Secret recipe
Guarded for generations
But blabbed on the Web
Ah, Thanksgiving, the carbo-holiday!!
Debby and I are planning a team effort this year. As we've planned our menu and divvied up the work, we realized that we both have "non-negotiable" side dishes that must make their annual command appearance.
Hers include sweet potatoes and stuffing. Mine are butternut squash souffle and sour cream green beans.
Fortunately for us, these dishes have stood the test of time and become family favorites.
Sadly for you, dear readers, I can't share mine, under penalty of death and disownment from my own mother. See, we come from a place and time before the Internet age, before television - heck, maybe even before radio, when recipes were almost a form of identity.
Think you've got a cool Twitter handle? Check out my top-secret rhubarb pie. The word spread and the reputation grew in the same manner it does now, only much more slowly, so you could savor every bite. My mother honors this tradition religiously. Holding these recipes close is perhaps a way of holding the memory of the women who shared them close as well.
But that leaves me in an Internet age with an eager (I hope) audience that is hungry for both posts and recipes. So here's another recipe that I've made the past few years and like a LOT. And because I've forgotten where it came from, I'd say the likelihood of blowing anyone's secret tradition is pretty slim.
Cranberry Chutney
2 cups fresh cranberries
2 cups sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 chopped apple (I like Granny Smith for this)
2 ribs celery, chopped
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 cup orange juice
1 cup golden raisins
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
Cook cranberries, sugar and water over medium heat for about 5 minutes, until sugar is completely dissolved. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 35 minutes, stirring frequently.
Remove from heat and chill. Store in the refrigerator in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks.
Makes 2 1/2 cups.
Monday, November 23, 2009
What's Under the Hood
This week, I had a dented door replaced on my 2001 Subaru Forester. It was one of the many bumps, wrinkles and scratches that makes my car look like it was "rode hard and put away wet," as the saying goes.
With my new, pretty door, I was driving it to pick up kids and thinking about how this could be the start of gradually repairing all the dents and completely rejuvenating my ride, when my daughter called out from the back seat, "Cool! The fabric on this door is different than all the rest!"
Cool to her, but a crossroads for me. See, I already have the reputation among my daughter's friends (and, secretly, their parents) of being the "junky car mom." I know I'm not the only one, and I screamed with laughter when a friend pointed me to the "Mom My Ride" video on YouTube.
Leaving the upholstery unmatched would be one more giant step down that road, but it also would be another chapter in my car's story.
The fact is, it has been ridden hard, but it's had lots of fun along the way. It's gone camping, on family trips, to more parks and playgrounds and hiking trails than I could count. It's had two different dogs take their rightful places in the back, and its seats have absorbed enough juice-box spills and Cheerios to feed breakfast to a small army.
As I looked at my car, with all the remaining dents and mis-matched upholstery, I thought, "Jeez, I really should just trade it in and start over with something new."
Then, I hopped in it to pick up my son and remembered why I keep it around. It's fun to drive, highly dependable, and can take anything life throws at it. All admirable qualities for anything - or anyone - that's got that many miles on 'em.
The car stays, along with my "junky car mom" reputation. But the nice guys at MAACO did put my original upholstery back on.
With my new, pretty door, I was driving it to pick up kids and thinking about how this could be the start of gradually repairing all the dents and completely rejuvenating my ride, when my daughter called out from the back seat, "Cool! The fabric on this door is different than all the rest!"
Cool to her, but a crossroads for me. See, I already have the reputation among my daughter's friends (and, secretly, their parents) of being the "junky car mom." I know I'm not the only one, and I screamed with laughter when a friend pointed me to the "Mom My Ride" video on YouTube.
Leaving the upholstery unmatched would be one more giant step down that road, but it also would be another chapter in my car's story.
The fact is, it has been ridden hard, but it's had lots of fun along the way. It's gone camping, on family trips, to more parks and playgrounds and hiking trails than I could count. It's had two different dogs take their rightful places in the back, and its seats have absorbed enough juice-box spills and Cheerios to feed breakfast to a small army.
As I looked at my car, with all the remaining dents and mis-matched upholstery, I thought, "Jeez, I really should just trade it in and start over with something new."
Then, I hopped in it to pick up my son and remembered why I keep it around. It's fun to drive, highly dependable, and can take anything life throws at it. All admirable qualities for anything - or anyone - that's got that many miles on 'em.
The car stays, along with my "junky car mom" reputation. But the nice guys at MAACO did put my original upholstery back on.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Strictly Need-to-Know
Late fall and winter are what I think of as "airplane season." It's about the only time of year I fly for work, and when I do, I always like a window seat. I like to see what's down below as we zoom overhead, and imagine the lives of the people down there.
But I've also found that I'd like to know exactly what I'm flying over as I pass. What's the name of that town? What's that river? Who's crop circles are those? (I'm sure there's an app for that, but I'm not exactly a "first adopter" for technology.)
I'm not sure where this need to know comes from. Maybe I just like to have my bearings. But I do find that I'm more interested in what I'm passing as I travel than what's going to happen when I get there. Is this a "live for the moment" mentality? A fear of the future? Or am I just usually too preoccupied with the lingering questions from the homefront to think too far ahead?
