The Unexpected Package and Lemon Pie

The Unexpected Package

Those of you who listen to National Public Radio know about StoryCorps. It began back in 2003 with the opening of a story booth in Grand Central Terminal in NYC.  Two people enter the booth and record an interview or shared story.  The taping is housed by the Library of Congress for posterity.  The mission of the non-profit StoryCorps “is to preserve and share humanity’s stories in order to build connections between people and create a more just and compassionate world.”

I usually choke up when hearing most of the stories.   This weekend was no different as I listened as Pfc. Roman Coley Davis told the story of a package from home that changed his life and gave him hope.  At the time, he had been stationed in the Korengal Valley, Afghanistan, for over a year.

“We were essentially in a black zone,” he said. “If you walk outside of the wire, there’s almost a 100 percent chance that someone’s dying or coming back wounded — if you come back.”

He was homesick and “feeling lost.”  That was when a package arrived from his grandmother:  “It was this big, huge thing wrapped in aluminum foil,” he says. “I take off this layer of aluminum foil, and there’s more aluminum foil, and like 30 layers of foil and plastic wrap, and this, that and the other.”

His “Mema” had sent him her famous sour cream pound cake.  This was the cake that she prepared for people who had lost their mothers.  She gave it to people who were grieving and in pain. And now she was sending it to him.

Davis took his combat knife and sliced the cake into large chunks so everyone on his team received a piece:

“I ate mine first — and I cried. I think that if we had dined in her kitchen the moment that it cooled and she took the towels off of it, it could not have been as fresh as it was there on that mountainside. . . . For that one moment, I felt loved, even though I was lonely. The pound cake was clean, even though I was so dirty. It was cold, and that pound cake warmed me. . . . It was just like Mema was there.”

When he returned home, Davis enrolled in culinary school and became a chef.  However, in telling his tale, he noted that he has never been able to make a cook as good as Mema’s.

The story got me thinking about MY “Mema” and HER pound cake.  It was the best in the world and just thinking about it fills me with love and longing for my Gran.

A few weeks ago, I made a lemon meringue pie for a class at A Southern Season in Chapel Hill.  The recipe was basically the one on the Eagle Brand Condensed Milk label (of course, I tweaked it a bit).  The additional time to make a homemade crust with real butter and the extra egg whites for the meringue along with the extra lemon juice led to the creation of something special, based on the reactions of the 45 people attending the class.

Perhaps you can find time this week to prepare this special, home-made April dessert for your family.  Then sit back and watch those happy faces. I think you will find the time well-spent.

 

Mile High Lemon Meringue Pie

For the crust, you need 1 1/2 C graham cracker crumbs (about 10 full sheet graham crackers), 8 TB melted unsalted butter, 1/3 C granulated sugar. If you’re starting out with full-sheet graham crackers, you can use a food processor or blender to grind them up. Or crush them in a zipped top bag with a rolling pin.

Mix the graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, and granulated sugar together with a rubber spatula in a medium bowl until combined. The mixture will be thick, coarse, and sandy. Press the mixture into the bottom of the dish or pan and slightly up the sides. This crust will fit into a 9-inch pie pan. Make sure it is tight and compact. Use the bottom of a flat measuring cup.  The crust will be thick.

For the filling, separate 3 large eggs. In a bowl, mix 3 egg yolks with 1 can eagle brand condensed milk, and 1/3 cup fresh lemon juice. Whisk until thick. Pour into graham cracker pie crust.

Bake at 350 degrees for 5 – 10 minutes on lower rack.  With electric mixer beat 5 egg whites and 1 tsp. lemon juice until frothy.  Add 1/3 c. sugar and beat until medium peaks form.  Remove pie from oven, top with egg whites and return to oven until meringue is lightly brown (around 10 minutes).

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Revolution


Today, before each of us, an empty calendar lies open, a tabula rasae on which we compose our lives.  After a moment of reflection of the past 12 months, it is time to look forward to 2017 and perhaps set some personal goals.

