Potato Salad School

We have friends and family coming over tomorrow, so I've just finished making a giant batch of potato salad. It's my mother-in-law's recipe, and it's the only one I ever make anymore. Of course, it hasn’t always been my favorite. It was love at first sight when my husband and I met. I fell in love with his family as well. Their taste in food, however, was another story. The goulash was good. The nachos were great, but I just couldn't understand why this family insisted on putting green olives in everything. I’ve often heard that they are an acquired taste. At that point, I still didn't care for them much. Imagine my surprise, then, when they even showed up in the potato salad! I was beginning to worry I might starve at family functions.

Fast forward many years. My husband and I had been married for almost a decade. We had three beautiful children, and I had learned to love green olives - especially in Cathy's potato salad. She was called upon to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings. The last few get-togethers had been difficult, however. My mother-in-law had cancer, and it had begun to manifest itself in interesting ways, including some we did not expect. There was, of course, the fatigue and nausea. But, there were other things, too – more campout weekends together; the re-telling of childhood stories; the increasingly-frequent exchange of wan, knowing smiles.  

She arrived at my house one afternoon with three huge bags of supplies - potatoes, bowls, special kitchen equipment, and (of course) green olives. Apparently, Potato Salad School was in session, and I was ready to be a diligent pupil. Because it wasn't a recipe she had ever written down, but rather a labor of love each and every batch, we mixed, and chopped, and tasted together. I took copious notes. By the end of the afternoon we had a big bowl of what was unquestionably her special potato salad, I had a recipe in hand, and she wore a tired but triumphant expression.

It was then that I really stopped to take a good look at her. Her hair had been short, wavy, and black before the chemo. The wig she had chosen that day was a chin-length, blonde bob. (Even in the face of such loss, she chose to find the bright side, experimenting with hairstyles she never would have been able to achieve otherwise.) She was thin, and didn't have the stamina she used to. In that moment, I suddenly realized Potato Salad School was about far more than just passing along a recipe. It was one part rite of passage for a daughter-in-law, one part passing-of-the-torch for a mother-in-law. It was, in short, the assurance that her potato salad - and all that it entailed - would continue, even if she did not.

Cathy passed away about a year later. It had been a long, hard process, and we were blessed to be by her side during the weeks she was in the hospital and Hospice. The whole family gathered with my father-in-law back at their house the morning after she died, numb and unsure of what to do. I found myself drawn to the kitchen, and began dragging out her giant bowl, methodically peeling potatoes, and hunting around in the cupboard for the jars of green olives that I knew I would find there. After all - the family was together, and that meant someone had to make the potato salad. I’m not sure it tasted as good as hers, but it was a comfort to have it there anyway.

Since then, I’ve been the one expected to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Every second helping and satisfied “mmmmm” are reminders of my beloved mother-in-law, all the love she had for her family, and our special afternoon together where I learned so much more than just how to make potato salad. 

Image courtesy of Simon Howden/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My Favorite...

My favorite thing about the holiday season when I was a kid was the food. My family has a lot of terrific cooks, and we never lacked for good things to eat. However, this was the time of year when even my mom outdid herself and our cuisine went from fantastic to over-the-top. It always started with a traditional Thanksgiving, which is my favorite meal of the year, and ended with a spectacular array of finger foods artfully arranged for our annual New Year's Eve Movie Night. Stuffing and mashed potatoes with creamy gravy to start things off, and cheese ball, pickle-cream-cheese-and-ham wraps, and finger sandwiches to wrap the season up. It doesn't get much better than that.


But, best of all, was all the stuff in the middle. My mom had a special recipe box that she kept just for her Christmas goodies. Some families have sugar cookies and almond bark pretzels. We had decadent fudge, rich truffles, and delicate, hand-painted chocolate masterpieces, among many other things. The cooking started the week after Thanksgiving with my mom's chunky, aromatic, flavorful fruit cake. After chopping and measuring and mixing and baking, we wrapped each cake in rum-soaked cheesecloth and put them aside to age. While some people joked about the terror of receiving a store-bought fruit cake for Christmas, these were coveted and highly sought after gifts in our community and extended family.

The next weekend we always moved on to pumpkin bread, chocolate-cherry-thumbprints, and my great-grandmother's special oatmeal, chocolate chip, raisin cookies. Each person would be assigned a corner of the kitchen and a recipe, and we'd always end up clucking playfully at each other over who took the last stick of butter, and chuckling about how my dad could get powdered sugar on every square inch of his work area. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the warmth and smell the sweet goodness of those baking days.

