Frankie's Garden ~

Garlic Lentil Soup - Czech Penicillin

2015-02-10T16:52:00.003-08:00

            Eastern European peasant food, this lentil soup was a staple when I was growing up. Definitely a comfort food, the smells evoke a feeling of nostalgia to this day. It was one of my Czech mother's signature dishes, and a favorite of my dad's. During the winter, there was almost always a pot simmering on the back of the stove.

            Traditionally used as an appetizer, it was said to ward off chills and colds. My grandmother, mother, and aunts swore by the healing powers of the garlic, and would use copious amounts. I'm more partial to the soothing aroma of the sweet marjoram, the essential spice in this dish. (Don't be afraid to use a lot. The flavor is mild, and the fragrance is heavenly.) Either way, it's good for body and soul.

            Easy to make, and relatively fast, I make it for dinner. My husband and kids love it, which is a bonus. Early on, it became part of the rotation for "Soup & Bread Night." I like to serve it with a good, toasted potato bread, or a light rye. Just don't do garlic bread it's overkill, I found.

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Babi's Lentil Garlic Soup       Flavorful, Satisfying, and Meatless

About 4 - 6 servings

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1 cup diced celery, with leaves

1 cup diced onion

2 tbsp. olive oil

2 cloves garlic, or more, to taste - minced

6 cups vegetable broth

1/2 lb. dried lentils

1 tsp. or more dried marjoram leaves

Salt and pepper

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In large, heavy soup pot, saute celery and onion in oil until tender soft. Add half of the garlic cloves, lentils and broth. Be aware of the heat of your garlic and use accordingly. If you like lots of garlic, use more. The cooking time reduces the bite. Season to taste with salt, pepper and marjoram.
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Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until lentils are tender, 20-25 minutes, stirring occasionally. The longer you simmer, the thicker the soup will be. Add the other clove(s) of garlic just before serving. Serve with hearty whole grain bread.

A Tiny Christmas Tree

2014-11-23T18:50:00.004-08:00

There is a place on Orcas Island, where a giant Douglas fir once stood. About six feet in diameter, it must have been massive, stretching its top high into the sky. Many years ago, a windstorm toppled the tree, leaving the trunk splintered and broken about ten feet above ground level. Along a quiet country road, the stump was in no one's way, so it was left alone. Years passed, and nature being what it is, from the inside of the shattered wound a new seedling grew.

The first time I noticed the sapling, it was about two feet tall. I had passed that way twice daily for several months, but it never caught my eye until that afternoon...the tiny tree was decorated.

I slowed to get a better look. A strand of red and gold tinsel wound neatly through the branches, twinkling in the rustling breeze. I smiled. How cool that last night's wind had blown it just that way. The tinsel stayed on all through the holidays until one night in early January, the tinsel was gone.

I gave it no more thought until the following winter. Then one night, the little fir was again dressed for the holidays. This time it had red bows tied on the branches, and a gold star on top. Okay, the wind didn't do that. Again, the finery disappeared after the New Year. I was delighted. Every year since, and probably for many before, the little tree has been decorated. I never found out who decorates the tree. Actually, I never asked. The fantasy of Christmas magic is just too much fun.

Each year at this time, I would begin watching, waiting for my sure sign of the Christmas season. One year, there was nothing. Thanksgiving weekend came and went, and the first weekend in December. Nothing. It had never gone as late as the 10th before. I was beginning to worry.

Then, one morning, I thought I caught a glint of tinsel in my headlights as I came down the hill. Too dark to really see, I hoped I was correct. Sure enough, in the light of day the small tree was covered with glass balls, red bows and silver tinsel. It brought a smile to my face, and brightness to an otherwise dreary, rainy day.

I hope the tradition continues for many years to come.

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Here are two hot appetizers, nice on a cold winter night. Fresh seafood makes these just heavenly. Both can be done in the toaster oven.

Angels on Horseback

Pre-heat the broiler to 450°

1 dozen fresh oysters, shucked or 1 jar small fresh oysters

1 lb. thin sliced lean bacon

Cut the oysters into bite size pieces. Cut each bacon strip into thirds.

Roll the bacon strips around the oyster pieces and secure with wooden picks.

Place on an ungreased broiler pan or baking sheet. Grill under broiler until browned. Turn over and broil the other side. Watch carefully as it will cook fast and may burn .When bacon is done, drain on paper towels.

Transfer to serving plate. Serve warm with cocktail sauce for dipping.

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Crab Stuffed Mushrooms

Use extra large mushrooms

Heat oven to 325°

20 fresh Crimini mushrooms (or white button)

¾ cup Dungeness crabmeat (or 1 - 6oz. can)

3 tbsp. red onion, diced fine

Dash of cayenne

1 tbsp. olive oil

2 tbsp. butter

1 - 3oz. brick of softened cream cheese

2 tbsp. Italian seasoned bread crumbs

½ tsp. dill

½ cup sharp cheddar cheese, shredded

Fresh parsley for garnish

Wipe mushrooms with paper towel to remove dust. Do not rinse with water. Pop out stem, leaving cap intact. Hollow out cap slightly, if needed.

Lay caps hollow side down in a baking dish. Bake at 325° for about 15 minutes until mushrooms are cooked but still firm. (Alternately: Line a microwave safe dish with paper towels. Arrange caps, hollow side down, on paper towels. Microwave on high, covered loosely, 30 seconds at a time until mushrooms are no longer raw, about 1½ to 2 minutes total. Do not over cook or the mushrooms will start to shrivel.) Allow to drain on paper towels for a few minutes.

Chop stems finely. Coarsely dice the crabmeat. Heat the butter and olive oil in a small skillet. Saute the onions until golden. Add the chopped stems, the crab and the cayenne. Continue to cook until most of the liquid evaporates. Remove from heat. Stir in the cream cheese, the dill and the breadcrumbs. The mixture should cling together when molded, so adjust the crumbs accordingly.

Fill each cap generously with stuffing. There should be enough to have a good mound in each. Place back in the same baking dish. Top each with a nice bit of cheese.

Heat at 325° for about 5 minutes or until the cheese melts. Sprinkle with parsley and serve hot. (You can re-heat in the microwave - about 30 seconds for 6.)

Pumpkin Cheesecake Pie

2014-11-20T17:00:00.000-08:00

Last year for Thanksgiving we made our first "from scratch" pumpkin pie. It was a fun experience. We purchased a special "pie" pumpkin. With no clue how to proceed, we just quartered the pumpkin, cleaned out the seeds and other "pumpkin guts" (to quote Connor) placed cut side down on a cookie sheet, and baked until soft. Once cooked, I scraped the meat into the food processor bowl and pureed until smooth. Not happy with the not-orange-enough color of the puree, I added a cooked carrot to the mixture. It didn't change the flavor, but made the color more appetizing. I actually ended up with more than I needed, so I froze the remained to use in future pies or pumpkin bread.

My plan was to use the puree in place of canned pumpkin in my favorite pie recipe, but thought it deserved a homemade crust. Since I rely on frozen pie crust, I called on my son James, the chef, to make the pastry. He made a rustic, French style crust, rich with butter and sugar. It was delicious. We will definitely be doing this again.

This is my old "go to" recipe. Adjust accordingly if you bake your own pumpkin.

Pumpkin Cheesecake Pie

Heat oven to 425°

2 Crusts for 9" deep dish pie

16 oz. cream cheese, softened

1 ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar

4 eggs

1 tsp. ground cinnamon

¼ tsp. ground nutmeg

1 can pumpkin (29oz.)

Whipped cream for garnish

Beat cream cheese and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time.

Stir in cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin until smooth. Pour mixture into prepared crust. Place on cookie sheet in preheated, hot oven.

Immediately lower temperature to 350°.

Bake 35 - 45 minutes or until center is almost set

Cool completely on wire rack. Serve topped with whipped cream

Holiday Traditions

2014-11-13T22:30:00.001-08:00

With Thanksgiving less than two weeks away, I need to get out my old recipe file. It's a whicker basket, a mother's day gift from years ago. The cards inside are tattered, stained, and treasured. Each year, I have to look them up, to help me write my grocery list, and again to reference as I cook. These are recipes I only make for Thanksgiving and Christmas, even though they are family favorites.

The kids used to ask me why we ate some foods only at holiday time. My answer was usually "that way it stays special, and we don't get tired of it."

That being true, up to a point, the real reason is much more practical. Most of those dishes were a lot of work, or expensive to make. This fruit salad falls into the first category. It takes time and prep work, but it's worth the effort. It's been in the family forever, and is one of my few "don't cheat" recipes. Normally, I'm all for labor saving shortcuts, but not here. If you use fruit cocktail and cool-whip, for instance, it just isn't the same.