Inspiration for my 2017 goals comes from Margaret Bolsterli,  an 85 year-old retired professor I met in October 2011 during my stay at the Writer’s Colony in Arkansas.

At the colony, each evening, the writers met for dinner.  Each night after the others had retired to their rooms, Margaret would tell me a story.  She knew nothing of my life and yet each tale went directly to the heart of things.  I became King Shahriar mesmerized by the tales of the Princess Sheherazade in Arabian Nights.

Margaret wove compelling tales. During my stay, I read Born in the Delta: Reflections on the Making of a Southern White Sensibility, in which she describes growing up in the Arkansas Delta during the 30s and 40s and how she unflinchingly confronted racial conflicts, violence, the Confederacy, and her own family secrets.

Margaret taught Women’s Studies at the University of Arkansas for 25 years, educating not just individuals but families.  A woman or man would take her class and send their sisters who would recommend the course to their aunt or mother.  Generations of students received inspiration from Professor Bolsterli.

One evening, she told me of her interview with 94 year-old Lily Peter, a tale quite appropriate for this time of year . . . of revolutions and resolutions. Margaret was 57 at the time.

In the interview, Lily described life at the turn of the century outside Marvell, Arkansas, of attending college and becoming a teacher.  She dreamt of leaving home but her father died and she remained at home and put her brother and sisters through college.

During the Depression, the siblings worked, pooling their monies to buy land and a cotton gin. For 30 years, Brother ginned cotton on the family’s two plantations while the sisters taught school.  Upon Brother’s death, however, Lily, now 60, discovered that the family was in serious financial trouble.  She again took the bull by the horn and announced to her sisters that she would devote the next 30 years to making the business solvent.

Would you like to hear, as Paul Harvey would say, “the rest of the story”?  At age of 94, Lily retired to devote herself to writing poetry and became Arkansas’ Poet Laureate.  At 98, she decided to get her Ph.D. and called Margaret.

Margaret arranged everything: a residence, a wheel-chair ramp, classes in one building.  Everything was set until Sara’s physician forbade her to go.  Shortly after, Sara died.

Margaret ruefully noted that “Lily, at 94, had the mind of a 35 year old.  She attributed her elasticity of mind to having changed her life completely three times–from teacher to planter to dedicated writer.  She said that every big life change forced her to learn new systems and so rejuvenated her.”

Margaret walked into her department and looked around. Here were the same people she had worked with for 25 years, the same walls, same office.

Like Lily, she decided a career change was in order:  “I think I’ll try my hand at cattle ranching.” She bought a farm.  Soon after, she retired, and began raising cattle and riding horses.  She did that for 20 years before moving on to her next adventure.

Are you considering a new adventure in 2017?  Perhaps taking a turn at farming, going back to school, learning a new sport, hiking and camping in the great outdoors,Learning about Spanish cuisine or how to grill, making Caswell County a better place to live?

No matter what your age, just do it.  Lily wouldn’t hesitate (and neither would Margaret).

Margaret Bolsterli

Margaret Bolsterli

School Days

school bus

School Days

My mother walked me into the classroom and introduced me to Miss Tidwell. I might have cried a little, but mom gave me a reassuring pat and said she would pick me up out front at the end of the school day. New crayons and fresh notepad in hand, I took my assigned seat.

At noon, students lined up single-file and followed Miss Tidwell out the door. While the other students turned right to go to the lunch room, I, believing school was over, turned left to meet mama. She wasn’t there. What to do?

At age 6, I decided to walk home. I managed to cross three streets and the railroad tracks before arriving at US Highway 59. As I stood there, daunted but determined to figure out how to maneuver through four lanes of busy traffic, Mrs. Bergman, who owned the Dairy 59 Drive-In, saw me through the pick-up window and rushed to my rescue. Somehow I retraced my steps and found my way back to class. First Grade . . . It’s not for Wimps!

