted water in the bottom of the pan with the pasta. Mix in one chopped green onion, two cloves minced garlic, 1 tsp. each smoked and Hungarian paprika, half a can of evaporated milk, 1/3 of an 8-ounce package of low-fat cream cheese, a dash of Worcestershire and Frank's Red Hot, plus 1/3 cup white wine. Crumble in 1/3 pound deboned hot-smoked salmon, and sprinkle on 1 T. parsley and 1 tsp. basil. At the last minute, add 2/3 cup frozen peas (no need to thaw), and a little milk if more moisture is needed. Finish with 1 tsp. balsamic vinegar and a couple of grinds of black pepper. Sprinkle with a little grated parmesan, if you like.
Friday, January 8, 2010
No animal protein, no regrets
Surviving a necessary trip to town today --- freezing rain, wind, a sewer project that has engulfed Northwest Portland --- Mom and I returned home with a sense of relief. Mom's macular degeneration is on hold and she doesn't have to go back to the specialists for six months. We have a new tiny spider web crack on the windshield of the van, thanks to a gust flinging ice from a tree into a corner on the passenger side. We made it home, just as the ice pellets started piling up on the stairs.
While Mom was having her eyes dilated and delved into with all-seeing electronic instruments, I cruised the aisles at Trader Joe's just off 23rd, scoring many of my favorites, including low-sodium soy sauce, dried mushrooms, wild rice pilaf mix, dried figs, crackers and a package of heirloom cherry tomatoes. The latter I rinsed and sat out in a bowl, like grapes, as I made our simple repast, being much too tired for anything too complicated. I steamed a whole head of cauliflower and made a low-fat cheese sauce with fat free half and half, evaporated milk, smoked paprika, two kinds of low-fat cheddar, parmesan, onion powder, white wine and a little cornstarch. "Dessert" was a corner of a giant hunk of baked squash, donated to Mom at church last Sunday by my former neighbor, Mary Lee, grown from seeds I gave her nearly a decade ago.
It wasn't until we finished dinner that I realized that our meal was totally vegetarian, ridiculously healthy and actually delicious. I have been one of those people who thinks a protein product from a formerly living animal is necessary at nearly every meal, or I have been slacking and something is lacking.
Perhaps I should relax a little and enjoy our simple life. My doctor would agree.
While Mom was having her eyes dilated and delved into with all-seeing electronic instruments, I cruised the aisles at Trader Joe's just off 23rd, scoring many of my favorites, including low-sodium soy sauce, dried mushrooms, wild rice pilaf mix, dried figs, crackers and a package of heirloom cherry tomatoes. The latter I rinsed and sat out in a bowl, like grapes, as I made our simple repast, being much too tired for anything too complicated. I steamed a whole head of cauliflower and made a low-fat cheese sauce with fat free half and half, evaporated milk, smoked paprika, two kinds of low-fat cheddar, parmesan, onion powder, white wine and a little cornstarch. "Dessert" was a corner of a giant hunk of baked squash, donated to Mom at church last Sunday by my former neighbor, Mary Lee, grown from seeds I gave her nearly a decade ago.
It wasn't until we finished dinner that I realized that our meal was totally vegetarian, ridiculously healthy and actually delicious. I have been one of those people who thinks a protein product from a formerly living animal is necessary at nearly every meal, or I have been slacking and something is lacking.
Perhaps I should relax a little and enjoy our simple life. My doctor would agree.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A new year. A new decade. With 2010 comes feelings of mortality having something to do with being 60, and having an entire decade slip by since Y2K. It has been awhile since I posted anything on this blog. I have had pneumonia in my right lung, and a cough lingers, keeping me awake sometimes at 3 a.m.
That can be a good thing. Last night, I was tuned in to the BBC on the little radio next to my pillow, and heard a half-hour segment on the layered meanings of "Hallelujah" on "Heart and Soul," a 'programme' that explores concepts of various faiths in a very British way, eschewing dogma.
It segued from the "Hallelujah Chorus," which always manages to cause a frisson, especially when I am singing it, to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I looked up the rest of the lyrics after the verse about little David and his harp, and they were another thing entirely. It is actually a song about the failure of a relationship, and the imagery, while stunning as only Leonard Cohen can be, is celebratory of something other than religious ecstasy.
Cohen's song was covered by Jeff Buckley, released posthumously. Over Christmas, Phil and his new girlfriend, Erin, were here with my sister Lois, and we enjoyed some great musical interplay (he on my funky old classical guitar and me on conga) as well as musical discussions.
He likes to delve into my past musical associations, and was intrigued to learn that I once hung out all night with Tim Buckley, Jeff's dad, at Nancy's house in Eugene. I was living with William then, and we were on a holiday trip. It was not too long before Tim's death by heroin overdose, though that night we were indulging in a 'stimulus package' of another sort.