Great-Grandma swore you had to use full size marshmallows, and cut them into quarters with kitchen shears. (Note: It's easier if the marshmallows and shears are both chilled.) According to her, that way they could soak up the dressing. Grandma too, was obstinate about it, and to this day, I haven't dared change anything. That would feel like cheating. So, I've passed the superstition, I mean tradition, on to a fourth generation. Now it's Laura's turn.

I did have a friend once, though, whose mother made it with colored miniature marshmallows...and the world didn't end.

Known regionally as 24-Hour Salad, Overnight Salad, or "that salad with the little marshmallows", this is one of my husband's favorites:

Ambrosia

2 cups Royal Ann cherries, halved

2 cups pineapple tidbits

2 cups mandarin oranges

2 cups quartered marshmallows

1 egg

1 Â½ tbsp. sugar

Â¼ cup lemon juice

Â½ cup orange juice

1 cup heavy cream, whipped

Combine well-drained fruit and marshmallows.

Beat egg until lemon colored. Gradually add sugar, lemon juice and orange juice. Mix well. Cook in double boiler until smooth and thick, stirring constantly.

Allow to cool completely. Stir in whipped cream.

Pour over fruit and fold in. Chill 24 hours before serving. Do not freeze.

Going from the labor intensive, to the beautifully easy, I still only make it a couple of times a year. It's a way to dress up your cranberry sauce. You still need to plan ahead a little, but the prep time is minimal. It's a jell-o salad that even cranberry-shy kids like, and the shape is a departure from the classic "can mold" of my youth.

I've used various size and shape molds, but my favorite is a 3-cup copper ring. This makes two of those, or one 6-cup Tupperware mold.

Cranberry-Orange Wreath

1 - 6oz. box red jell-o, raspberry, cran-raspberry, or cranberry

2 cans whole-berry cranberry sauce

2 small cans mandarin oranges, drained well

Â¼ tsp. each, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice

Dissolve jell-o in hot water, per box directions. Add spices. Stir in cranberry sauce in place of cold water. Chill for and hour until partially set. Gently fold in mandarin oranges, and pour into 6-cup mold. Allow to set at least 6 hours, preferably overnight.

To make un-molding easier, dip mold to the rim in very hot tap water for 10 seconds. Immediately flip onto serving plate and re-refrigerate until ready to serve.

Garnish with whipped topping just before serving, if desired

Keeping Summer

2014-07-14T22:49:00.002-07:00

It was a beautiful day, glowing in the brightness that only September can bring. The red

and orange dahlias and golden marigolds held their tousled

heads high, in defiance of the cool evenings. The

afternoon sun brought the lingering heat of summer's

last gasp. Soon it would be giving way to autumn.

Entering the dimly lit barn of the farmer's market, my senses were immediately engulfed by the earthy aroma of produce: garlic, dill, apples, and pumpkins. I inhaled deeply to fully absorb the atmosphere, instantly transported to the days of my youth.

My earliest recollection of harvest time is my mother canning Royal Anne Cherries on the Fourth of July. I must have been 3 or 4.

"We need to put these by," Mama would say, explaining why she wasn't going to the carnival. "Then we'll have our fruit in the winter."

Later, when I grew older, I worked with other neighborhood kids, picking strawberries at the farm down the road. I can still remember the cool crispness of the June mornings, bicycling my way to the farm, and the wetness of the dew on the berries. We started work at 7 am, and finished around noon. Pick a few, eat a few. The berries warmed as the sun rose higher, thawing our chilled fingers. It was my first real job. At 9, I made enough money to buy a pair of black "leather" cowboy boots. They cost around $8.

July and August would bring the haying. The rhythmic clang of tractors, cutters and balers permeated the air for days. All the farmers would pray for no rain until all the alfalfa was stowed safely under cover. One wet day could ruin a crop.

My friends and I were always on hand to help. Bucking bales was hot, dusty work, assigned to the teenage boys. The sweat would run rivers down their bare backs, chaff hanging in their hair. We girls, being smaller and younger, were given lighter tasks. My job was to drive the flatbed around the fields. There was no question of a license. I was only 12, but I could reach the pedals, and turn the manual steering wheel. My value was assured.

The days prior to Labor Day and the beginning of school, were frenzied: picking and pickling, freezing beans and corn, making blackberry jam. My help was appreciated, and mandatory. The kitchen would be hot, and supper would be sandwiches. The pantry shelves would gradually fill with canned goods. Braids of onions and garlic, and bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. Bins of potatoes and squash were tucked into the corners.

The culmination of it all was the annual Grange Fair, held the second Saturday in September. Kids showed ponies, dogs, chickens and rabbits. Women displayed their baking, canning and gardening skills, while men gathered to discuss crops and cattle. Local musicians entertained. It was a celebration of food, friendship, community, and a summer's work well done.

As I left the farm that September day, my basket filled with treasures, I couldn't help feeling nostalgic. The art of "putting by" has been largely lost. We can buy ripe tomatoes in January, and pickles off the market shelf. And who wants to stand in a sweltering kitchen, stirring jam? When there is no need, there is little desire.

Fortunately, there are still those who keep the traditions alive, and available to the rest of us. So, if you can't grow a little garden of your own, visit a local farmers' market and just enjoy the goodness of the earth.

Mother's Day Wishes

2014-05-12T19:36:00.002-07:00

Years ago, my greatest mother’s day wish was to have a day to myself. A day off. At that time, the kids were in their “tweens”. Our weekends were filled with little league, dance team, home projects, and my husband’s band. Weekdays, there was work and school. Free time was nearly non-existent. So, when they asked me what I wanted as a gift, I told them. “Don’t spend any money. What I would really like is to spend the afternoon doing nothing…no laundry, no phone calls, no cooking.”

Of course, doing nothing doesn’t mean literally doing nothing. I read the best parts of the Sunday Oregonian. After that, I filled planters with annuals and arranged them on the patio. Then I planted marigolds around the mailbox. When I was done, I sat on the deck and admired my work. All of this without anyone yelling “mom!” even once. By late afternoon, I felt refreshed, and as rested as if I’d spent the day at a spa.
Pat and the kids took me to dinner at Giovanni’s for the best lasagna in town. I was an awesome day. Looking back, it’s hard to believe that I essentially said, “Leave me alone!”… It’s even harder to believe that they actually did.

This year, my son James and son-in-law Jimmy were in charge of dinner. A roasted garlic and mushroom risotto topped with crispy pancetta accompanied grilled pork tenderloin and Caesar salad. A made-from-scratch blueberry pie was for dessert. It's awesome having great cooks in the family.

The following is a recipe James taught me. It's a variation of the pate served at Papa Hayden's Restaurant, where he used to work. It takes some work and advance planning, but it's definitely worth it. For this you will need a heavy skillet, a food processor and a fine mesh strainer.

Chicken Liver Paté

1 lb. raw chicken liver

1 medium tart apple

1 small onion

½ cup dry white wine

1 cube butter

Kosher salt

Black pepper

Rinse and trim the livers, cutting into even pieces. Peel, core and dice the apple. Chop the onion coarsely.

Heat a heavy skillet (well-seasoned cast iron works nicely) to medium high. You can spray with a bit of olive oil, but leave it mostly dry. Caramelize the apple and onion chunks. When they are soft and starting to brown, add the liver and sear until cooked (about 3 minutes).
Remove everything to the food processor bowl. Cover to keep warm.

Deglaze with the white wine, scraping the pan and boiling to evaporate the alcohol. Pour the mixture into the food processor. Tighten the lid and puree while adding the cold butter in a piece at a time. Continue to process until butter is incorporated and all is smooth and creamy with no chunks.

Force the mixture through a fine-mesh strainer. This will make your pate silky smooth. After straining, transfer to a serving size bowl (or buttered mold). Chill for several hours or overnight.

A Kitten for Kelly

2014-05-03T16:16:00.000-07:00

Kelly lived with her parents and older brother in a little house overlooking the ocean. The house sat on the side of a granite hill surrounded by forest. Some of the little girl's best friends were the animals that lived in those woods. Every morning before school, she went outside to top-up the bird feeders, making sure they were full of seed. In the afternoon, Kelly checked the old stump that held peanuts and sunflower seeds for the squirrels. She had given names to many of the bushy-tailed neighbors. On weekends, she would walk down to the beach and sit on the pier, watching the sea lions lazing on the rocks, or the sea-otters playing in the surf.

Kelly loved the wild critters, but she had always wanted a cat. Her teenage brother, Mark, had a dog named Skipper. He was a black and tan mostly-German-Shepherd, and followed the boy everywhere. Mark had found him by the road one day, scraggly and skinny, and brought him home. He had bathed and groomed him and fattened him up. Now he was a part of the family. He was friendly and sweet, but he was really Mark's dog. Kelly was very envious.