It isn’t for wimpy parents either. I never wanted my children to attend school. I loved being with Allen and Ashley, but also feared the truant officer. When the time came for my youngest to attend school, I made an appointment with the principal and explained in no uncertain terms that I would be picking up Ashley at noon every day since she needed to rest. Mrs. Talbot chuckled knowingly but agreed. At the end of the first week, Ashley figured out she was missing playtime and insisted on staying. I was left to nap alone.

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Howard Nemerov penned his memories of a similar morning: “My child and I hold hands on the way to school, / And when I leave him at the first-grade door / He cries a little but is brave; he does / Let go. My selfish tears remind me how / I cried before that door a life ago. / I may have had a hard time letting go.”

Although each fall I reluctantly sent my children back to school, I must admit there was (and still is) a certain excitement about it all. Most people think of January as a new beginning–a time to make resolutions in anticipation of the re-birth of spring.

In truth, the first day of school marks the true beginning for children, a chance to start anew. New crayons, new backpacks, new pencil boxes, new books, and new teachers. The world is full of possibilities: mastering the art of cursive writing, learning about heretofore unknown cultures and places, exploring the miracles of science and math—electricity, magnets, fractions, algebra–and being introduced to stories and authors that become a part of their lives forever. What an adventure.

So let me thank those patient and knowledgeable men and women (past and present) for making it their life’s mission to introduce our children to a land of limitless possibilities.

Raspberry Bars

Raspberry Bars

Raspberry Bars.  

I have no idea what school policies are, but most teachers appreciate good food. Perhaps something for the teacher’s lounge? You can’t do better than a plate of raspberry bars, a triple-decker comfort cookie with shortbread base, jam center, and streusel topping. This is my secret recipe, but your child’s teacher is worth it.

Preheat 375. Line 12 x 18 x 1 inch pan with buttered foil. In large mixing bowl combine 5 3/4 c. all-purpose flour, 1 1/3 C. granulated sugar, 1 tsp. salt for 5 seconds. With the mixture at low speed, add 4 sticks unsalted butter (cut into ½ inch pieces, softened) one piece at a time until mixture resembles damp sand. Set aside 2 ½ c. of mixture. Press the rest mixture evenly in bottom of prepared pan. Bake until edges brown, 14-18 minutes.

While crust bakes, blend 3/4 C. brown sugar, 1 1/3 C. old-fashioned (not instant) oatmeal, and 1 C. chopped pecans. Work in 8 TB. butter until incorporated. Set aside.

In saucepan over low heat, mix 2 jars raspberry preserves with 3 TB. lemon juice until heated through. Spread filling evenly over hot crust. Sprinkle streusel (the 2 ½ C of leftover mixture) on top. Bake 22-25 minutes until golden brown. Cool completely, 1-2 hours. Remove foil from pan and cut in squares.

 

Culinary Mantra

A few years ago, I was in Raleigh and dropped by Penzeys, a spice store offering seasonings from all over the world–Madagascar vanilla, Ceylon cinnamon, and spice blends (Sunny Paris is my favorite). At the check-out, the cashier gave me a bumper sticker with a yellow crayon-drawn heart, over which was written: “Love People. Cook them good food.” 

If you are reading this column, you probably know that cooking is about feeding the soul as well as filling the stomach. Food isn’t just food; it is interaction and connection.

When I recall the 12 dozen home-fried doughnuts my mother made each fall for my brother, me, and our friends, I know the experience was about much more than eating fried dough. My mother was showing her love for us in one of the few ways she knew how. 

Picnic tables were covered with newspapers. Small bowls of toppings and icings were set on the tables. Fifty years later, my good friend Carol still talks about those doughnuts. Imagine! 12 dozen doughnuts! Every topping imaginable! Self-serve! No one counting calories!