"Did I leave the milk out? Is the coffee pot on? Did my family get to their respective daily destinations without breaking anything?" These are the questions that rattle quietly around in the back of my mind as I travel. On this last trip, the break count was two items — my daughter's soap dispenser and my husband's ankle. Par for the course.
I think perhaps my focus on the present also comes from a healthy realization that I don't want to know what's going to happen next. Information about the future is indeed a stressful thing, whether it's keeping a surprise party a secret, not telling co-workers that you overheard they're being laid off, realizing that you're responsible for classroom snacks for an entire week next month, knowing that your best friend has a little spinach in her teeth and not being able to signal to her across a crowded room before she goes to talk to that great-looking man.
These are all small things, so the knowledge of knowing the big things in advance, like when you will die, would be too overwhelming. Talk about the stress of planning the perfect outfit!
No, I prefer to coast. Do I have hopes for the future? Of course. Do I plan for it? You bet. Would I want to see into the future, given the chance? No way.
I like to know as much as possible about the here and now, and the week or two to come. But as for the bigger future, I'm happy with a strictly need-to-know basis.
But I've also found that I'd like to know exactly what I'm flying over as I pass. What's the name of that town? What's that river? Who's crop circles are those? (I'm sure there's an app for that, but I'm not exactly a "first adopter" for technology.)
I'm not sure where this need to know comes from. Maybe I just like to have my bearings. But I do find that I'm more interested in what I'm passing as I travel than what's going to happen when I get there. Is this a "live for the moment" mentality? A fear of the future? Or am I just usually too preoccupied with the lingering questions from the homefront to think too far ahead?
"Did I leave the milk out? Is the coffee pot on? Did my family get to their respective daily destinations without breaking anything?" These are the questions that rattle quietly around in the back of my mind as I travel. On this last trip, the break count was two items — my daughter's soap dispenser and my husband's ankle. Par for the course.
I think perhaps my focus on the present also comes from a healthy realization that I don't want to know what's going to happen next. Information about the future is indeed a stressful thing, whether it's keeping a surprise party a secret, not telling co-workers that you overheard they're being laid off, realizing that you're responsible for classroom snacks for an entire week next month, knowing that your best friend has a little spinach in her teeth and not being able to signal to her across a crowded room before she goes to talk to that great-looking man.
These are all small things, so the knowledge of knowing the big things in advance, like when you will die, would be too overwhelming. Talk about the stress of planning the perfect outfit!
No, I prefer to coast. Do I have hopes for the future? Of course. Do I plan for it? You bet. Would I want to see into the future, given the chance? No way.
I like to know as much as possible about the here and now, and the week or two to come. But as for the bigger future, I'm happy with a strictly need-to-know basis.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Why motherhood will end war
Today I sat on a plane to Memphis, Tennessee, next to a young man bound for two-week's leave from his post in Iraq. He was on his way home to surprise his mama. You gotta love that.
Michael is 19, has been in Iraq for 9 months and has 9 more to go on this tour. He showed me some photos on his My Space page of Kuwait and Iraq, and shared some chocolates he had picked up in Germany on his way home. (Those Germans know their chocolates. That was some fabulous stuff.)
Talking with Michael made me realize two somewhat life-altering things.
First, I'm old enough to be his mother. That was truly an ah-ha moment - and not in a good way. I'm used to thinking of my self as mother to my 8 and 3-year-old kids. But technically, I could be the mother of a 19-year-old kid, on his way home to surprise me.
That thought led to another thought: I wanted Michael to stay home, go to college, find a nice girl, have some kids and find a way to add to a peaceful, caring world. I wanted him to be safe. And although I've never met her, I'm pretty sure his mama feels the same way.
I bet the mothers of soldiers all over the world feel that way, too. Yes, we are proud that our sons and daughters are brave and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the ideals we believe in, but we'd much rather they didn't.
Suppose that all the mothers in the world put their collective feet down, and said, with one hand on a hip and the other brandishing a cooking implement that suited their culture,"You are NOT going to go out and get into fight with those other kids! And if I hear about you doing anything like that, you'll wish it WAS world war three!"
I bet we'd have one helluva peaceful planet.
Godspeed, Michael. May you return safely.
Michael is 19, has been in Iraq for 9 months and has 9 more to go on this tour. He showed me some photos on his My Space page of Kuwait and Iraq, and shared some chocolates he had picked up in Germany on his way home. (Those Germans know their chocolates. That was some fabulous stuff.)
Talking with Michael made me realize two somewhat life-altering things.
First, I'm old enough to be his mother. That was truly an ah-ha moment - and not in a good way. I'm used to thinking of my self as mother to my 8 and 3-year-old kids. But technically, I could be the mother of a 19-year-old kid, on his way home to surprise me.
That thought led to another thought: I wanted Michael to stay home, go to college, find a nice girl, have some kids and find a way to add to a peaceful, caring world. I wanted him to be safe. And although I've never met her, I'm pretty sure his mama feels the same way.
I bet the mothers of soldiers all over the world feel that way, too. Yes, we are proud that our sons and daughters are brave and are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the ideals we believe in, but we'd much rather they didn't.