"Mama," she would say, "Don't you think I could have a kitten?"

Mama would reply with a smile, "You be patient, sweetie, the time will come."

So Kelly tried to be patient, and made do with her wild friends.

Spring came to the forest and everything seemed to be growing. The leaves sprouted on the alders and the hummingbirds returned from their winter hide-away. The does appeared with tiny, white spotted fawns. They were so used to people that even Skipper did not bother them. Kelly's dad had built a fence to keep the friendly deer out of his wife's garden.

This garden was one of the little girl's favorite places, with sweet peas and roses and strawberry bushes. She would stretch out on the grass under the apple tree and daydream, sure that fairies lived in the branches above. Sometimes she would set up her little farm with all its plastic cows, sheep and horses and play for hours. One day, just after lunch, Kelly was out in the garden when a huge, calico cat, appeared at the edge of the fence. Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. The cat stretched lazily, and began washing her face with a forepaw. Kelly giggled. She reached out her hand. "Here kitty, kitty," she said softly.

The cat raised her head and looked, then casually turned and left the garden. Kelly was curious. She got up to follow. By the time she got through the gate, the cat was gone.

After that, Kelly saw the cat regularly. Sometimes it was in the garden, and sometimes sunning on a rock or crossing the drive, going toward the beach. Try as she might, she was never able to get near enough to touch it. Soon she started leaving a dish of food near the garden fence. Each morning the dish would be empty, but she was never sure if it was the cat, or some raccoons that were enjoying the feast.

Kelly decided to try again, "Daddy, could I have a kitten for my birthday? I'll be eight this year. Isn't that old enough?"

Her father tried to look gruff, "An animal is a lot of responsibility. Do you think you could remember to feed and take care of it?"

"Of course I could!" Kelly stated, indignantly. "I'd take the best care of it!"

"Well," he gave in, smiling. "We'll see what we can do. But you better be extra good!"

Kelly was beaming. Surely she would have her very own kitten soon.

Spring wore on. The daffodils opened, wild all over the woods, and the tulips behind the fence raised their colorful heads. The herbs in mother's garden had soft new growth and a lovely fragrance. The bushes were alive with birds of all kinds. And the calico cat kept visiting the little girl.

The day of Kelly's birthday was sunny, warm for late May. It was a perfect day for a party. Her mother had set up cake and games on the front deck, and several friends were expected that afternoon. It was a wonderful birthday. The girls played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and broke a piÃ±ata. After cake and ice cream, they played hide-and-seek in the woods. Kelly had a great time.

That evening after supper, the family gathered for their own little celebration. The hearth was stacked with birthday gifts. There was a big box from her father. She decided to save it for last. Some muffled noises seemed to be coming from it. There were the clothes from her mother, as usual, and a game from Mark. Finally she tore the wrapping from the big box. Inside was a cage containing a small black and white rabbit. For just a moment, Kelly was disappointed. Then she reached in pulled the bunny into her arms. The soft ears and twitching nose won her over instantly. "Thank you, Daddy! I promise I'll take good care of him!"

"I know that you will," her father grinned. "I'm sorry that it's not a kitten, but no one in the whole county had kittens yet. I guess it's too early in the year."

"That's ok," she grinned back. "This bunny is just perfect."

Kelly named the rabbit Hoppy, and played with him every day out in the yard. Sometimes the calico cat would watch them, probably hoping for a rabbit dinner, but she never came very close. The girl made sure Hoppy was safely tucked into his cage before she went in for the evening. She loved her bunny, but she dreamed of having a kitten curled up in her lap when she did her homework. Of course, she never told her parents. They had tried the best they could.

Spring turned into summer and school let out. The long lazy days stretched out in front of her. Hours spent playing in the woods and in the garden, going to the beach and fishing off the pier. She noticed that she hadn't seen the big cat in quite a while.

One Saturday in early July, Kelly went to town to shop with her mother. They went to the mall and had lunch at a coffee shop. In late afternoon they drove back home, tired and happy. As they turned up the drive, Kelly spotted Mark on the front porch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them. What's he up to? She wondered.

Mark came out to help unload the car. "Hurry up," He urged, "Dad has something to show you."

In the family room, Dad was stretched out in his favorite recliner. He put his fingers to his lips as he saw them come in. Lying on his chest, wrapped in a dish towel, was a tiny kitten. It raised sleepy eyes and uttered a tiny meow. Kelly gasped in awe, "Where did it come from?"

"It was the darndest thing," Mark piped up, "I heard Skipper barking by the garden fence, and he wouldn't stop. So I went to see what was going on, and there was this little kitty, lying in the herb garden under the apple tree."

"All by itself?"

"Uh huh, all alone. And look, it can hardly walk, it's so little."

Kelly took the kitten from her Dad. He could hold it in the palm of one hand. It was black, with a white bib, white whiskers and white hind paws. Its eyes were still blue, only having been open a few days, at most. She held it up to her face. It smelled of lavender and sunshine.

"How did it get there?"

"All I can figure," her father answered, "is that she got separated from her mother. They'll leave them sometimes, the littlest ones. But I haven't seen any stray cats around here."

"I have," Kelly said, entranced, "A big black and orange one."

"I've seen that one too," Mark nodded. "Maybe that's the mom."

"What are you going to do with it?" the girl was almost afraid to ask.

Her Dad smiled. "As I recall, I did promise someone a kitten."

"Really?" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I can keep it? It's so cute! Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Pretty sure it's a girl. But we'll have the vet check her all out anyway." Dad said, "I'll bet she was born right around the time of your birthday."

Skipper came into the room. The tiny kitten arched her back and hissed at the huge dog. Skipper gave her a sniff, then with a slurp licked her from head to toe. Everyone laughed. "Well, I guess it's official," Mom said, "That little thing is part of the family now."

Kelly went to bed happy that night, a basket full of kitten purring by her side. She was sure the old garden cat had not abandoned her baby, but had left the kitten just for her. Why else would she have been in just that spot in the garden, under the magic apple tree?

Happy Easter Brunch

2014-04-11T23:02:00.001-07:00

Easter, to me has always been about coloring eggs and springtime…a new dress, Sears-photo-studio pictures for Grandma…and of course, good food.

        As a child, we went to church, (one of the three times we went each year). Afterwards, we would go out to neat, usually at a place like North’s Chuck Wagon. My first taste of fresh asparagus with hollandaise sauce was at an Easter buffet. So was my first shrimp omelet. I remember much more about the food than the church service.
        My husband and I have always celebrated Easter with our family and friends. A backyard egg hunt, followed by a lovely dinner, was an annual ritual until the kids outgrew Easter baskets. The dinners continued, but I missed the hunts. Now that we have young grandchildren, we’re hiding eggs again.
       I love to have an Easter brunch, but I don't want to spend the whole morning in the kitchen. The following is essentially a savory bread pudding that can be
assembled the night before. Make a fresh fruit salad and muffins ahead of time, brew a pot of coffee, and let the entrée bake while the kids hunt for eggs.

Shrimp “Soufflé”
Serves 6-8

1 lb. cooked salad shrimp

1 - 8oz. package cream cheese

6-8 medium Crimini mushrooms, thinly sliced

6 slices English muffin bread, cut into cubes

2 tbsp. butter

6 eggs

½ - cup milk

½ tsp. dill

¼ tsp. salt

¼ tsp. white pepper

2 ripe Roma tomatoes, seeded and thinly sliced

1 cup prepared hollandaise sauce

Heat oven to 325°. Beat the eggs, milk, dill, salt and pepper until well blended. Fold the bread cubes into the egg mixture. Cover and refrigerate 15 - 30 minutes until the bread is quite moist.
Melt the butter in a small skillet and sauté mushrooms over medium heat until softened. Butter or spray a two- quart oblong casserole dish. Repeat layers of bread mixture, cream cheese slices, shrimp and mushrooms, finishing with a bread layer (5 total). Arrange the tomato slices on top.
Cover and bake at 325° for 1 hour or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Serve topped with hollandaise sauce.

Jordan & Connor, Easter 2012

Feeding the Bear

2014-04-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

(A Sequel to Waiting for Cheese - Oct. 2011)

There have been feral cats in the San Juan Islands for as long as there have been people. They have adapted, become as much part of the environment as the squirrels. The population remains quite stable, and the cats are amazingly healthy. Most likely, that's because so many people feed them. There is still a healthy population of juncos, finches and stellar jays. I've had to refill birdfeeders daily in the winter. During parts of spring and summer, hummingbirds invade the deck like swarms of bees. It's hard to keep three bottles full of nectar. The cats don't seem to bother the birds. As an added bonus, we don't have a rodent problem, either.