Think back to the food highlights of your childhood. The hamburgers your uncle grilled in late summer when the last of the tomatoes had just been picked. The caramel apples your mother made each fall while your father burned leaves on the back lot. The pot roast with gravy and mashed potatoes your grandmother served on Sunday after church.

Of course, you recall the images, aromas, and flavors–the lemon-powder sugar icing with fresh lemon zest on hot doughnuts, for example–but what your memory really stirs up is a warm nostalgic feeling that says “somebody loved me.”

“Cook with Love” has always been my mantra. In the restaurant, I asked the cooks to “see the face of God in every plate.” I took that line from Mother Teresa who might be rolling over in her grave to hear her phrase applied to a plate of food rather than the face of a leper.

These are hard times, which makes preparing food for our loved ones even more important. The time you spend brewing soup or cooking for family and friends is worth the effort. So is removing seeds from a watermelon or the membranes from oranges and grapefruit for winter ambrosia. It all says, “You are important.”

A few years ago, Ruth Reichl, famed food critic and former editor of Gourmet Magazine, posted a food entry on her blog. She received the following email: “What planet are you on? The one WITHOUT thousands dying from an earthquake??!?!?!” 

It seems that hours earlier, an earthquake had devestaqted Japan. Reichl responded that although she had been unaware of the disaster, she wondered if she would have posted something different: “There is no time, ever, in which a terrible disaster is not taking place somewhere on the planet. . . .”

“But in the face of ongoing disaster, it is our moral responsibility to appreciate what we have.  That is why cooking good food for the people that I love is so important to me; in a world filled with no, it is a big yes.”

Broccoli SoupBroccoli Cheese Soup. Sauté 3/4 C. diced onion in 1 TB. olive oil until translucent. Add 1 clove minced garlic, stir, then set aside. In small stock pot, make a blonde roux by adding 4 TB. flour to 4 TB. melted butter, whisk constantly for 4-5 minutes. Add 2 C. milk (or half and half). Whisk until smooth. Gradually pour in 4 C. chicken broth. Bring to boil, then reduce to simmer.

Add 16 oz. chopped fresh broccoli (and diced stems), onion, and garlic. Simmer 20 minutes. If you like, you can puree part or all of the soup using an immersion blender or processor. Return pot to stove with burner on medium low and add 8 oz. cubed sharp-cheddar cheese and 8 oz. cubed Velveeta cheese. Stir until melted. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Important note: Hot liquid in a blender/processor will explode so work with very small amounts at a time.

American Farmers

Back in 1978, I heard Paul Harvey present this ode to the American farmer on his radio broadcast:

“And on the 8th day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, ‘I need a caretaker.’ So God made a farmer. “ Harvey then went on to enumerate challenges farmers face each day:
American Farmer

 “(And God said) . . . I need some who, during planting time and harvest season, will finish his forty-hour week by Tuesday noon, then, pain’n from ‘tractor back,’ put in another seventy-two hours.” . . . “I need a farmer who will plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and rake and disc and plow and plant . . . and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week’s work with a five-mile drive to church.”

Before moving to Caswell County 20 years ago, my idyllic, romanticized notions of farm life were informed by stories past and present: the biblical Garden of Eden, the poetry of Robert Frost, the writings of Henry David Thoreau, Elliot Coleman, and Wendell Berry.

It wasn’t until I met R.L. (Bob) Watlington and worked with local farmers at the restaurant that I realized that farming is both a precarious and complex occupation.

Although I plant in order to have veggies and herbs for my culinary classes (and for the joy of playing in the soil), there has been one additional unexpected development—the realization that recreational gardening and farming for a living are not the same thing.

Now, at the farmer’s market, when I see tomatoes marked at $2 a pound, I don’t balk. Growing tomatoes is an act fraught with hazards.

