Soup (kosher or not)

Mom has been in soup mode lately, not only due to her recent hospitalization, but also due to having no lower denture plate and somehow injuring and re-injuring her lower gum in recent weeks. We have had clam chowder and tapioca pudding in the last few days. I was casting about for something different when I came across two different packages of split peas. Also, we had been to Winco this week, where we bought a package of smoked turkey legs, a kosher/halal solution for many area residents. In our case, the smoked turkey legs are low in fat but high in flavor. Split Pea Soup: Into a crockpot turned on high, add a quart of prepared chicken broth. (I use the low fat, low sodium variety). Add one smoked turkey leg, plus two bay leaves, two carrots and two ribs of celery, and 1/2 onion and 1/2 yellow sweet pepper (red is okay), the latter all cut into small chunks. Add 1 lb. green split peas and 2 cups water, plus a dash of Worcestershire, three cloves minced garlic, and 1/3 cup white wine, plus 1 tsp. each of parsley, dried thyme, basil and sage (1/2 tsp. of the latter if they are dried, not fresh). Let the soup cook on high and check the moisture periodically after the first 45 minutes, stirring. About 2 hours in, check for salt. Add some if needed and turn the heat to low. In another 45 minutes, take out the smoked turkey leg, cool it a bit, and take the meat off the bone, discarding sinew and skin, chopping it and adding the meat to the soup. Check your seasonings. This keeps well in the refrigerator at least three or four days and can be reheated in the microwave, adding broth if needed. (You can use ham pieces or a ham hock instead of a smoked turkey leg, or use smoked Polish or turkey sausage cut into rounds, added the last hour or so of cooking.)

The Secret Ingredient

The weekend featured a collision of sorts --- a campout and a mix of weather both foul and fair. On the plus side, the location was fairly spectacular, a county campground with fewer amenities than most but vistas of the Columbia River and pleasant woods. My brother and his family operate a ranch for troubled teenage boys in southern Oregon, and are often called on to share their expertise at training sessions for others trying to deal with youth in crisis. They had a three-day training in Portland and called wanting to get together. The campout was my idea, furthered by initial forecasts for fair weather. We've been in a rough patch lately, and I didn't need household complications. Mom became quite ill with pericarditis, an inflammation of the lining around her heart likely caused by flu that landed her in intensive care for almost a week. She is doing better, but I have been nurse, cook and caregiver. A visit from a brother I see less frequently than other family members is more than welcome, but I hesitated having them sleep on the floor in an atmosphere that resembles a hospital, complete with a walker in the living room and soup at nearly every meal. The campout idea was warmly received, and grew to include 10 people in four tents. Mom insisted on participating, and slept two nights on the folded-down third seat of her van. She is totally worn out, but she delighted in being with her son and the youngsters. She insisted on giving the latter her prized puppets, a large bushy squirrel, baby bear and koala. I hauled my tent and camping gear out of storage and set up camp Friday afternoon. It is a beautiful spot, perched on the lip of a steep hill with a trail going down to the water and barges passing by. However, I had not calculated on interruptions of the Burlington Northern-Santa Fe tracks a stone's throw from the campground. The first night, my nephew and his wife set up their tents then said goodbye to their three children, left in my custody to sleep in a tent 10 feet away. I had made a four-bean salad and baked beans at home, and fed them each a hotdog. Rain began to fall, at first sporadically, then in earnest as the evening progressed. We went to bed early, our fitful sleep interrupted by seven trains, tooting their horns at the nearby crossing. At one point the youngest boy began to cry, calling his mother on the cell phone in their tent, wishing he could go home. His elder sister managed to restore his equilibrium for the rest of the night, and he was the only one full of energy (beans?) the next morning. I fed them hot cocoa, Bob's Red Mill 10-grain pancakes and eggs, and they were perfectly happy racing around and finding other treasures, including a bird's nest. We were about to begin lunch when my brother and entourage arrived. In addition to his wife, son and daughter-in-law, the group included a recent youth recruit from the ranch with a colorful Mendocino County past and a proclivity for fervid religious pronouncements punctuated by loud and puzzling interjections. He occasionally wandered out of eyesight for cigarette breaks, which I could smell on his return. He was helpful, however, offering his assistance with camp chores. I had two coolers packed with food and ice, a bundle of firewood, two bags of briquettes, a hibachi and a dinner plan that included stir fry vegetables, the by now well-marinated four-bean salad, and 10 chicken thighs. I had intended to prepare rice noodles with the stir fry vegetables, but my brother showed up with egg and pasta salads. Mom contributed the makings of s'mores, a plan applauded by my young grand-niece. I concocted a marinade in early afternoon that turned out a real winner. Into a gallon zip-lock bag, I added onion powder, applewood smoked sea salt, garlic bits, soy sauce, a little fish sauce, and about a tablespoon of cilantro paste from a tube. The marinade needed sweetness and moisture, so I poured in a little maple syrup and the really oddball ingredient, some Diet Rite raspberry soda with Splenda. I asked my grand-niece for a splash from her soda can. After squishing the contents together in the bag with the thighs, they were returned to the cooler on ice for a three-hour rest. We cooked the chicken first in two skillets over a wood fire in the fire ring banked to the perfect heat. Then the thighs were moved to the hibachi racks for finishing. They were succulent and perfect, crisp-skinned with flavor to the bone. Someone asked for my secret. I had sworn my grand-niece to secrecy. However, her little sister spilled the beans. (Too many baked beans?) After dinner I brought out my stowed-away old guitar,; my brother played a little and we sang, bringing Mama to tears as usual. The campfire consumed all our available wood, but there was enough to toast the s'mores before bedtime. Sunday morning, the children created and rehearsed a puppet show with their new pets on the theme of thankfulness. It was quite an accomplishment and included a song. We took a few group photos before departing before noon, with the rest of the group bound for a rendezvous with Herman the Sturgeon at the Bonneville Hatchery. We all insisted that we must do this again, in spite of the rain and the trains. However, my bones are reminding me that crawling in and out of a tent several times a night to follow a flashlight's beam to a smelly outhouse is best experienced in moderation.