My husband and I refer to these felines as free-range. It seems so much kinder than feral. We had been told the old black-and-white Tom that "came with" our farmhouse was one of the founding fathers. He was long gone, but many of the cats that crossed our property bore his tuxedo markings. Not being cat people, we never paid much attention to them. Then one summer, our son found a tiny kitten, abandoned in my herb garden. He brought her inside, and Smokey became part of our family. She has not set a paw outdoors since.

Two years later, we were adopted by two of Smokey's siblings. There was dark grey JR, who looked like Smokey, but with long hair, and golden Brownie. Both were friendly, with lots of personality. They had been living in our garden rockery since they were tiny, first with their mother, then on their own. We grew quite attached to them. As autumn approached, my husband built a shelter for them on our porch, and I started feeding them regularly. The young cats were sleek and fat. However, they were anything but tame.

That was the problem. When we decided to relocate, we didn't know what to do about JR and Brownie. We discussed and considered every option, from taking them to the local rescue shelter (where they would surely find homes), to taking them with us to our new location. Either way would involve actually catching the cats.

As moving day approached, I began putting their dinner in the laundry room, with the door open. Cautiously, the shy critters came in to eat, as long as no one was in there. My plan was to get them accustomed to being inside, gradually closing the door, until they would let me pick them up. After a couple of weeks, it became obvious that being tame housecats was not in these guy's plans. They would purr, and rub our legs, but would scurry away at any motion to touch them. We decided then that finding them a "new home" would do more harm than good. They had been born in the woods, had come from parents many generations free-range. My husband compared them to young raccoons.

We made the rather painful decision to leave the boys at the farm. I spoke to the new tenants, (who were happy to have resident rat-catchers), provided ten pounds of kibble to get them started, and waved a reluctant good-bye to JR and Brownie.

Smokey had lived exclusively indoors since she was four weeks old. The old house had been her whole universe. After watching her adjust to her new surroundings, I felt better about the choice we had made. She might as well have been on Mars. Fearfully, she stayed under our bed for hours at a time. At least the boys were in their familiar territory. They only "needed" us at feeding time.

I ran into the new people several times in the first month. Each time, I was told that the "little gray cat with the white boots" hung around the woodshed. They had been putting food out for him, trying to make friends. However, there had been no sign of Brownie. I toyed with the idea of making a poster to put down at the little store, just to see if there had been any sightings, but discarded the notion as rather silly. My husband and I were both certain he was alive. About 18 months old, he was sturdy and muscular. Brownie knew how to take care of himself.

Several more weeks went by, and life got back to normal. It had taken a few days for Smokey to discover the joys of wall-to-wall carpeting. After that, she was quite comfortable and happy. We were still on acreage, surrounded by forest. A herd of deer made daily foraging trips across our yard, and a flock of wild pigeons roosted in a large hawthorn tree. One afternoon, eleven of the neighbor's sheep found a break in the fence, and came over to visit us. Every so often, we would see cats near the edge of the meadow, hunting. One was a huge animal that could have passed for a bobcat, except for its distinctly domestic face.

On a sunny April morning, I was on my way to work when I saw a flash of ginger fur, just outside the door. The animal disappeared before I could get a good look at it. Over the next few days, we saw the orange cat several times, but always from a distance. Then there he was, close enough to see the little scar on the pink nose, the kink in the tail, Brownie had found us!

Speaking softly and moving slowly, I approached the little cat. He backed off, but didn't run. His fur looked somewhat ragged and he had lost weight. I got a dish of cat food, set it on the step, and walked away, careful not to make eye contact. Brownie waited until I was in my car, then he attacked the food ravenously.

I drove to work with a smile on my face. I had really missed the little cat. Excited, I called my husband. Our new place was about a mile up the road by pavement, much less, as the cat scampers. In his cat-ly wanderings, he must have recognized our vehicles or the scents on them. It's very unlikely that Brownie had been looking for us, but I like to think he was glad, anyway. He was gone when I got home that night, and we didn't see him again for several days. Each evening I stood on the porch and called his name. I was nearly ready to give up, when one night I heard a soft meow in response. "Hey Brownie-boy," I coaxed. "Welcome home buddy. Come get some dinner."

Setting a dish of table scraps on the porch, I stepped back inside. Cautiously, the cat approached, his whiskers twitching, smelling the food. "It's ok, good fella," I crooned softly, "Come on, Brown-bear, that's for you."

Hunger finally won out over his fear. Nervously he stretched forward, grabbed a bite and darted away. I went inside, and slowly, Brownie came back to the dish to finish his meal. The shyer of the two kittens, he had always been very quiet, rarely making a sound. As I watched through the open window, I could hear him purring, the loudest purr I had ever heard.

It went on like this for several days. Every evening, Brownie would come a little closer. The day he actually started eating, before I backed away from the dish, it felt like a small victory. I had finally won a smidgen of his trust. I watched him, contentedly eating. The young cat was obviously thinner. He had been hunting mice, and eating garbage, and was probably infested with parasites. A dose of worm medicine, and some flea drops between his shoulder blades would take care of that problem.

Being on his own, away from JR, Brownie's personality began to shine through. Talkative and friendly, he was happy to rub his body on our legs, while purring and meowing softly. As spring turned to summer, he stayed near the house, sunning on the warm gravel, or curled up on the steps beside the door. He gained weight and filled out, growing into a compact cat, stocky and strong. He started to look like a little brown bear.

Over time, Brownie became quite approachable, by his standards. A good ear-scratching or back rub would earn much purring, as long as we didn't try to pick him up. We folded an old quilt into a thick pad, and placed it in the mud room, near his dish. That night at dinnertime, my husband and I watched through the window. After finishing his cat food, Brownie gave the blanket a cautious sniff, and lay down tentatively. From then on, he was very comfortable, eating and sleeping inside, as long as the door was ajar.

The first truly cold evening of autumn, I let Brownie in and shut the door. Distracted by the dishing-up of dinner, he didn't notice at first. I set his bowl down, saw him start eating, and went into the house, leaving him alone in the mud room. Good, I thought, he doesn't mind. He'll be safe and warm, with a soft place to sleep.

"How's Brownie doing out there?" my husband asked an hour or so later.

I said I didn't know, and let's go check. Peering into the dim room, we fully expected to see the cat curled up, asleep. Instead, we didn't see him anywhere. Flipping on the light, I stepped into the mud room and called his name. Instantly, I heard a low growl. Following my ear, I saw Brownie, crouched in the corner behind a stack of flowerpots, looking terrified.

"It's okay, fella," I said, feeling terrible, "I'm so sorry, boy, I didn't mean for you to be scared." Quickly, I crossed the room and opened the outside door. Brownie was through it in a flash of ginger fur. No amount of coaxing would bring him back in, that night.

By the next day, however, all was well again. We made sure the door remained open a bit. My husband stretched a mini-bungee from door-knob to door-frame, held in place by a coffee can doorstop. Brownie had made his wishes abundantly clear. No matter how much he trusts us, confinement is not his cup of tea. So, we do what we can by providing some food and shelter, and he does his part by keeping the rodents away.

The Brown Bear was born a free-range cat, and free-range he has chosen to remain, but he still enjoys his blanket.

Rushing Spring

2014-03-07T15:51:00.001-08:00

         Seeing the newly opened, seasonal, garden center at the local Thriftway made me think of our early years on Orcas.
         Coming from here in the Willamette Valley, and eager for Spring, I really didn’t appreciate the differences in climate. According to all the gardening books, the San Juans were still a solid “Zone 8”, just like Portland. Tax day was the last frost date I was used to, and often it was safe to plant hardy annuals even sooner. With that in mind, I started my first island garden.
         It was late February, the weekend of the annual salmon derby. Pat was out on the water with his fishing buddies, and I was left with a beautiful faux-spring day ahead of me. With visions of bluebells and petunias, I drove to the nursery in town. Instead of the row upon row of bedding plants that I expected to see, there were bare-root shrubs and not much else. I spoke to the lady in charge, and she patiently explained that there were no less than 18(!) separate microclimates on Orcas, and she didn’t stock annuals until the first week of May…but I was welcome to order anything I wanted.
         Undeterred, I went to the hardware store. They’re part of a chain, so they carry what the mainland suppliers send them. I bought a flat of primroses and one of violas. Turns out it was too early for petunias even by Ace Hardware standards. I rushed home to prep my flowerbeds. By the time the fishermen came home, I had everything planted, and protected from the deer. It really looked like spring had come early.
         Unfortunately, the beautiful day was followed by a night with a clear sky. As the sun went down, so did the temperature. In the morning, I was reminded that Violas are also known as “pansies”. Every one had succumbed to the frost. The primroses were wilted, but recovered as the day warmed up. Fair enough. I waited until May to buy more bedding plants.
         You would think that taught me a lesson, but no. The following year, I managed to hold out until the middle of March. Then a string of unseasonably warm days got the better of me. I’d been reading about cool weather crops, and decided it was time to set out the cabbage and broccoli. I had started these from seed, (too early) and they were already getting to big for their pots. The plants had been growing in the unheated utility room, so I didn’t think the temperature shock would be too great. After a day of hardening off, I planted my little treasures. They did beautifully…for eight days. Then on the day of the Vernal Equinox...laughingly known as the first day of spring…it froze hard, then it snowed. So much for cool weather crops.
         The late April night I found myself shivering in the dark garden, covering my tomato cages with plastic bags, I admitted defeat. I realized that spring in the islands just couldn’t be rushed.
         Now, back in the valley, I'm still in a hurry for spring, but it's not so hard to wait until mid-April. At least I'm relatively certain that it won't snow.

