Last night

Clayton and Michele got in and today we spent the day at the Calder's, then all of us went out for dinner at Carraba's. The food was excellent, but the best part was looking around the table at my whole family, watching the little ones stuffing pasta, and listening to the banter. I love each one of them so much! On Friday we go to Ocean City for the weekend to play on the beach and celebrate Father's Day. And I'm feeling stronger every day. Blessings...blessings...

He Forgot the Poop Sac

Sinai hospital. 4 am. Thanks for the Lasix (sp?) doc. I'm peeing every 1/2 hour. And starving--having eaten practically nothing but liquids for two weeks. Surgery soon. Looking forward to it. Blog surfing. Find one about a year's worth of crock pot cooking. Reminds me of my own crockpot story. I'm about to incriminate myself. Promise you'll still love me.

About 1980. Larry brings home a cottontail and drops it, skinned and all, into the kitchen sink. The kids are little. Clayton hasn't been born yet. We gardened. We canned. We hunted. He shot it, I cooked it, and we ate it. Grass fed beef. Goat milk. Home grown corn, potatoes and tomatoes. A different life. But I digress. So I rinse the little bunny's body, drop it in the crock pot, cover it with potatoes, carrots and onions, add water, salt and pepper. Put on the lid. Turn on the heat.

The next night:
What's for dinner? (Now how did you know that was asked by a man?).
Rabbit and potatoes.
You mean...the rabbit I brought home last night?
Yeah.
But I didn't finish cleaning it.
What do you mean you didn't finish cleaning it? You always clean in the carport and bring me the finished--parts.
Well, I forgot the poop sac.

The poop sac. Little brown pebbly rabbit poop. Hmm. The crock pot is full! There's so much food in there! Good, healthy organic-before-we-knew-what-organic-meant food that we planted and nurtured and harvested. And luckily, the poop sac is on the very bottom. Once I turned on the heat, I never touched the food until the next night.

Fast forward 25 years. I'm telling my younger sister, Rachel, the story. She's laughing. She and Mike did the mountain-man-and-his-little-woman stint too, in Oregon. So she gets the self-sufficiency at all costs mentally. In fact, we used to talk about collaborating on a cookbook: How to Make Two Hot Dogs Feed a Family of Five. But I digress again. Back to the story:

Rachel: So did you throw it out?
No.
Did you eat it? Now she's laughing harder.
No.
Well if you didn't throw it out and you didn't eat it, what did you do with it?
I'm laughing now too, and barely able to squeak out the truth:
We fed it to the kids!
We laugh so hard that tears run down our faces.

Oh the things we confess as we age!! But in my defense--I scooped off the top just that one time--and the rest wasn't totally wasted. It went to the dogs.

Happy Birthday

If you were here, I'd drive you into Baltimore to have some world famous crab-cakes, and I'd delight in your swooning, the savoring, the way you roll your eyes absorbing even the tiniest minutiae of joy. We'd talk about food and you'd tell me about one time when you were in Thailand, or Australia, or France and I'd go with you there while you described in perfect detail, the best meal you'd ever eaten--or at least, one of them. I'd make sure the waitress knew it was your birthday and the whole restarant would sing "Happy Birthday!" to you.

If you were here, we'd talk about cookbooks. I'd show you the WWII cookbook I have that's dedicated to General George Patton and includes a plea to the women of America to make do with less in order to support the war. We might talk about Uncle Lester and Aunt Janie then and the time you spent with them in Florida. Eventually our talk would include Cleora's Kitchen. I'd remind you that I first saw it at Marion's house. And I'd admit that I went home and bought myself a copy, not for the recipes, but especially for the picture and the story of Cleora and the school photo. It still makes me laugh.

If you were here, we'd go to Annapolis to the Hall of Records and find Grace Eleanor Tenley's records. There's a street in D.C. called Tenley St; we'd find out why and we'd discover some local history, her parents and her siblings, sit on the floor among thousands of historic books and whisper like we did in the Memphis library five years ago now. On the way home we'd remind each other about our plans to go to Wales and walk the shores where the Pearce's lived. I'm looking forward to that.