Of course, there was also a lot of work involved. (It is only now, that I am a mother, that I understand how much time and energy my mom put into those endless weekends.) However, even when finances were lean, my grandfather was very ill, we had too much scheduled and not enough time to complete it all, and giggly little girls had been replaced by surly, moody teenagers, those weekends were an important tradition that we held on to, and that I will always treasure.

This year I am determined to pull out a few special recipes (most of which are the ones I loved so much as a kid) and share them with my children. I know that what I do with them will never be the same as the special time that I shared with my parents, but I want them to have great memories of us being together in the kitchen just like I had. Who knows - maybe someday it will be their favorite childhood memory of the holiday season as well.

Canning

Tomorrow I am going to introduce my dear, life-long friend to the mystery and alchemy of canning. Just like the 'scientists' of yore who labored over bubbling pots and boiling beakers, I like to think of canning as a mystical art form. The perfect beauty and bounty of summertime being distilled and preserved forever (or at least a year or two) - making it possible to taste June in January, sunshine in snowstorms, green growth in grey skies.

I am (don't tell!) actually pretty new to canning. I put my first pears and peaches into jars just a few years ago - busily humming away late into the night, paring knife flashing, canner steaming on the stovetop. I was hooked from the first 'pop' of a sealed jar. My mom canned some when I was a kid, as did her mother before her.  I have vague but comfortable memories of it. I like to think that this, like so many other things I do, is a return to something important from my heritage - something I have grown up enough to now be proud of.

Last summer my daughter would sneak upstairs and sit on the counter next to me as I worked. It was late, and she should have been in bed, but I couldn't help but feel, deep in my bones, that it was more important for her to be putting in the memories of canning as I put the peaches in the jars than it was for her to get enough sleep - at least for that night. So, we canned together. I washed the fruit, blanched it, and squished the skins off, the sink turning a murky pink color. I let her halve the peaches and remove the pits. We both had juice dribbling down our chins and off our elbows, nightgowns smudged and damp. It was well past midnight before the last jar sealed and we went to bed. I don't remember what we said, but I know it was good. Surrounded by fresh fruit and jars and history and heritage as we were - how could it not have been wonderful?

I know we're staring off small - just a few pints of homemade salsa - but I hope my friend gets hooked on canning, just like I did. Not only because I want someone I can share recipes with and trade produce with and ask to borrow a jar lifer or a canning funnel from once in a while, but because I want the people I love to get the very best from life. And, I can't imagine anything better than that late night with my daughter, the satisfaction of a cupboard full of gleaming jars, and knowing that you have been a part of something important from the past, and are making it possible for that something important to continue in the future.

Besides - it means I'll get to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen with my dear, life-long friend and six children, watching our progress wide-eyed and eagerly, and grinning in delight when they hear the jars seal. What could be better than that?

Nuked

We finally gave in and got a microwave a week or so ago. I don't know what was the final straw that broke this camel's back. Perhaps it was the fact that my husband switched from the occasional broad hint to a direct, daily inquiry about when we could go appliance shopping. Or, maybe it was the sad look my children had while pleading for the forbidden fruit of microwave popcorn. (Or the even sadder look that people gave to me while listening to the children plead, assuming that surely we must live in abject poverty if we do not have a microwave in our home.)

Truth be told, I had been mulling the idea around for about a week already before I finally gave in, but it was a tough thing for me to do. I liked holding on to some of my crunchy, quirky, all-natural self-righteousne... uh, I mean ideals. It reminded me of who I had been, who I assumed I still was deep down inside (and who my friends and family hope I will never, ever become again). I suppose that trading in the toaster oven for the microwave is the same as trading in broomstick skirts and veganism for a decent professional wardrobe (my "goin' to Des Moines clothes") and a more balanced approach to healthy eating. I am still an Earthmomma, darnit, but I'm a little softer around the edges. (Now that we have a microwave, I'll probably glow around the edges too!)

So, it was with great trepidation that I welcomed our newest addition into the family. I must admit, despite my misgivings, that it is a good fit. It has this funny little habit where the door doesn't close all the way, which triggers the safety switch and doesn't allow you to press the start button. It's got personality. I like that in a machine. Plus, it does make a mean plate of nachos, and can warm up leftovers better than even my beloved cast-iron skillet.  It's quiet. It's sleek. It's neat. It's clean. It has a flat surface on top to stack things on, and it gave us a much-needed west-facing clock that we can see from the front door. In short, I'm in love with the thing. But, I'm not always thrilled with the company it chooses to hang out with.