*****

        I like to make this recipe when the garden is in full production, but there’s really no reason to wait. You can use pretty much any vegetables, as long as you get varied textures and colors. It’s the salsa that’s important. The smokiness of the peppers is what makes this dish. I served these to my teenage sons, and neither noticed the absence of meat.

Chipotle Veggie Wraps         A vegetarian entrée

8 Whole wheat Tortillas
2 tbs. corn oil
1 ea. red, yellow & green bell pepper, sliced
1 med. onion, cut into thin wedges
Other veggies (mushrooms, zucchini, etc.) to equal 2 cups
1 lb. pkg. tofu, cut into strips
½ tsp. each cumin and chili powder
1½ cups Chipotle salsa
1 cup shredded cheddar cheese
Shredded lettuce
Sour cream for garnish

Heat oil to medium high in heavy skillet. Add peppers and onions. Cook until tender.
Add remaining vegetables and cook to desired tenderness.

Reduce heat to medium. Season tofu with chili powder and cumin. Add to skillet along with the salsa. Simmer until heated through.

Wrap in warmed tortillas and top with lettuce, cheese and sour cream.

Taking the Easy Way...

2014-02-21T16:21:00.000-08:00

      As much as I love to cook, I still like to find shortcuts to make a recipe easier, or faster to create. When the family was growing, I made most everything from scratch. It was far more cost effective, and peeling potatoes or dicing carrots can be therapeutic. But, I just don't feel like doing all that after a long day at work. Now, I get a lot of "kits" and add my own variations.
      Idahoan makes an instant mashed potato that tastes homemade, especially if used as a crust for shepherd's pie.
      A Totino's frozen pizza (or {"peetzee") as we like to call it) can serve as the base for all kinds of great toppings, when we don't want to get a "real" pizza.
      A bag of frozen mixed vegetables is a staple in my freezer. I use them in soups, stews, and casseroles, anything that needs those kinds of veggies.
      A perfect example of "fast and easy" is this simple sauce. I use an envelope of Knorr white sauce mix, and serve it over Ramen noodles. Allow about 2 packs of noodles for every 3 servings. Cook the noodles per package directions, but use half as much of the seasonings. (I use shrimp flavor with this dish.) Drain off the broth. The noodles will absorb some of the flavor without overpowering the clams.

White Clam Sauce
Serves 4 to 6

2 - 6.5 oz. cans of chopped clams
3 cups basic white sauce, homemade or packaged
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp. butter
3 tbsp. finely diced sweet onion
4 medium button mushrooms, sliced (or 1 can sliced mushrooms, drained)
1 tsp. minced parsley
½ tsp. garlic powder

Drain clams, reserving liquid. Make white sauce, using the clam nectar for a portion of the liquid, adding milk or half-and-half to make 3 cups. Set aside and keep warm.

In a heavy saucepan, heat oil and butter over medium heat. Add onion. Cook slowly, stirring frequently until translucent. Add mushrooms and reduce heat to low. Add parsley and garlic powder. Continue cooking, stirring occasionally until mushrooms are tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in the white sauce, followed by the clams.

Simmer on low, 15 to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Serve over your choice of pasta, garnished with parmesan if desired.

Seahawks Super Bowl Party

2014-01-26T16:36:00.000-08:00

Unless you are somewhere completely without communication,(in which case you probably wouldn't be reading this blog) you know that next Sunday is Super Bowl. The Seattle Seahawks will be facing the Denver Broncos. The last time the Seahawks played in the big game was in 2005, when they lost to the Pittsburgh Steelers. The night before, there was a huge wind storm in northern Washington, leaving much of Seattle without electricity. The venues with generators did record business that day.

This year, we will be watching the game with our family and friends, cheering and enjoying awesome food. Pizza and wings are expected. We are not, however, talking about take-out wings or delivery pizza. Nope, these are to be homemade, from scratch. I used to make pizza as a way to kill time during the game. Now-a-days, though, I'm as much a fan as my husband and kids. I make my pizza before kick-off, put it in the oven just before halftime, and it's ready by the third quarter. The wings require a bit more attention, but I just set and carry a small kitchen timer in my pocket.

When I started making wings, I didn’t care at all about being authentic. I’ve never been to Buffalo, and I like my wings a bit less fiery, with no dip required. So, after many trials, this is what I came up with. We prefer our wings well done, so I slow roast them for about 2 hours. The chicken comes out falling-off-the-bones tender. I included brand names in my recipe, but I've had good results with McCormick's dry rub and Sweet Baby Ray's barbeque sauce. I think the key is to use both Hickory and Mesquite in some combination.

Sweet & Spicy Chicken Wings
Heat oven to 350°

2½ lb. bag Foster Farms Party Wings

2 tbsp. (or so) Lysander’s Hickory Dry Seasoning

1 cup Stubb’s Smokey Mesquite Barbeque Sauce

1 tbsp. Stubb’s Wicked Chicken Wing Sauce or other hot sauce (optional)

Combine 1 cup barbeque sauce with 1 tablespoon wing sauce. Stir well and set aside.

Make sure the wings are completely thawed. Place in a single layer, skin sides down, in a large baking dish. Sprinkle generously with Lysander’s, enough to make a visible layer. Bake for 30 minutes. Drain if necessary. (I use a turkey baster.)

Turn the wings over and season the skin side generously. Bake an additional 30 minutes. Turn the wings again. Brush well with the sauce. Bake another 20-30 minutes. Turn skin-side-up and sauce that side generously. Return to the oven for 15-20 minutes, until the glaze is set. Serve hot or cold.

***

A good crust is the foundation of any pizza. There are plenty of good refrigerated pizza crusts, and even boxed mixes, that work very well. I even used biscuit mix once, when I was out of yeast. But a good, basic yeast dough is still the best way to go. If you have a bread machine with a pizza setting, use it. Just follow their directions.

Super Bowl Pizza

Makes one 14” medium crust pizza

1 packet active dry yeast, quick rising
1 cup warm water (105° to 115° F)
½ tsp. salt
2 tsp. olive oil
2½ to 3½ cups all purpose flour

OR
1 - 12” to 14” ready made pizza crust

In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in warm water. Add salt, olive oil and 2½ cups flour. Mix well. Turn onto floured board. Knead, adding remaining flour until dough feels elastic. Place in greased bowl, turning to grease top. Cover; let rise in warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. Punch down. Let rest about 10 minutes. Brush pizza pan with olive oil and sprinkle with cornmeal. Press dough across bottom of pan, forming a collar around edge to hold the toppings.

Toppings:

1 - 14 oz. can pizza sauce
1½ cup shredded mozzarella
¼ lb. pepperoni
¼ lb. salami
¼ lb. Canadian bacon
½ lb. Italian sausage, hot or mild
¼ cup diced onion
¼ cup diced bell pepper
½ lb. sliced mushrooms
1 - 3oz. can sliced olives

Brown sausage and drain well. Sauté onion and pepper in a little olive oil until soft. Spread sauce across crust. Layer all topping ingredients, finishing with cheese on top. This can be done a couple of hours ahead. (Your crust may continue to rise if it’s made ahead and not refrigerated.)

Bake at 450° for 15 to 20 minutes. Let rest 5 minutes before slicing.

Dungeness Crab Delight

2014-01-15T22:40:00.002-08:00

When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend, Julie and I spent spring break at her mother's cabin near Mt. Hood. It was our first excursion without adults, although we learned later that the neighbors had been keeping a discreet eye on us. At fifteen, we considered ourselves quite self sufficient, and we really did pretty well. We hiked, shot pellet rifles, and rode our bicycles into the town of Rhododendron for breakfast one morning.