If you were here, I'd take you to Mount Vernon where George Washington lived and is buried; you'd marvel and exclaim as we toured the house, the separate kitchen, the outbuildings; we'd walk down to the wharf of the Potomac, then over to a portion of the land that's still a working farm. You would laugh to discover that composting and crop rotation was a new idea then. We'd go through the threshing barn, then past a slave shack. Inevitably, our conversation would turn to slavery, growing up white in Memphis, Lena, and then we'd stand there in silence for awhile before hiking the trail through the woods to the mausoleum. A docent would point out trees that George Washington planted and are still thriving. On the way home we'd stop at a small out-of-the way restaurant for hot home-made soup.

If you were here, we might take the train to New York for the weekend. Take a carriage ride through Central Park, shop in Manhattan and have dinner at a world famous Italian place that I can't remember the name of just now, but Rachel would know. We'd take in a Broadway matinee, have our picture taken underneath the Wall Street marquee, tour Carnegie Hall and revel in the luxury of staying in a 5-star hotel.

If you were here, I'd tell you that you are a woman I have admired my whole life, that I love you for your intensity, the depth of passion and emotion you feel, that I understand it, the power and the contrast, the joy of it, and the burden. I'd tell you that I always felt safe when you were around. That you mothered us when you didn't have to. Every little girl should be so lucky. I'd tell you that you have many spiritual gifts and talents, that I love having deep conversations with you, and I love the way you question what is and what could be, always looking forward to the future as a place of happiness and light.

If you were here, I'd bake you a big chocolate birthday cake, because I make the meanest chocolate cake ever, and you'd agree with me after the first bite. I'd close my eyes, too, for just a moment while you made a wish, and I'd ask God to grant your wish, because of your passion for life and everything good and the way you have always loved. If you were here, I'd give you a hug so strong and immense that you could feel it anytime you needed one for the rest of your life.

If you were here, I'd say, Happy Birthday, Dear Sister, Friend of My Heart. Happy Birthday to you.

I Stand Corrected

My friend, Clytie, sent me a note with more accurate information about the history of the Pottawattamie plums than what I wrote. I made the corrections and reposted. I spent another 20 minutes trying to figure out why the link to that post doesn't work. So you'll have to scroll down to find it if you want to read the truth!! Thanks, Clytie.

Pottawattamie Jelly

My friends, Clytie and Spence, have a long-standing tradition: During the summer when wild pottawattamie plums are ripe, they pick enough to make a hundred or more 1/2 pints of beautiful, clear, red jelly. During their annual performance of the Nutcracker in December, the jellies are sold as a fund-raiser to help replace the cost of costumes. Well, Madelyn and I were lucky enough to be recipients of this incredible treat. We ate it drizzled over home-made bread pudding and Clytie sent us on our way with our own jars and one for Mom.

Spence told us the Pottawattamie Indians showed the early saints where the shrubs grew wild in Iowa when the saints stopped in Winter Quarters on their trek west. In the spring they took dried root stock with them to the Salt Lake Valley and planted them along the irrigation ditch banks. Over the years as the Salt Lake Valley and beyond has expanded, the bushes are becoming harder and harder to find. In fact, I didn't find much of anything on the internet that was recent either. But in 1922 U.P. Hedrick wrote the Cyclopedia of Hardy Fruits, Macmillan Co. (En must have come later). The horticultural name is P. Munsoniana and Hedrick said, "This variety is possibly of greater cultural value than any other of its species. The fruit is of high quality, the texture is especially pleasing in eating...and it keeps and ships very well...munsoniana plums grow without danger of winter injury to tree or bud as far north as the forty-fourth parallel." Hmmm. Suddenly I'm back in Idaho perusing our encyclopedias of gardening and planning the next year's garden... Anyway, I had never heard of Pottawattamie plums until recently. They don't appear to be cultivated as a crop commercially, but maybe one of the newer organic farms might take an interest. I hope the saplings can be ordered from certain plant nurseries but I've had no luck in finding them yet. But press on I will! The jelly tastes divine--tart and sweet at the same time, and the finished product is the most beautiful jewel red color, almost too lovely to eat.