See, microwaves do not attract health food. They're not made for health food. What they're made for is pre-packaged, 'cheeze' covered, cellophane wrapped preservatives, molded into an approximate shape and size and color of food, and then sprayed with a food-like scent. Trust me, I am something of an expert on this, having just moments ago eaten a Chicken and Cheese Chimichunga that came in a shiny green wrapper.

I did my best to treat this frozen hunk of faux-TexMex like food - putting it on a real plate, covering it with salsa, adding a bit of shredded cheese to the top... In the end, what I had was still appalling and awful. The texture was all wrong. The flavor was all wrong. The guilt I felt was all wrong. The only redeeming qualities that chimichunga had was that it was cheap, it was hot, and it was NOW.

Then again.... I've already swallowed my pride by signing a peace treaty with my arch-nemesis (which has  nuclear capabilities, no less!) and invited it into my home. I've given up all my other long-held ideals about food. Maybe being cheap, hot, and NOW aren't such bad qualities. (Ask many 19-year-olds, and they will think these are the ONLY qualities worth having...) Maybe it is a sign of maturity, of becoming more at peace with the world around me, of finally giving up all my self-righteous attitudes. Yes, I believe it must surely be a good thing that I can eat a TV dinner now and again, wait happily for that reassuring 'ding' when warming up leftovers, and allow my girls to eat microwave popcorn occasionally.

Of course, that's only if it's Newman's Organic, because those others use fake butter that will give you cancer. And, mind you, I care far too much about my internal organs to subject them to radiation by actually standing in front of the thing while it's blasting my food with its Geiger-alerting rays. And, the leftovers would certainly have to be from my home-grown, good-quality, grass-fed, free-range, all-natural, cruelty-and-cage-free, omega-enriched, biosustainable, home-canned, happy animals, and.....

(Ok, maybe the microwave hasn't totally nuked all of my self-righteousness yet... I'll keep you posted.)

Menu Minimalism

Tonight we're having beef for dinner. Each afternoon around 4:00, I seem to know that much, and not much more. Despite four or so years of being a vegan, the hub for my meal planning still comes down to which animal gave its life in order for me to eat, at least for supper. (The rules for lunch, of course, are totally different.) Anyway, so I find myself with a cut of meat in hand (sometimes literally) and no other plans. Oh, I could go for the usual side dishes that I fix every other night of the week, but is that the kind of person I want to be - a mac and cheese user? A woman with a frozen vegetable habit? Is that how I want my children to remember me!?

I could go old school - meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. This suits my 1950's housewife fantasy nicely. (Funny thing, that fantasy. Never once has my house become magically cleaner, my children more polite, or the shows on my television more G-Rated just because I put on a frilly apron and high heels. Go figure. It has once induced my husband to ask for a mixed drink, however, upon returning home from work. ) Besides just the all-American appeal, the trifecta meal planning method also does make for some darn tasty eats. Alas, it also invariably requires me to rummage in cupboards, dig through the freezer, and uncover a bag of taties that's been sitting too close to the window (sprouting), or too long in the dark (moldy). Curses, foiled again.

Never one to do anything in moderation, I then swing back to my hippy-trippy days, seeking to recall what were once the superstars of my kitchen reportoire, but which will now just be side dishes for my slab-o-meat. This, I am sure, is exactly how ex-Country stars feel at having to follow up children's singing groups and local talent shows on County Fair stages across the nation. So, will it be black beans and rice? Rice and red beans? Spanish Rice and refried beans? (Perhaps I am beginning to see why I am no longer a vegan. Hmm....) A quick thumb through my tattered New Farm Cook Book doesn't yield any appealing solutions for tonight, though it does remind me that the people who think I'm crunchy-granola now just don't even have a clue about ol' Earth Momma Annie at the height of her broomstick skirts and Birkenstocks days.

All of my freezer-fumblings, fifties-fantasies, and Farm cookbook remembrances have cost me an hour, and yet I am nowhere closer to having a side dish in mind. Meat and....? Meat and.....? Let's face it, I'm going to rely on my same old standbys that I always do. It will be meat and canned corn, probably with tortilla chips, because that's how we roll around here, baby. Why? Because we always seem to have canned corn and tortilla chips around, and I know that my famiy will eat them. Sometimes I might throw in some cilantro, or serve some salsa up on the side, but when it comes to supper I've got my Fave Five (give or take) ingredients that see me through. They are my go-to items, and as long as they never let me down, how can I turn my back on them?