One unseasonably warm afternoon, the temperatures topped 70. We decided that it would be fun to go swimming. We dressed in some of Julie's old cut-off shorts and t-shirts and headed for the creek. By the time we walked the mile or so, mostly uphill, to the swimming hole, we were really hot. The deep water of Still Creek looked inviting. After checking for submerged hazards by poking aroung with a long stick, Julie ran to the bank and jumped in. I was right behind her.

The cold shot through my body like an electric shock. My hands and feet were instanly numb. It had not occurred to us that it was only mid-March, and the creek was full of snow melt. (We were on the ascending slope of Mt. Hood, after all.) Our "swim" lasted approximately 15 seconds. Just long enough to get back out of the water. It had also not occurred to either of us to bring towels. Shivering, and on the verge of hypothermia, we made our way back through the very shady woods. Back at the cabin, Julie stoked the woodstove, the only source of heat. We were very glad that cooking required fire, and we had built one that morning to make coffee. Soon we were in warm, dry clothes and the pot was bubbling. Life was good again.

Julie and I, even as teenagers, enjoyed good food. Her mother was a gourmet cook, happy to cook for us, and teach us anything we wanted to know. My first taste of caviar was in her kitchen. We were both learning to cook, and found the woodstove at the cabin a lot of fun. Being true Oregon tomboys, we grew up with the lore of the pioneers, and wanted to learn all the skills. The week at the cabin was as close as we could come in the 70's. And much of it revolved around food. We roasted a rabbit (that we brought from the butcher shop) on a spit in the fireplace, and baked potatoes in the coals. It took about five hours, and countless burnt fingers, but it was a delicious meal.

Coffee was in a stove top perculator, and not very good. We either used too much coffee, or let it perk too long. The pancakes we made on the cast iron stove top were another matter, and wonderful. Likewise the pepper-cured honey bacon that we found at the market in Rhododendron.

We lost touch after high school, but have re-established contact. Our lives have taken us to, quite literally, opposite ends of the country. Mine to the San Juan Islands of Washington State, hers to northern Maine. No surprise that we both live in the woods. We still both love the outdoors, and fantasize about pioneer living, although on a tamer scale. And we both still love to eat, and cook

Here in the Pacific Northwest, it's the season for fresh Dungeness crab, in my mind, far tastier than any lobster. Julie's mother passed away a few years ago, but I asked if she would share her special crab soup recipe. I remembered it as her entry in one of the James Beard contests. I believe it won an award, but neither Julie or I can recollect the details. The original recipe was for twelve main course servings, and called for a total of four pounds of crab.This adaptation calls for quantities of a more managable size, and the results are scrumptious.

Dungeness Crab Delight

Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer

1/2 lb. cooked crab meat

1/2 lb. cooked crab legs

1 to ½ quart half & half

¼ lb. butter

¼ cup flour

1 tbsp. onion, grated

2 drops hot pepper sauce or ¼ tsp. cayenne pepper

½ cup heavy cream

1 tbsp. Scotch or Bourbon Whiskey (optional)

Salt, Pepper, Chopped parsley, Paprika

Melt butter in double boiler. Add Flour and onion and cook at least 20 minutes up to two hours (the longer, the better). Slowly add most of the half & half, stirring at low heat to keep from lumping. If too thick, add more half & half. Add a sprinkle of black pepper and the Tabasco Sauce. (Up to this point can be made ahead of time and allowed to cool).

An hour before serving, heat slowly to a simmer. Stir in whiskey and add the crab meat and legs, being careful not to break it up too much. Check for seasoning and add salt if needed (often, the crab is salty enough on its own).

To serve, pour the heavy cream into serving bowls and pour the soup over it. Sprinkle with finely chopped parsley and plenty of paprika.

A Cure for the Common Cold?

2014-01-03T20:46:00.000-08:00

Eastern European peasant food, this lentil soup was a staple when I was growing up. Definitely a comfort food, the smells evoke a feeling of nostalgia to this day. It was one of my Czech mother's signature dishes, and a favorite of my dad's. During the winter, there was almost always a pot simmering on the back of the stove.

Traditionally used as an appetizer, it was said to ward off chills and colds. My grandmother, mother, and aunts swore by the healing powers of the garlic, and would use copious amounts. I'm more partial to the soothing aroma of the sweet marjoram, the essential spice in this dish. (Don't be afraid to use a lot. The flavor is mild, and the fragrance is heavenly.) Either way, it's good for body and soul.

Easy to make, and relatively fast, I make it for dinner. My family loves it, which is a bonus. Early on, it became part of the rotation for "Soup & Bread Night." I like to serve it with a good, toasted potato bread, or a light rye. Just don't do garlic bread, it's overkill, I found.

Babi's Lentil Garlic Soup Flavorful, Satisfying, and Meatless

About 4 - 6 servings

1 cup diced celery, with leaves

1 cup diced onion

2 tbsp. olive oil

2 cloves garlic, or more, to taste - minced

6 cups vegetable broth

1/2 lb. dried lentils

1 tsp. or more dried marjoram leaves

Salt and pepper

In large, heavy soup pot, saute celery and onion in oil until tender soft. Add half of the garlic cloves, lentils and broth. Be aware of the heat of your garlic and use accordingly. If you like lots of garlic, use more. The cooking time reduces the bite. Season to taste with salt, pepper and marjoram.

Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer until lentils are tender, 20-25 minutes, stirring occasionally. The longer you simmer, the thicker the soup will be. Add remaining clove(s) of garlic just before serving. Serve with hearty whole grain bread.

Mycology is Mushrooming

2013-11-29T23:02:00.000-08:00

One of my fondest childhood memories is of going mushrooming with my aunt and
uncle. I remember the smell of the moist soil, walking on a carpet of pine needles so thick that our footsteps made no sound. The awe of that ancient forest, with bracken fern fronds nearly as tall as I, has stayed with me. My cousin and I would scamper around, searching for 'shrooms. We were taught not to touch any, just show them to an adult. Some were picked, some were vetoed. I don't remember anything about the art of mycology, I was too young, but I definitely remember feasting on the fungi. Baskets full of mushrooms would mean mushroom soup for supper. Breakfast would be a mushroom frittata. The flavors were always wonderful, earthy and rich.

I did learn a healthy respect for wild mushrooms, and don't recommend hunting them yourself, unless you really know what you're doing. Just too many are deadly toxic. Personally, I'm happy to stick with a reliable source:¦my neighborhood grocery store. Fortunately, these days most markets are carrying more than just white button mushrooms. Now we can enjoy "wild" mushrooms, and all we have to learn are recipes. Criminis, the brown buttons, are baby portabellas. Less expensive, they are nearly as flavorful as their larger, trendier siblings. Fresh chantrelles and shitakes have become standards in some produce departments. Many of the more exotic can be found dried, if not fresh.

The year our son, James, announced his intention of becoming a chef, Grandma gave him a "mushroom farm" for Christmas. It was a kit consisting of a foot-long piece of log, pre-treated with shitake spores. He followed the instructions, and sure enough, at the expected time, he was harvesting succulent shitakes. Our family enjoyed the abundance for several weeks.

This recipe is the closest I've come to duplicating my aunt's soup. Her's was made with homemade beef stock and herbs from her garden. It was velvety smooth, punctuated with perfect slices of mushrooms. A dollop of butter floated on top of each serving. She counted on heavy cream and arrowroot to thicken her broth. Trying to lighten it up, I use mushroom puree and milk for thickener. The end result is very similar, and much lower in fat and calories. A few shitakes or other "wild" mushrooms thrown in for extra flavor are a nice touch.

Cream of Mushroom Soup

2 lbs. crimini mushrooms

½ lb. shitake, chantrelle, morell or an assortment, fresh or dried (optional)

3 stalks celery, strings removed, thinly sliced

½ cup diced red onion

3 tbsp. olive oil

1 tbsp. butter

2 cups beef broth

4 cups milk or half & half

¼ tsp. thyme

1 bay leaf

Salt and pepper

Chopped chives for garnish

If you're using dried mushrooms, put them in a bowl with just enough warm water cover. Let stand for at least 10 minutes. Drain, reserving liquid.

Wipe crimini mushrooms with a damp paper towel. Pick out the 6 best looking ones and slice thinly. Set aside with the more exotic mushrooms.. Chop the remaining criminis coarsely.

In a stock pot or Dutch oven, heat oil and butter to medium-high. Saute onions and celery until tender. Add chopped mushrooms and continue cooking until some aroma develops. Pour in broth. If using dried mushrooms, add the liquid they soaked in, too. Bring to a simmer. Add thyme and bay leaf. Reduce heat and cover. Simmer about 15 minutes until mushrooms are tender. Remove bay leaf.