I Found it!

When we went through Brandon's things in October, I found some odds and ends that had been missing. For instance--I had the mixer while he had the beaters! Go figure. Anyway, amidst all the clothing, books and dishes, I found a stack of recipes that I've had for years. Some of you will be too young to remember, but women's magazines such as Women's Day and Family Circle, used to include recipe booklets that could be pulled out and either filed or put in a binder. I love the ratty old booklet in these pictures. I've had it for over 30 years. How do I know? Because the inside pages say "Women's Day December 1975"! Wow. That means I had been married only about a year when I started making this recipe for pound cake.

The cake travels well and slices nicely if you want to include some on a cookie plate; or make a whole one and sweeten up that persnickety neighbor. Whatever you decide, the cake is delicious! I've had a request for the recipe, so here it is:

Pound Cake
In medium bowl stir together 2 & 2/3 cup flour, 1/4 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp nutmeg (optional) and 1/4 tsp salt; set aside.

In large bowl cream 1 & 1/2 cups butter and 2 & 1/4 cups sugar until light and fluffly. Add 2 tsps grated lemon peel, 2 tsps vanilla, and 8 eggs, two at a time, mixing well between. Mixture will look a bit curdly but that's ok.

Add flour mixture to wet mixture all at once and mix at low speed until smooth and well blended. (Do not use a high speed as you'll whip air into the mixture and your pound cake will come out tough). Bake in 10 inch bundt pan at 325* for an hour and ten minutes. Cool for 5 minutes then transfer to cake plate. Store airtight in a container or wrap in plastic wrap. Do not refrigerate.

Birthday Night

Look at this face! Do you think she knows something that I didn't? She did! I was told what time to be ready, and that's about it. Rachel picked me up at Clayton's house around 5 0'clock. Oh, no! A woman off the street! Naomi was walking down Howe Road in Martinez and said she just happened to be bringing me a birthday gift. She climbed in the truck with us and off we went.
Rachel insisted I wear the birthday hat and wrap, complete with fashionable (!@@!) sunglasses.
We went first to Va de Vi in Walnut Creek where every item is served elegantly in a small portion. Everyone at the table shares. Dinner was the most exquisite combination of flavors I've ever experienced, and our waiter was superb. Below are pictures of just two of the nine items we enjoyed.
After dinner we walked several blocks to the Performing Arts Center in Walnut Creek to see the opening night of "42nd St"--relevant because about ten years ago, Rachel and Naomi and I got to see "42nd St." on 42nd St in New York City! What memories! The significance of the night was not lost on me. A wonderful birthday celebration. Thank you, Rachel and Naomi!

My Mother, My Friend

Dear, Dear Mother,

Today is your birthday and just one of many times that I think about all those years we spent together in Idaho. Remember when I was 16 and newly married? We lived downstairs in your and Dad's big brick house on Palmer Rd. You never complained about that. Every night you cooked dinner and every night we gathered around the kitchen bar, blessed the food, and ate. You cooked simply, Mother, and I know that sometimes you felt that your food wasn't fancy enough, especially compared to the way my mother cooked. Hers was just different, that's all. I tried to assure you that your food was delicious but I don't know that you were ever convinced. You fixed chicken, roast beef, or hamburger patties, mashed or baked potatoes, gravy, a canned vegetable (usually green beans) and sometimes a salad or beet pickles from the fruit room downstairs. Chicken was either fried in the big black iron skillet, or put in the oven in a roasting pan and nobody could match your milk gravy! (Brandon never stopped talking about it as long as he lived). Beef was always roasted surrounded by potatoes and carrots. And steak from the grass-fed beef was sometimes substituted for hamburger. For dessert you served homemade fruit pie (remember how you'd make 12 at a time and freeze them?), jello salad, or canned peaches which you and Dad bottled every summer. You always set the bar with your everyday dishes--white Corelle ware with the yellow gold trim, plastic gold tumblers, paper napkins, salt and pepper, slices of homemade bread, and ice in our cups. Dad drank soda pop every night and you usually drank water. Larry and I usually drank soda pop or milk, but sometimes you fixed Koolaide. Larry's place was on the round stool closest to the wall, giving his left-handed elbow freedom to move. I sat next to him on his right, and Dad sat a space down from me, closest to the telephone. As the children came, the bar accomodated them and their high chairs, too. I never told you how much it meant to me for all those happy times around that kitchen bar, happier than any other place I can think of. And over the years, you sat across from all of us in the corner where the big cabinets that Dad built joined each other so you could get to the stove or refrigerator easily if we wanted seconds.