Jeff Buckley, who drowned in a river while quite young, was nearly as talented as his dad. Late in life, Tim was in a jazz phase influenced by Leon Thomas and other vocal improvisors. It made him unpopular with his hippie-folkie fans.
It was quite amazing that Phil and I once again connected musically, this time on an intuitive level I haven't experienced in some time. He has an interesting chordal sense, which ties back to the first verse of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."
I have been home more than usual due to the holidays and my illness (a CAT scan after the first worrisome x-rays did not show anything more sinister than bone spurs on my spine).
This sign of decrepitude seems to fit in with the lingering snow in the yard and aches in the night.
I have been using a program called Dynamic Auto Painter, which alters photos to resemble watercolors, chalk or pencil drawings, even Van Gogh's "Sunflowers." For Christmas, I assembled a Columbia Gorge DVD slideshow with music using the 'paintings,' offering to print and frame any favorites. (I've had no takers.)
Veering away from the scenic subject matter, I've been experimenting with a few old photos. One is of Alan, taken by Dad. It shows him seated on a woodsy wall somewhere here in the Gorge, probably around the time that Mom and Dad were building their house and we came up on occasional weekends to help.
It is hard to look at that photo --- he is revealed in all his casual but blinding beauty. The son of a Finnish sailor, he had impossibly beautiful bones, blonde hair and strong yet languid limbs. Morphing the photo through the filters of one of the program's settings created an image so startling I had to immediately delete it. One-half of his face turned into a luminescent skull, as though his death by hanging was foreshadowed.
Somewhere his beautiful bones are at rest, unless he was cremated.
I will post the best of the transformed photos. It is all I have left of him, other than a silk scarf he gave me.
That can be a good thing. Last night, I was tuned in to the BBC on the little radio next to my pillow, and heard a half-hour segment on the layered meanings of "Hallelujah" on "Heart and Soul," a 'programme' that explores concepts of various faiths in a very British way, eschewing dogma.
It segued from the "Hallelujah Chorus," which always manages to cause a frisson, especially when I am singing it, to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I looked up the rest of the lyrics after the verse about little David and his harp, and they were another thing entirely. It is actually a song about the failure of a relationship, and the imagery, while stunning as only Leonard Cohen can be, is celebratory of something other than religious ecstasy.
Cohen's song was covered by Jeff Buckley, released posthumously. Over Christmas, Phil and his new girlfriend, Erin, were here with my sister Lois, and we enjoyed some great musical interplay (he on my funky old classical guitar and me on conga) as well as musical discussions.
He likes to delve into my past musical associations, and was intrigued to learn that I once hung out all night with Tim Buckley, Jeff's dad, at Nancy's house in Eugene. I was living with William then, and we were on a holiday trip. It was not too long before Tim's death by heroin overdose, though that night we were indulging in a 'stimulus package' of another sort.
Jeff Buckley, who drowned in a river while quite young, was nearly as talented as his dad. Late in life, Tim was in a jazz phase influenced by Leon Thomas and other vocal improvisors. It made him unpopular with his hippie-folkie fans.
It was quite amazing that Phil and I once again connected musically, this time on an intuitive level I haven't experienced in some time. He has an interesting chordal sense, which ties back to the first verse of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."
I have been home more than usual due to the holidays and my illness (a CAT scan after the first worrisome x-rays did not show anything more sinister than bone spurs on my spine).
This sign of decrepitude seems to fit in with the lingering snow in the yard and aches in the night.
I have been using a program called Dynamic Auto Painter, which alters photos to resemble watercolors, chalk or pencil drawings, even Van Gogh's "Sunflowers." For Christmas, I assembled a Columbia Gorge DVD slideshow with music using the 'paintings,' offering to print and frame any favorites. (I've had no takers.)
Veering away from the scenic subject matter, I've been experimenting with a few old photos. One is of Alan, taken by Dad. It shows him seated on a woodsy wall somewhere here in the Gorge, probably around the time that Mom and Dad were building their house and we came up on occasional weekends to help.
It is hard to look at that photo --- he is revealed in all his casual but blinding beauty. The son of a Finnish sailor, he had impossibly beautiful bones, blonde hair and strong yet languid limbs. Morphing the photo through the filters of one of the program's settings created an image so startling I had to immediately delete it. One-half of his face turned into a luminescent skull, as though his death by hanging was foreshadowed.
Somewhere his beautiful bones are at rest, unless he was cremated.
I will post the best of the transformed photos. It is all I have left of him, other than a silk scarf he gave me.
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Pause that refreshes
taken at Trout Lake Arts Fest