These were my thoughts this morning, as I mowed, weeded, and harvested vegetables and herbs. I glanced over at my grandson’s raised bed to see that the deer had eaten his pole beans and rabbits consumed most of his sungold tomatoes. Continue reading

Greens

kale saladLast week I visited the new Caswell Farmer’s Market in Semora. There, on the side of the road, in blessed shade, were ten vendors, ranging from Catbriar Farm, which was in business long before I moved to Caswell County, to a more recent addition, Open Door Farm.

I arrived with grocery totes and a mission—to purchase and prepare late spring greens. With that end in mind, I bought Swiss chard and kale from Sara Broadwell, as well as pea shoots and fennel from Open Door Farm.

The recipes I developed during the week were simple ones. My goal wasn’t to cover up the flavors of the produce but to showcase the fresh, clean flavor of the greens. Here are the results:

Kale Salad. After rinsing the kale and spinning it dry, I removed the large stems, sliced the leaves into thin strips, and then placed them into a bowl. Next, I added a small box of raisins, halved cherry tomatoes, crumbled feta cheese, and thin wedges of red onion. Before serving, I tossed the salad with vinaigrette and topped with boiled egg quarters.

Dressing for Kale Salad. In the food processor, combine 1/3 cup red wine vinegar, juice of 1 lemon, 2 TB. combination of fresh basil, parsley, oregano (or 1 TB. dried), 1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper, 1 tsp. lemon pepper, ½ tsp. salt (optional), and 1 tsp. minced garlic. Pulse to mix. With processor running, slowly pour in 1/2 cup canola or safflower oil and 3/4 cup olive oil until emulsified. Store in tight container in the fridge for up to 1 week.

Swiss Chard with Poached Egg. SWISS CHARD BOILED EGGHaving worked with the kale, the next day I turned to the Swiss Chard. My objective was to create a hearty breakfast dish loaded with iron. If you wish to replicate the dish I made, season chopped Swiss chard and sauté it with some minced shallots and a little garlic. Sauté for 3-4 minutes, remove from heat, and gently stir in a few quartered cherry tomatoes. Arrange chard mixture in a bowl, making a slight indention in the center for a poached egg. Garnish the entire dish with a few pea shoots.

Although poached eggs can be tricky, they are worth the effort. The result is velvety and creamy . . . I hesitate to call it an egg. It is so much more than that. Continue reading

Baseball Redux

Allen, Livingston High School, 1965

Allen, Livingston High School, 1965

Last week, I received several responses to last week’s column: “America’s Favorite Pastime.” One was from my brother (see photo at right . . . a bit dated) about whom I wrote:

Allen wrote: “Growing up in an East Texas town of 2,000 souls, there were precious few store-bought activities to occupy our days and even fewer clues as to what the future might hold for an eight-year old boy…, so we played baseball, from ‘kin to kaint’.”

“Our dad was from Missouri so I was a rabid Cardinal fan, although the O’s eventually became my American League fave. We watched Ol’ Diz and Pee Wee on the Game of the Week, peddling Falstaff between innings, and dreaming of emulating the likes of The Splendid Splinter, Stan the Man, The Say Hey Kid, Mick, Yogi, and Whitey, dreaming of authoring the heroic moments of Bobby Thompson and Don Larsen.”

“Baseball presented me with many wonderful moments of reflection, such as pitching against an older Nolan Ryan in the Texas high school playoffs (we lost 2 – 0). This was before he had achieved ultimate fame, though he was known for ‘bringing a high, hard one’ even at that time in school.”

“We caught the Red Birds vs the Rangers with Albert Pujols launching three round trippers in Game 3 of the 2011 Series in Arlington, Texas tying Reggie Jackson’s record. GW Bush and Nolan Ryan were behind home plate; Judy and I sat 3 rows behind the Cards dugout and dodged several foul balls.”

“Last September,” Allen writes, “my bride and childhood sweetheart, Judy, who saw most of the games I pitched, joined me at Fenway Park to watch the Orioles play the Red Sox in a slugfest that saw the O’s 9-run lead evaporate only to come back in the 9th to triumph. It just doesn’t get better than that!”