Sunday meals were the same as every day meals except for more choices of food, and then you used the clear glass tumblers with the painted flowers on them. Only when we had large family gatherings did we eat around the dining room table and the bar. I loved it when you used your pretty china with the roses on them and a tablecloth to protect the dining room set you'd inherited from your sister, Marvel. Age determined who sat at the dining table and who sat at the bar with preferential treatment oldest to youngest, but the kids didn't seem to mind where they ate since they were always hungry for your home cooking. If we had a really, really large group, the adults fed the kids first, sent them outside or downstairs, and then we ate. How I miss those precious times together in that house. You and Dad were my parents in almost every sense of the word.

Only one experience with you gives me cause for chagrin and that was shortly after Larry and I were married. I don't think that I ever thanked you for it and the lesson you and Dad taught me about growing up and taking adult responsibility.

After our family dinners, Larry and I jumed up from the table and usually went downstairs or outside. Sometimes we joined Dad in the den to watch television. Several weeks went by and one night Dad took Larry aside and told him, "You guys are not children anymore. Marci should help Mother with the dishes after we eat." Needless to say, when Larry told me, I was mortified. I knew better than that! I guess I was so wrapped up in my own life that it never occurred to me to lend you a hand. Typical teenager. I simply hadn't stopped to think about the work and sacrifices you were making for us, and indeed, I felt like one of your own from the beginning. I guess you could say that, married or not, that's when I began to grow up. I was eager to jump in and help you after that and you always thanked me. Looking back, I realize that all those after- dinner times together formed the basis for our life-long friendship. My memories of putting food away, washing out the gold porcelain sink, and washing and drying off the big counter are sweet ones. I even love the memory of how you always put your little dish with the plastic fruit in the center of the bar after we were finished. I have that dish now and it's a reminder of you and all you taught me. I will love you forever! Happy Birthday, Mother.

I have done so much genealogy

that I know some families really well. Above is a picture of my grandmother with three of her five sisters and below another picture of the whole family from about 20 years earlier.

Eva (Granny), Josephine, Katheryne, Clara.

All the Pearce's on 5th St in Memphis (house is no longer there) 1916. The couple on the front right are my grandparents with their first baby, my Uncle Lester.

I know who Granny and her sisters married and when, where they lived, whether or not they had children, which children died, when, why and from what, how far apart they and their spouses died, which ones divorced, which ones remarried, who had money, what they did for a living, and all kinds of other details that naturally appear when putting family puzzles together. One thing I know for certain: My granny and her sisters loved each other and were the best of friends, especially as they got older. Granny's parents, Ora and Edward, were gentle people who loved their children and had a deep faith in God. I have the same picture of my granny and her sisters on my laptop as I do here. I've seen it every day now for over two years. I showed Owen the picture the other day. "Look, Owen! There's your great-great Grand Aunt Clara, your great-great Grand Aunt Katheryne, your great-great Grand Aunt Josephine, and there's your great-great Grandmother!" He looked at the picture a minute and then said with an excited smile, "Did Granny come over on the Mayflower?" I could almost hear her laughing...