It's good to know that I can still whip up a pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and broccoli with cheese sauce that would make the Beav's mom proud. Or, that my quinoa tabouleh recipe is still where I can find it should the need arise. (I can't help it - I'm chuckling here because I know good and well that at least three people reading this blog will not only mangle the pronounciation of that dish, but also spend several seconds wondering if perhaps I just made up some gibberish words to make myself look hippyfied. One of you might even Google it.)

Tonight, I will have beef and canned corn and tortilla chips. Tomorrow night I will have chicken with mac and cheese and a frozen vegetable. The night after that I will mix things up and have lamb with canned corn and mac and cheese (tricky,  no?). But - here's where the 1950's potluck mentality meets with my creative flower child - the next night, I shall have a casserole. And everyone knows, that it's no holds barred on casserole night...

Deconstructing Squash

I'm on a mission at my house... a mission to deconstruct squash. I want to debunk the stereotypes, remove the mystery, take away the stigma. My husband isn't going for it. He's not a squash guy. I must give him credit, however - at least he tried it at supper tonight. Whatever it is that he's got against it, at least I know it's not without reason.
I, on the other hand, love squash. I love its heft, its color, its potential. I love the fact that there are a million recipes out there for each bountiful, beautiful squash. Some of them are hearty and homey, like Baked Acorn Squash with Bacon, or Butternut Squash with Mustard Greens. These are the recipes that sustained humanity for centuries. You can't take a bite without sensing in your soul that someone, somewhere once made this in a squatty shelter while humming a song that had been passed down for generations.

Nowadays, of course, even the humblest of ingredients are being gussied up, brought blinkingly into the spotlight, and called chic.A quick search on the Food Network website will bring you all sorts of fancy recipes - Butternut Squash and Vanilla Risotto, Roasted Acorn Squash with Gorgonzola Pizza, Rigatoni with Squash and Prawns. It's like dressing up the local honky-tonk star and putting her onstage in Vegas. All the big-name chefs and TV personalities are doing it, and, frankly, I salute them for it. Whatever it takes to bring the lowly squash into its own is ok by me.

Consider this: Most winter squash have a low glycemic index, a high 'satiety factor' (they make you feel full),  almost all of the usual vitamins and minerals in sizeable and balanced quantities, are very low in fat, and contain all of the 9 amino acids (which, as we learned in high school, are the building blocks for a healthy body). Plus, they come in such oddly-named varieties as Crookneck, Turk's Turban, Pattypan, Delicata, Indian Bitter Melon, Eight Ball, Gooseneck, Curshaw, Cheese Wheels... the list goes on and on.

Clearly, I have done a little research for this blog entry. (While it's true that my head is filled with useless knowledge, this happened to be some that I wasn't previously lugging around.) I think I've finally found the one thing that will convince my husband to like squash: pumpkin pie. Turns out, most canned pumpkin pie filling that you buy isn't really 100% pumpkin after all. It's really a mixture of some pumpkin, and squash! (This really is a misnomer, since pumpkins are actually relatives of the squash.) Yep - all those folks at Thanksgiving who turn up their noses at the squash dishes brought by Aunt Herriot, but then turn around and enthusiastically go back for seconds on punkin pie are really showcasing their lack of knowledge and discernment in the pie-hole department.

Truth be told, I can hardly blame them for their low-class palate. Despite all my fancy talk and recipe searching, I almost always fall back on the same method of cooking up a mess of squash - bake it with a little butter and brown sugar. I suppose that this is much the same method that they make that faux pumpkin pie, albeit with a hint of sugar and a lot more pureeing.  I have never yet thought to get out the whipped cream for my mashed squash - perhaps I'll have to give it a try. I now have the facts to quote you about the health benefits of squash, and the recipes to showcase just what a sophisticated cook I am for knowing how to use such an 'in-style' ingredient, but the reason I love squash is much more simple. I connect with that woman in her squatty shelter. I, too, hum when I'm hacking, sing when I'm slicing, just like she did. (Ok - I tend to sing Folk ballads from the 60's, but the idea is the same.) There's something universal, sustaining, autumnal, and comforting about a good, old, reliable squash. That's what I'm into. That's what I'm about.