With a slotted spoon transfer the mushroom/onion/celery mixture into the food processor or blender. Puree until smooth. Pour the puree back into the pot and stir well. Add mushroom slices and dried mushrooms. Stir in. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Continue to simmer on low heat 10 minutes. Slowly add milk and heat gently. Do not allow to boil after milk has been added.

Sprinkle with chopped fresh chives. Serve with crusty bread or cheese toast.

A Meat and Potatoes Man

2013-11-18T17:52:00.000-08:00

My father was of the school of thought that a real meal consisted of soup, salad and a main course. A real meat and potatoes man, there were certain things that just didn't count as dinner. If it didn't require a knife and fork, it was not considered a meal. Pizza, tacos, and hamburgers were unknown in my house as a child. (Not that I was deprived of these kid favorites, there were plenty of sleep-overs and pizza parties at friends homes.) An exception to the rule were his favorite foods: the gulashes of his childhood in Czechoslovakia. There are many versions in many cookbooks, but these are truly authentic, eastern European dishes, just the way my grandmother used to make. Simple and hearty, both are still family favorites, even though Dad has been gone for many years.

These are the basics for the meat gulash. If you like a lot of heat, add a dried chili pepper or two. If you prefer mild, omit it. We raised sheep, and Dad hunted deer and elk, so the meat of choice was seldom beef. Even the gamiest of game is succulent and tender when done this way. Mom used to serve it with a hearty rye bread, topped with garlic butter, and fruit.

Lad's Gulash Just like Dad used to make

1 lb. Beef, venison or lamb, cut into 1-inch cubes

1 large onion, chopped

Flour

Salt, pepper, paprika

Bacon drippings, oil, or butter

1 quart beef stock or water

Whole, dried chili pepper (optional)

Season the meat with salt, pepper and paprika. Heat the bacon drippings in a heavy pan. Cook the onion until golden. Sprinkle with paprika.

Add the meat and cook until it browns on all sides. Sprinkle with flour and continue to cook, stirring constantly to prevent sticking. When the flour starts to brown, pour in just enough liquid to cover everything. Stir well, scraping the bottom to loosen any bits. Add chili pepper(s) if using.

Reduce heat, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until meat is tender, 1 hour or longer. The gravy will thicken as it simmers. Add extra liquid as needed. Adjust seasoning to taste. Remove chili pepper before serving.

********************

Although traditionally made with russet potatoes, this can be a little starchy if they cook too long. Using a waxy type spud, like reds or Yukon golds, helps with that.

Sausage & Potatoes A simple "old country" peasant dish

About 4-6 servings

1 lb. kielbasa style lean smoked sausage

6 medium russet potatoes

½ cup chopped onion

2 tbsp. butter or oil

2 tbsp. flour

4-6 cups broth or water

2 tsp. sweet paprika

salt, pepper

Peel potatoes and cut into uniform chunks. Slice sausage into bite size pieces.

Saute onion in butter until golden brown. Add potatoes and season with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with flour and stir to coat. Pour in water or broth to cover and stir well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer about 15 minutes until potatoes are fork tender.

Stir in sausage slices and paprika. Mixture should be fairly thick and reddish brown. Cook a few more minutes until sausage is hot.

Serve with a crisp green salad or fresh fruit.

A Drive to Remember

2013-11-15T01:39:00.001-08:00

With Thanksgiving just two weeks away, I was reminded of a trip we took in 1979. Newlyweds, my husband and I were living in Central Oregon, while our family all lived in Portland. That's a trip of 180 miles or so, usually about 3 hours, if obeying the horrendous 55 mph speed limit that was in effect at the time.

We had spent Thanksgiving Day with my in-laws, and Friday and Saturday visiting friends and family. Now it was Sunday, and we had brunch with my mother before getting on the road back home. The forecast was calling for more snow in the mountains, with a traveler's advisory for the Santiam Pass. Fretting as we prepared to leave, Mom fixed us a care package. "This is way too much food for me," she said. "You kids take this home."

Before we reached the highway, we heard that the Pass was closed. Pat had to be at work the next day, so we wanted to get home, if we could. We turned around and headed toward Mt. Hood. Up and over the mountains, then Highway 97 all the way home.

At the base of the mountain was a roadblock, traction devices required beyond that point. Fortunately, we had chains for our old, two-wheel-drive pick-up. Unfortunately, the sheer number of vehicles chaining up created a massive bottleneck. A single lane of traffic was open in each direction. We started the up-hill climb, amidst hundreds of holiday travelers. Creeping slowly, bumper to bumper in driving snow, progress was minimal. About halfway to the summit, the line of eastbound cars ground to a halt. Minutes passed. The occasional O.D.O.T. truck or county vehicle would pass going the other way. Every so often, we would move a car length or so.

The snow continued to fall hard, the wind blowing. Time dragged on as we sat, trapped in an icy caravan. After four hours, we had yet to reach the summit. I was nine months pregnant with our first child, due any day. Cranky and uncomfortable, I was ready to be home. Pat was worried that I might go into labor, and I was trying not to think about it. He tried to keep the old Ford at a comfortable temperature, but it seemed we were always too cold, or too hot.

Brunch was a long time ago, and we were getting hungry. We remembered mom's care package. Inside was a piece of ham, a brick of Swiss cheese, and several ripe tomatoes. We had excellent sandwich fixings, with no bread or utensils. Laughing, we cut chunks of ham with Pat's pocketknife, broke bits off the cheese, and ate tomatoes like apples. Food never tasted so good.

Inching along, we finally reached the summit of the pass, the marker barely visible through the snow. The downhill grade did nothing to speed things. As dusk fell, the snow and wind stopped simultaneously. We had been sitting in the truck for nearly seven hours. The line of vehicles stretched as far as we could see, both in front and behind. There seemed no logical explanation for the hold up. No emergency vehicles had gone by, in either direction. We realized that nothing at all had passed for hours.

Three cars up ahead of us, a yellow International Scout suddenly put on his turn signal. He pulled into the available left lane, and started down the mountain, oncoming traffic be damned.

Pat looked over at me, "what do you think?"

"Go for it." I was as sick of the mountain as he was. He pulled out, following the Scout.

The chains bit easily into the new snow, and we progressed steadily. Passing literally hundreds of cars, we encountered no obstacles. Eventually, we reached the front of the line. At its head was a small white sedan, traveling at a snail's pace. Everyone else had apparently fallen in behind, dutifully staying in line, until it caused an eleven mile traffic jam.

Soon we were off the mountain. The snow behind, the road clear, Pat pulled over and removed the tire chains. Finally, we were able to make some time. The desert shimmered under a layer of frost as we drove through the moonlight. The road spun out before us, long and straight. A far-off flashing red light announced the turn to Warm Springs. Up ahead, we could see taillights. Probably Mr. Scout, we hadn't seen any other cars. He reached the stoplightâ€¦and didn't even slow down.

"Look at that crazy bastard!" Pat exclaimed. "He just ran right through that red light!"

A moment later, we came to the lightâ€¦and slid right through it. The entire surface of Hwy. 97 was coated in black ice. We continued, slower and wiser.

Finally reaching Bend, we pulled into Denney's at the edge of town to thaw out, and eat. The place was packed. We got a small booth, and ordered soup and coffee. As we waited, we gazed idly out the window. There was plenty of snow here, the road plowed and hard-packed. Just then, a huge Buick station wagon approached the diner. Trying to slow, the wagon slid, turning sideways across the four-lane road. We could clearly see the faces in the car. Dad was white-knuckled on the wheel and mom looked terrified, while the kids in the backseat laughed, waving at people in the restaurant.

We waved back as Dad corrected the skid and continued down the street, completely unscathed. He'd had the entire block to himself

By the time we got home, we had been on the road for over ten hours. We were exhausted, and caught colds, but were otherwise fine. It was another two weeks before Laura was born.

****

With that happy memory in mind, I'd like to add a recipe that has been a tradition in the Brown family for four generations. It's labor intensive, but worth the work. Known regionally as 24-Hour Salad, Overnight Salad, or "that salad with the little marshmallows", this is one of my husband's favorites:

Ambrosia

2 cups Royal Ann cherries, halved

2 cups pineapple tidbits

2 cups mandarin oranges

2 cups quartered marshmallows

1 egg

1 ½ tbsp. sugar

¼ cup lemon juice

½ cup orange juice

1 cup heavy cream, whipped

Combine well-drained fruit and marshmallows.

