If you're a real 'armnivore'

A new food movement goes beyond being a locavore. Described in an article in the Dec. 31 New York Times by James Gorman, the newest permutation is an "invasivore," someone eating foraged local foods, especially invasive species. There are several blogs on the web about encouraging more degustation of lionfish, which have invaded the Caribbean, as well as Asian carp flourishing in the Midwest to the detriment of native species.
On land, feral pigs are becoming quite a nuisance in parts of California and the Southwest. Get one or two of those, and you've got yourself a barbecue.
Down South, the king of the vegetable kingdom is the kudzu, a vine which swallows the landscape but is also totally edible, though few seem inspired to try it. The young shoots are reportedly great in a stir fry, the blossoms make a sweet tea and even tastier honey, and the vines can be woven into baskets or cloth. The roots can be used as a thickener, much like cornstarch, and are also a hangover cure, according to Martha Stewart.
However, one must be wary when stalking the omniverous kudzu. If you don't move fast enough, it will devour your car --- or you.
In Florida, pythons and boa constrictors, pets released into the swamp when they grew too big, are procreating and proliferating, swallowing poodles and hopefully a piranha or two. According to Gorman, the response to a request for a python recipe on Chowhound was met with this reply: Gator and snake etouffee. That's got to be a Cajun.
Most wild food enthusiasts primarily devour the more benign native species, such as venison and elk --- however, deer are pests in many locales. No hunting license or ammunition is (usually) required to forage for mushrooms and greens.
Dinner on Jan. 3 was ground venison tamale pie, quite tasty. The layers included polenta cooked with garlic, cumin and onion powder, venison sauteed with sweet paprika, onion, garlic and a little red wine; canned diced tomatoes with basil and oregano; frozen corn; chopped Kalamata olives; and two kinds of low fat cheese between the layers and sprinkled on top to brown.
The venison was not totally local --- my brother brought frozen packages of Eastern Oregon game and fish when he came at Thanksgiving. I'm looking forward to the rest of that bounty, rationed between the turkey and chicken breast.
Our childhood diet included venison and fish, as well as homegrown beef, eggs, milk and vegetables. We foraged lambsquarters and volunteer asparagus gathered from along the driveway while coming home from the school bus (we carried paring knives in our lunch pails for the purpose). I'm familiar with the concept of hunting and gathering.
I learned last year that a nephew who vanished for a time had been camping out in the woods and on the national forest, even in the dead of winter. I believe quite a bit of small game supplemented his fire-warmed canned beans, and possibly something larger also went into the pot.
There is a resident flock of Canada geese at a nearby semi-urban park/game refuge. About half are mixed with escaped domestic geese, so the flocks range from full-blooded Canada geese to white escapees, with some orange-footed and orange-billed hefty specimens contributing their bloodlines. Those geese that are not wild should theoretically be weeded out of the gene pool. I'm sure they would be quite tasty, but I have not succumbed to the temptation --- yet. A few months of unemployment, and I might change my mind.
In Oregon's Willamette Valley, there is an invasion of nutria released by disenchanted fur farmers. Driving by low-ground pastures, it's not uncommon to see nutria out munching in the fields between cows before retreating to their watery lairs. In Louisiana, they're on the menu among the more self-sufficient Cajun people.
Later this spring, I'm heading up to Iron Mike, where there is a small pond filled with volunteer watercress. While I'm there, I'll fill up a couple of jugs with the slightly effervescent, sulfurous mineral water from the Iron Mike pump. Perhaps I'll see if there is a morel or two lurking in the vicinity. However, I think I'll leave the squirrels and chipmunks to their own devices.

A tale of three gingers

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.)