skip to main |
skip to sidebar
The Knave of Tarts. Okay, pie. I knew I should have left it cooling on a windowsill instead.
The fattest newspaper of the year. Probably had seconds on everything, maybe thirds on the mashed potatoes. Definitely pants unbuttoned mode.
Our dinner table set for two. So many others were there in our hearts.
A bottle of Edna Valley chardonnay almost feels like mom is there with us. Nobody enjoyed a holiday meal as much as she did. Especially if she didn't have to cook!
It's just a little excessive. Normally on Thanksgiving Eve you're lucky if you get a grilled cheese or some nuked leftovers around here. Because I become obsessed with tomorrow's dinner preparations. I started out with the idea of just quickly throwing together burgers for supper. Then there was that absolutely perfectly ripe avocado shouting at me from the bowl on the island. If you're already carmelizing an onion in butter with a dash of sea salt, why not chop up those last few neglected mushrooms and toss those in the pan, too. Bacon. Sharp cheddar cheese. And I don't know what you do in your kitchen, but I love a toasted bun surrounding my burger. Spread with garlic butter, they go under the broiler just long enough to become golden and crispy. If I am destined to die early from eating red meat, this is how it ought to be. Lovely paired with a Shiner bock. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have stuffing bread to dice.
Aren't they lovely? Apple and pumpkin. Accompanied by a little hasty art direction.
Okay, yeah, it's a little Martha Stewartish. But I think delicious goes hand in hand with beautiful.
Since the apple pie got a close-up, the pumpkin wanted one, too. And I thought I was the queen around here.
I can be counted on. For instance, I sometimes blurt things out. Just little observations or idle thoughts. It's only when others nearby turn their heads and stare at me with eyebrows raised that I realize that I did, indeed, say it out loud. Really. I'm the mostly unintentional life of the party. Something like that, anyway. When I'm asked a question and I have the choice of giving a clear and succinct answer like any reasonable person would do or saying something completely inappropriate and ribald, I can't resist going for option number two. My dear sister Martine has remarked in the past that I can say pretty much anything and make it sound dirty. It's a gift. So. Let's move on to Weston's Twinkie. Weston was a co-worker. A college student. He was, and I expect still is, your basic tall, dark, handsome yet wholesome midwestern farm boy. He caused any female within a ten yard radius to swoon when he walked by. He was also polite, raised right, and nice, nice, nice. At lunch one day, he gave me a Twinkie. Pushed it across the table toward me and grinned. I picked it up as if it were the most precious and lovely thing I had ever been proffered. I admired it through its crinkly cellophane wrapper and thanked him. I tucked it into my lunch box for later. All the other ladies at the table were jealous. They coveted my Twinkie. Mostly because gorgeous Weston had given it to me. I was special. Later that day I heard we were engaged. Enter my reliability for the blurting out of the inappropriate. First of all, Deb should have known better than to ask. But she did anyway. She said to me, and I quote, I heard Weston gave you a Twinkie! Then she did a little elbow poke at my ribs and gave me a sidelong, knowing grin. Did that cream filling just explode into your mouth when you ate it? I smiled demurely and answered sweetly. Actually, no. I had to coax it out with my tongue. Deb froze in her tracks as if my super hero power was some kind of catatonic death ray evil stare that I had mercilessly blasted her with. She also turned twenty shades of red. Then laughter burst from the very walls. I had an audience. Apparently word of the Twinkie gifting had spread rapidly and was being discussed just before I walked through the room. I curtsied, thanked them, and did a little happy dance down the hall. I wondered if they had dared Deb to bait me with her naughty comment. Or if she had done it on her own. In any case, the verbal gauntlet had been dropped and I had gleefully picked it up. Laughter is healthy. A good, solid belly laugh is good for you and ought to be on your agenda every day. It's a public service I am happy to provide. You're welcome. I'll do my best to try to keep it clean. Or at least read the room first. That is, if I do say it out loud. I've been told there is medication that might help me. But what's the fun in that.
Internet surfing, soup eating, conversing with son, texting, wondering if I should wash my hair today or go with the ponytail, and listening to A Prairie Home Companion. At the same time. Resulting in the News From Lake Wobegon being distilled down to these three phrases:
*older people in their thirties and forties
*it was a short sermon
*the miracle of the meatballs
The first phrase seems to pretty clearly indicate that moi is at death's door. The second phrase is almost always a good thing, unless it happens to cut short your nap. A miracle involving meatballs brings to mind the miracle of the frybread. But that's due to the fact that I was giving my full attention to a recent viewing of the movie Smoke Signals. Which makes me grateful for writers like Sherman Alexie. And that there will be two more encore presentations of APHC today. Giving me, even if I must resort to the podcast, many opportunities to learn just what Mr. Keillor was talking about. Finally, if I'm wondering if I ought to wash my hair, I probably should.
I love pound cake. I whipped up a batch yesterday. The winter version has a lemon glaze drizzled over it. If you want to get all fancy-schmancy, you can make a raspberry glaze as well and make it ridiculously delicious and pretty. The summer version is topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Did I mention that I love pound cake? When I asked my mother for her recipe, she responded with the following, neatly typed onto my birthday card that year:
Pound Cake
1 pound flour
1 pound sugar
1 pound butter
1 pound milk
1 pound salt
1 pound baking powder
1 pound lemon juice
1 pound eggs without shells
Throw in a bowl. Mix thoroughly. Place in a pan and bake at 300 for a couple of days. Enjoy.
Do not try this at home. My mom did have an excellent sense of humor. She also shared the actual recipe. Which I have shared below. Do try this one at home.
Pound Cake
2/3 cup butter
1-1/4 cups sugar
Cream together thoroughly, then add...
1 Tablespoon lemon juice, fresh squeezed, please
1/2 cup milk
Stir together and add...
2-1/4 cups unbleached flour
1-1/4 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
Mix til all the dry ingredients are, well, no longer dry
3 eggs
Add eggs one at a time while mixer is running, beat one full minute after the first two, and two minutes after the third.
Divide batter evenly between four small loaf pans. Bake for one hour at 300.
Lemon Glaze
1 Tablespoon lemon juice
1 Tablespoon milk
1 cup powdered sugar
Whisk together till smooth.
Raspberry Glaze
Okay, so I get lazy here. I take about a quarter cup of Smucker's seedless raspberry jam and whisk in a little water until it's about the same consistency as the lemon glaze. Never fails. Also beats the crap out of starting with fresh raspberries and trying to remove all those pesky little seeds. Which are decorative and all but clog up the teensy nozzle of the drizzling device. Do garnish with fresh raspberries and mint leaves to make up for using the jam as a shortcut. If you're feeling really wild, do what I did once. I thinned the jam with a little champagne. It was lovely.
I am lazing about in bed. An ill wind is howling outside. I have music. I have my Chromebook and my phone. I have a cat. Newt would prefer that I get my ass up and give him his morning treats, but he's willing to stick around and give me not quite a cuddle just to keep an eye on me. Treats are, at this point, approximately two hours overdue. Theoretically, I could remain here all day. But I haven't had coffee. Want coooofffffeeeee! Which means I will have to get up after all. Twice in my life I have been fortunate enough to be with a man who brought me coffee in bed. In the hierarchy of virtues, this is the entire pyramid as far as I am concerned. So until the charmed number three man comes along to fill this niche I remain on coffee duty. Applications are currently being accepted. Previous professional barista experience preferred but not necessary. Scone baking and foot massage skills guarantee a quarterly bonus. No gum chewing in line, please.