Suppose that all the mothers in the world put their collective feet down, and said, with one hand on a hip and the other brandishing a cooking implement that suited their culture,"You are NOT going to go out and get into fight with those other kids! And if I hear about you doing anything like that, you'll wish it WAS world war three!"
I bet we'd have one helluva peaceful planet.
Godspeed, Michael. May you return safely.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The Fountain of Youth
As I mentioned before, at my house, we're obsessed with the urination habits of our 3-year-old son.
By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.
But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.
This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.
Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"
Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)
Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.
I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.
"Is that water?" I asked.
"Nooo."
"Did you pee on your floor?"
A sly grin.
"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)
"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."
Guess he showed me.
I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:
Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.
Want more haiku? Check out Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul.
By weekday, he's a well-trained, cotton-undies wearin' kind of guy. I picture him at pre-school, standing next to the other boys at a row of pint-sized urinals, giving and getting high fives for solid bulls eyes.
But at home, he becomes like a spoiled cat. Urine is weapon used to show displeasure, and he's not afraid to use it.
This morning, I told him that he needed to get dressed before he came downstairs. He stripped off his jammies and pull-up happily as I went downstairs to answer the phone.
Over the next several minutes, I frequently called up the stairs, "Are you getting dressed?"
Answers varied from "not yet," to "in just a second." (Hmm, wonder where he learned that one?)
Eventually, I went to check on him, and found him happily playing with a toy shark and one of his favorite CDs submerged in a sink full of water. Still nothing on down below.
I took him to his room and saw the puddle on the floor.
"Is that water?" I asked.
"Nooo."
"Did you pee on your floor?"
A sly grin.
"Why did you DO that?" (loudly)
"Well...I didn't want to get dressed."
Guess he showed me.
I shared this story with friends this evening, and one jokingly suggested a clothespin to stem the tide. Can't say I didn't think about it. But instead I admitted defeat for the moment and wrote a haiku in honor of my worthy opponent:
Water on the floor
A boy's discovered power
The fountain of youth.
Want more haiku? Check out Haiku and Food to Suit Your Mood. It's simple recipes for the body and witty haiku for the soul.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Post-Halloween Hangover
Today is November 1st. It's the day of All Saints, the middle of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, and "Candyfest" to my kids.
For me, it's "Ohmigosh-Here-Come-the-Holidays-Deer-in-the-Headlights" Day.
As I unwrap the umpteeth chocolate purloined from my daughter or son's candy bag, I'm already building up regret for the holiday pounds to come or the extra exercise it will take to prevent them. I'm dropping my head under a pillow as I think of the casseroles to bake, the gifts to buy and the possibility that this could be the year we actually re-instate the sending of holiday cards.
It's also the day that the time changes back to early darkness - just to remind us that as the year rounds to an end, we've not only got more to do, we've also got fewer daylight hours in which to do it.
Doesn't seem fair, does it? Kind of like a 60-day hangover that lasts from now until next year.
It makes me dream of winning the lottery and taking an extended trip to an exotic, remote locale - preferably a "Saint-something," where I'm waited on hand and foot and look fabulous in my ski suit or swimsuit (depending on the fantasy), only returning home when the first buds of spring emerge.
Well, that ain't happ'nin. So I propose a revolt.
Why do we wait until what should be the beginning of winter and the last of the year to add all this extra hoopla to our already busy lives?
Instead, let's move Thanksgiving to May, when we're truly happy for warm spring weather, and Christmas to July when there's no chance of getting cheesy sweater from Aunt Sally. Then, let's declare November through February as "Sleep Season," where it is completely socially acceptable to hibernate (mentally at least, if not physically). It's a lot cheaper than that exotic trip.
For me, it's "Ohmigosh-Here-Come-the-Holidays-Deer-in-the-Headlights" Day.
As I unwrap the umpteeth chocolate purloined from my daughter or son's candy bag, I'm already building up regret for the holiday pounds to come or the extra exercise it will take to prevent them. I'm dropping my head under a pillow as I think of the casseroles to bake, the gifts to buy and the possibility that this could be the year we actually re-instate the sending of holiday cards.
It's also the day that the time changes back to early darkness - just to remind us that as the year rounds to an end, we've not only got more to do, we've also got fewer daylight hours in which to do it.
Doesn't seem fair, does it? Kind of like a 60-day hangover that lasts from now until next year.
It makes me dream of winning the lottery and taking an extended trip to an exotic, remote locale - preferably a "Saint-something," where I'm waited on hand and foot and look fabulous in my ski suit or swimsuit (depending on the fantasy), only returning home when the first buds of spring emerge.
Well, that ain't happ'nin. So I propose a revolt.
Why do we wait until what should be the beginning of winter and the last of the year to add all this extra hoopla to our already busy lives?
Instead, let's move Thanksgiving to May, when we're truly happy for warm spring weather, and Christmas to July when there's no chance of getting cheesy sweater from Aunt Sally. Then, let's declare November through February as "Sleep Season," where it is completely socially acceptable to hibernate (mentally at least, if not physically). It's a lot cheaper than that exotic trip.
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