My Sister's World

I googled Rachel's name today and found this copy of an article that ran in the Concord paper. Thought you might enjoy reading it. The Original Unbelievable Apple Maker Sweet!

Road Trip, Days 1 and 2

Yesterday amidst hugs and tears and laughter, I had a great send-off from the chocolate shop...boy, do I have treats!! Rachel is kind of like our Mom in that she loves to send us off with food...(if you have Thanksgiving at her house, you can be certain you'll go home with turkey and dressing). I was saying my goodbyes when she pointed me in the direction of the store front and handed me a large shopping bag with instructions to fill it up. I had fun doing that and I felt a bit of nostalgia. Christmas in Rachel's store has a bit of a magic feel to it. I'm going to miss that, but I'm looking forward to delivering goodies to my mother and others. I can't be too specific about who is getting what because this blog has ears, or at least eyes...

Rachel and I decided that if I get stranded or buried in a snowdrift on this trip, I have enough food in my car to last a month. Seriously...a box of Clementines--I love those things and they're easy to peel and sweet, ummm, a banana, (well, 1/2 a banana as of tonight), two large and two small chocolate and caramel covered fuji apples, pecan pralines, almond bark, english toffee, caramels, chocolate santas and tin soldiers, and if that weren't enough, sweet Jazzy sent me off with two large containers of homemade granola and a container of lemon cookies. Did I forget anything? Probably.

In addition, (for all you die-hard worriers) I have a gallon of water, snow chains, gloves, pliers and various sized sockets, jumper cables, emergency light sticks (the florescent kind you snap and they glow for awhile), and a flashlight. My phone is with me, my gas tank is never less than 1/2 full, my tires were recently rotated and balanced, the car received an alignment, my brakes were checked and my oil changed. I have some windsheild fluid that has antifreeze in it, and my
windsheild wipers are in good shape. I also have a map of the United States and a trip tik booklet from AAA with my route mapped out exactly (unless I decide to take a detour into the wilderness back roads (not really, just kidding))

By the time I said my goodbyes, stopped at the atm for cash and was actually on the road, it was 4 pm. I drove across the new span of the Martinez-Benicia bridge for the first time and then on through Vacaville and Fairfield. (Did you know that Vacaville is really a strange combination? Vaca means cow in Spanish, and ville is, I believe, French for a small town, go figure), anyway, the drive was uneventful and as I drove up into the mountains and over Donner, I had the strangest feeling that I'd done that before---like---a week ago?? I also thought about a geography teacher who explained how the weather gets colder so many degrees for every thousand feet in elevation. I couldn't remember the details, but that knowledge, and the fact that I left so late in the day, made me watch the temperature drop as I drove higher into the hills. Dirty snow rimmed the highway, but otherwise, the roads were clear.

I drove as far as Lovelock, Nevada last night. Stayed at the Royal Inn which has an autographed picture of Merle Haggard from 2006 sitting on the check-in counter. According to the gentleman behind the desk, Merle stayed there last year, as did Shania Twain and someone else "country" and famous, but being a mostly non-fiction writer I hate to guess and be wrong, so I'll just admit that I can't remember the third person, but the older gentleman was very proud of his claim to fame and I pretended to be indubitably impressed.

This morning I found out an important piece of information for travelers: Lovelock, Nevada does not have a bakery, a donut man, or a restaurant that sells homemade cinnamon rolls. Not even Safeway has anything close. I did, however, find out that the local Chevron sells Krispy Kremes. Too late; I had already gassed up at Two Stiffs Market, which is right across the street from the Whiskey Creek bar and grill and down a ways from the Cowpoke Cafe which I would have gone to had they been open...