“For me, baseball has always been a metaphor for life: the ups, the downs, the comebacks, the inexplicable losses. Players giving their all with a rawness and total lack of a safety net, other than the TEAM.”

“Lesser players having shining moments–Mighty Casey striking out. And, then, as Lucindy noted, there is the hope of spring and a new season and then, it ends….as the days grow shorter, just as they do in life….with either victory for a few or ‘wait till next year’ for most. Baseball is a requisite part of the human experience….not to be missed.”

Here is another great story:

Don recalled a tale that has become a permanent part of his family’s history:

“Your article,” Don writes, “reminds me of Pop’s recollection, in his ninety-fourth year, about the first big league baseball game he saw. My memory is that it was 1935 and with $5 in hand, he took the train from Georgetown, Kentucky to Cincinnati, Ohio to see a double header between the Reds and the St Louis Cards. Dizzy Dean pitched the first game and his brother, Daffy, pitched the second.”

“At the age of 94, Pop could still recall who played most positions. He had a ham sandwich and a beer and came home with a couple of dollars in his pocket. His salary as a farm laborer was 50 cents a day, supplemented by a meager amount from the tenant crop of burley tobacco. It wasn’t until 1954 that he could afford a trip with the whole family.”

“When the memory of him comes floating through, it is most often of a summer Sunday afternoon, heat lightening crackling on an AM radio with El Capitan being played and ‘Waite Hoyt bringing you baseball with Burger Beer bringing you the Cincinnati Reds!’”

What great reminiscences, perfectly told. Reading these stories you feel the pride of a small town boy who pitched against a young Nolan Ryan; you experience the joy of sharing one’s passion for the game. In Don’s telling, I could even taste the slab of ham on Wonder bread and the refreshingly cold beer. The power of memories.

Consider this column a wake-up call. Record those memories NOW. Keep them alive for future generations. As for younger folks, visit your older relatives and record their stories NOW. I sorely regret not asking my mother about her life in Germany or her modeling stint in Dallas. Why didn’t I ask Daddy JE for details of his brother’s death in WWII? These stories, rather than real estate, furniture, and money, are our true inheritance and help connect families from generation to generation.

America’s Favorite Pastime

This past week, I attended six of the nine games in which my two grandsons—Austin and John—took part. This baseball immersion has allowed me to locate the best snow cones (Altamahaw Ossipee Park, Burlington) and the best climbing trees and playgrounds for granddaughter Brenley Isabella (Caswell Parks and Recreation), as well as the ball fields where the direct sun beats unmercifully down on your head no matter where you sit (McCrae Park).

The immersion experience takes me back almost sixty years to the earliest memories of my older brother, Allen, playing little league, junior league, and high school ball.  Between March and August, the entire family;s life revolved around the sport. Allen kept a beaded dirt-ring around his neck and slept with his glove.  Nearly sixty years later, it pleases me to know that both grandson’s share their uncle’s obsession. They travel with gloves and play catch outside with only the lightning bugs for lamination until the darkness drives them indoors.Austin, Caswell Parks and Recreation, 2014

never a real “player,” I had passion for the game. In 1966, I skipped school to watch my beloved Baltimore Orioles (Frank and Brooks Robinson), beat the defending champions–Los Angeles Dodgers (with Sandy Koufax)–in the World Series.

When Earl Weaver came on board as Oriole manager 2 years later, my joy was complete. Although he was ejected from 91 games, kicked dirt at the umpire, and had the foulest mouth in baseball, he had panache and a wicked sense of humor.

During one altercation, Weaver headed toward the dugout screaming, “I’m going to check the rule-book on that.” When the umpire taunted, “Here, use mine.” Weaver yelled back, “That’s no good – I can’t read Braille.” (I wish I had had that line during one particularly egregious call last week.) Continue reading