Next time - perhaps we'll deconstruct a Brussel Sprout. It's bound to be less educational, but much more entertaining...

Late Night TV

I'm up late (again) and watching a mindless show on Public Television. (Ever since the big switch to digital TV we get 3 PBS stations. One of them is a knock-off Home and Garden / DIY channel. I guess it's a fair trade - we gave up 6 fuzzy stations for 3 clear PBS channels and NOTHING ELSE. Digital really stinks in the country.) Anyway, this particular episode is one of those 'make your whole life and home and meals and family all better on less than $0.37 a day!' shows. I can't stand those.

Right now the suspciously perky hostess is showing me how to glue mismatched tea cups onto an old silver candelabra for a festive centerpiece. An assistant is in raptures over what a good idea this is. Problem is, you just KNOW tomorrow she'll be explaining how mismatched tea cups at a tea party are all the rage, especially if you have a tarnished candelabra with some funky candles in the middle of the table. Where will that leave me? I'll tell you where - with super glue fingers and an out-of-style centerpiece. DIY show projects invariably lead to regret. Just remember that next time you're tempted to rush out for spray paint, floral foam, and copper tubing at the urging of someone who wears a home made apron with a lady bug painted on it on national television.

Next comes a 'money saving' menu idea. Turns out, Kelly (or Katie, or Kathy... whatever her name is) has never actually used leftover hamburgers. With a giggle and a toss of her teased hair she lets slip the secret that she's been throwing away perfectly good grilled hamburgers at the end of her cook out parties. After all, they are a bit dry and unappealing, she tell us. Sure hope my children never catch on to that, since I have been a daily leftover user for years.Sometimes I have been known to use leftovers twice or even three times in one day. (Don't worry - I am in rehab now ever since my family planned and executed an intervention for me.) Anyway, apparently it is entirely possible, with the guidance of a seasoned television professional, to actually use these leftovers to create tasty meals. Who knew? Tonight's suggestion is for a taco. Seriously? All she did was break up the burger (which included a close up on her dazzling French manicure), sprinkle on some salsa and cheese, and throw it in a tortilla. For THIS she has her own show?

Now we're on to practical ideas for the home. Don't you just hate it when you burn your table with a hot pan? Well, Kendra is going to show us how to turn old wine corks and heavy gauge wire into hot pads!! From underneath the work bench the hostess produces an enormous tin bucket full of corks. (I think I'm beginning to understand her frantic perkiness a bit better...) Doesn't anyone wonder about this woman? She can afford hundreds of bottles of wine, but not a few hot pads? Poor money management, a drinking problem, and she's been throwing out perfectly good hamburgers for years? Who hires the hosts for these shows, anyway!?

On the one hand, they're suggesting craft ideas suitable for pre-schools and/or in-patient mental institutions. But, don't be fooled! The moment you let your guard down you will find them instructing you on how to knit, their fingers and cryptic terminology flying left and right. I once tried to follow along on a 'simple' beading project and ended up with a sprained pinkey, a piece of beading wire embedded in my left thigh, and a squint that has only recently left. My poor husband came home to find me crying softly, saying over and over again, "but what if I DIDN'T end up with a third string? What should I do then....?"

Forget about it. I've had it with this little-miss-homey! Until someone contacts me to host "The Andrea Farrier Style of Living" I'm done forever with this insanity. Rest assured, dear readers, my show would ROCK and be full of genuinely practical tips. Things like:

• The definitive guide to knowing when food has gone bad (even cottage cheese!)
• Masking all your home odors the easy and effective way
• Dust Art
• 37 things to do with a chicken (and only the last 10 are for after they've been butchered)
• Decorating the creative way with clutter
• Knit your own sweater from the hair your pet has left on the furniture
  
• 128 uses for instant mashed potatoes
  
• The proper care and feeding of dust bunnies
• Making food your children will love to eat (OR - how to make your children eat the food you make)
• Make a handy organizer for all your favorite take-out phone numbers
• How to do ... well... EVERYTHING at the last minute
  
• 10 ways to reuse dryer lint.

(Confession time - I do really have a great tip for reusing dryer lint, and the chicken thing is totally true also. The rest, I might have to study up a bit on.) Anyway, must run... Even though it's late I'm going to go work on my manicure. I'm just POSITIVE the network will call tomorrow, and I want to be ready for my closeup.