From Lovelock I drove on...and on...and on...(I wonder how many sagebrush bushes grow in Nevada, or are they called Sage brushes?) I used the cruise control most of the way, stopping in Wells to gas up. When I arrived in Salt Lake City, it was dark and trying to snow. Traffic was slow but the drivers were friendly. They let me in whenever I had to change lanes. As I drove north on I-15 to Kaysville, I listened to music from The Nutcracker. I thought about Owen, who went to see that recently with his mother. I wondered if he can identify the instruments by the different sounds they make...when I arrived I was welcomed, literally, with open arms by Clytie and Spence, a couple who served a mission in Bay Point two years ago. They are lovely people and I'll tell you more about them later. Right now, I'm going to turn in for bed. Since tomorrow my destination is White Rocks, Utah, and that leg of this journey will take only three hours, I'm going to sleep in so, goodnight John-boy, goodnight Meemaw, goodnight Poppa, ...zzzzzzzzz

My garden is flourishing

What a great son. Michele and I sat in the shade and watched Clayton till the soil.Bare dirt...Clayton made a second trip and brought soil ammendment.

After Clayton dug out my garden path, (his third trip) Larry and Clayton brought material for the pathway. A week later, Larry brought a vibratory sander over to compact it.

The early days. Notice how small the tomato plant is.Marilyn came up from Monterey and worked in my garden.

A night view of four of my eight tomato plants.

A night view of the birdbath.Progress!

Easter Dinner 2007

Rachel made a "nest" for each guest, with some to spare, carrying on the tradition our Mamaw had of making individual bread bunnies for each person.

The only thing bigger than the meals Rachel prepares is the love she has for all of us. I love you, Sister... Easter at Rachel's house was a sit-down affair, complete with white table clothes, hors d'oeuvre, coffee, tea, hand-squeezed lemonade, hand-dipped truffles, chocolate covered marshmallows, homemade rolls, roasted tri-tip with peppercorn mustard gravy, roasted rosemary chicken with fig sauce, zuchinni spears, corn, scalloped potatoes, sweet potatoes, pickles, olives, relish, artichoke hearts...Let's see, am I forgetting anything? Oh yeah! Cinnamon rolls for dessert! Delicious!!

Bruch Update and Recipe

Yesterday after church, I drove over to Burlingame and spent the day with Marty and his family. I enjoyed being with them so much! Andrew is so tiny. He is in the 3rd grade and weighs 38 lbs right now. The feeding tubes have been invasive and not very effective, so this week the doctor's are going to put a tube right into his stomach. They want Andrew to gain 10 pounds. Samantha is an amazing young woman. She graduates from high school this Spring. Today she is going to take Andrew bowling. He has been sick and not able to leave the house for quite some time. The way Sam spends time with Andrew reminds me of how close Tel and Clayton were, although the age difference between Sam and Andrew is greater. Please keep the little guy and his family in your prayers.

Last night I brought food and cooked dinner for us. Sheila set the table and Marty (in his gracious, Southern-training fashion) put on some wonderful music and lit candles. Here's the recipe for what I cooked, which Marty insists belongs in a restaurant!

Pecan Crusted Chicken Breasts

Make a small batch of cornbread. Marie Callendar's is my favorite but Jiffy is good too. Do NOT use a homemade recipe that calls for baking powder--too bitter and not worth the effort.

Melt 2 sticks of butter (what else?) in a bowl or pan large enough for dipping chicken breasts. Set aside.

Grind fresh pecans in a food processor until you have 3 cups.
Add 3 cups of crumbled cornbread (about 1/2 of an 8x8 pan, or several muffins)

Add 1-2 teaspoons of seasoning salt.

Cut skinless, boneless chicken breasts into 2 or 3 pieces each. Dip in butter, roll in pecan/cornbread mixture. Place on ungreased cookie sheet. This will make a full pan. Drizzle any remaining butter over chicken. Press any remaining pecans on breasts. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes.

Prepare a salad of baby spinach and romaine lettuce, English cucumber, fuji or another sweet type of apple(not grannysmith), dried cranberries, figs, or golden raisins, and feta, gorgonzola or another like cheese.

To serve, mound salad on plate, place warm chicken breast on top and drizzle with raspberry or balsamic vinagrette dressing. Delicious! (I'm sure this would be great for ranch dressing lovers as well).