Beat egg until lemon colored. Gradually add sugar, lemon juice and orange juice. Mix well. Cook in double boiler until smooth and thick, stirring constantly.

Allow to cool completely. Stir in whipped cream.

Pour over fruit and fold in. Chill 24 hours before serving. Do not freeze.

Going from the labor intensive, to the beautifully easy, this is a way to dress up your cranberry sauce. You still need to plan ahead a little, but the prep time is minimal. It's a jell-o salad that even cranberry-shy kids like, and the shape is a departure from the classic "can mold" of my youth.

I've used various size and shape molds, but my favorite is a 3-cup copper ring. This makes two of those, or one 6-cup Tupperware mold.

Cranberry-Orange Wreath

1 - 6oz. box red jell-o, raspberry, cran-raspberry, or cranberry

2 cans whole-berry cranberry sauce

2 small cans mandarin oranges, drained well

¼ tsp. each, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice

To make un-molding easier, dip mold to the rim in very hot tap water for 10 seconds. Immediately flip onto serving plate and re-refrigerate until ready to serve.

Garnish with whipped topping just before serving, if desired.

Pumpkin Patches, Pumpkin Pies

2013-11-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite fall activities is going to the pumpkin patch with the grandkids, and my favorite patch is at Baggenstos Farms. Connor's preschool class went there last year, and Jordan's Brownie troop had their event there in October. The farm is awesome. In addition to the pumpkin patch, they have a farm store, rabbits and goats to pet, and various fun activities for the kids, like pumpkin bowling. Currently closed temporarily, they re-open for Christmas trees at the end of this month.

Last year for Thanksgiving we made our first "from scratch" pumpkin pie. It was a fun experience. We purchased a special "pie" pumpkin. With no clue how to proceed, we just quartered the pumpkin, cleaned out the seeds and other "pumpkin guts" (to quote Connor) placed cut side down on a cookie sheet, and baked until soft. Once cooked, I scraped the meat into the food processor bowl and pureed until smooth. Not happy with the not-orange-enough color of the puree, I added a cooked carrot to the mixture. It didn't change the flavor, but made the color more appetizing. I actually ended up with more than I needed, so I froze the remained to use in future pies or pumpkin bread.

My plan was to use the puree in place of canned pumpkin in my favorite pie recipe, but thought it deserved a homemade crust. Since I rely on frozen pie crust, I called on my son James, the chef, to make the pastry. He made a rustic, French style crust, rich with butter and sugar. It was delicious. We will definitely be doing this again this year.

This is my old "go to" recipe. Adjust accordingly if you bake your own pumpkin.

Pumpkin Cheesecake Pie

Heat oven to 425°

2 Crusts for 9" deep dish pie

16 oz. cream cheese, softened

1 ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar

4 eggs

1 tsp. ground cinnamon

¼ tsp. ground nutmeg

1 can pumpkin (29oz.)

Whipped cream for garnish

Beat cream cheese and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time.

Stir in cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin until smooth. Pour mixture into prepared crust. Place on cookie sheet in preheated, hot oven.

Immediately lower temperature to 350°.

Bake 35 - 45 minutes or until center is almost set

Cool completely on wire rack. Serve topped with whipped cream

After the Storm

2013-10-15T16:08:00.000-07:00

         It's always interesting to me how quickly late summer heat turns to fall rain in this part of the country. It can be in the high eighties one day, and near freezing the next. The storm that signaled the end of September dumped record amounts of rain, took out the air-conditioner at work, and flattened what was left of the garden. When the rain slowed, and the flooding receded, Laura and I surveyed the mess. There were still plenty of tomatoes on the bush, mostly green, but enough were pinkish-orange and worthy of salvage. A good sized cucumber, and a partly red bell pepper rounded out the last harvest. We picked what was there and retreated to the warmth of the house, and a pot of veggie soup.
        Today I finally got around to clearing up the rest of the garden. I pulled up spent plants and retired them to the yard debris bin to be picked up later this week. The wire tomato cages were in better shape than I'd hoped, considering the way they looked. Only the legs were bent at a near 45 degree angle, easily fixed. It only took a little time to have the plot back to pre-garden condition. Standing back to look at the bare patch of earth made me a bit sad. Only six months until next garden season.
         The day of the rainstorm I was lucky enough to experience a new zucchini dish. Tasty little morsels baked in mini muffin tins...zucchini tots! I haven't had the chance to try making them myself, since we've had no more fruit on the squished plant. I might actually have to BUY a zuke or two, just so I could make these at home. I think the grandkids will love them!

Zucchini Tots
Makes about 2 dozen

Preheat oven to 400f

4 cups grated zucchini
3 large eggs
1/4 cup finely diced onion
3/4 cup shredded parmesan cheese
3/4 cup seasoned bread crumbs
salt and pepper to taste

Spray mini muffin tins with oil. Grate the zucchini onto a clean dish towel. Roll up and wring out all the excess water. In a medium bowl, combine all the ingredients and mix well. Fill each muffin cup to the top, pressing down firmly. Bake at 400f for 16 to 18 minutes or until golden brown and crispy. Use a plastic spatula to loosen tots from pan.

The Sage Seed

2013-09-27T18:05:00.001-07:00

             Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” Her only complaint was that along with the game birds, he usually brought home enough dust and sage seed to choke a mule. It wasn't so bad, at least the season was shorter than football.
            A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual eastern Oregon bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.
            Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.
            He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.
            Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.
            On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.
            “I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”
            “Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”
            “It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”
             Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new. A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.
            “Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”
            An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.
            Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.
            Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.
            “Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.
            Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.
            A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”
            “Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”
            Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”
            Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.

***********************

        That was a true story. It happened back in the 80’s…when you could put anything on lay-away at K-Mart, and the customer was always right. This is Frankie’s recipe. It works best with domestic duck, the fatter the better. The fat all cooks off, and leaves a wonderful, crispy skin and succulent meat. A deep, open pan with a rack is essential.

ROAST DUCK         Heat oven to 400°

1 large, fat duck
1½ tsp kosher salt
½ coarse, black pepper
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
Fresh sprigs of rosemary (optional)

Cut duck into quarters. Shears work well for this. Trim excess fat and ragged skin edges, but do not remove the skin. (If you are using wild, skinned duck breasts, lay strips of bacon across each breast to replace the skin. Secure with picks. Proceed as follows.)

Make a dry rub of salt, pepper, garlic and paprika. Proportions are suggested, but you can adjust to taste. Rub both sides of each duck piece generously.

Use a deep broiler pan for best results. Lightly oil the roasting rack. Lay duck quarters skin-side-down on the rack. Place a stem of fresh rosemary on each piece (non-skin side).

Place in hot oven. Reduce heat to 325°, and roast skin side down for 30 minutes.

Turn the duck quarters skin-side-up. Drain any fat from the drip pan. Continue roasting, skin-side-up, 2 - 2½ hours, until inner temperature at thickest point reaches 165°. The drip pan will likely be full. When slow-roasted this way, the fat melts away, leaving a moist and tender bird with a crackly-crisp skin.

I like to serve this with a wild rice pilaf and baby carrots.

Feeding Vikings

2013-09-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

Watching the Oregon Ducks beat the tar out of the Tennessee Volunteers this afternoon made me a bit homesick for the days when my boys played high school football.
In a small town, everybody shows up for games, whether they have kids on the team or not. When the team made it to state, the Tacoma Dome had more Orcas people in the stands then fans from the more local opponent.
          For several years, we spent most Saturdays in the stands or on the sidelines at Buck Park, cheering for our Vikings. Often, eagles soared overhead. My husband, like most of the dads, would pace the length of the field, following the action, shouting encouragement. I found I had a better view from the bleachers, with the other moms. Sometimes, we got quite loud ourselves, clapping and chanting along with the pep squad: "O-R-C-A-S…V-I-K-I-N-G-S…ORCAS (clap clap) VIKINGS (clap clap).
It's been ten years since our youngest graduated, and my time as a football mom ended. Now, I'm just a fan.
           There  were no lights on our field, so Varsity games always played on Saturday afternoon, usually starting at 1 or 2pm. When James was playing, we rarely got home before 5 or 6 on games day….hungry and ready to eat. I got into the habit of using the crock-pot, so dinner would be waiting for us, ready to be served up. It's a great feeling, coming home to the aroma of chili, pot roast, or a wonderfully hearty soup. This took a bit of morning time-management, but it was worth it. Sometimes, I got the bread machine out, too.
            This is one of our favorites, especially with homemade bread. The Guinness Stout adds a great richness, and helps to tenderize the meat.

Harvest Stew       Serve with hot biscuits or fresh bread

1 lb. beef, lamb, or venison, cut into cubes
⅓ cup seasoned flour
2 tbsp. oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 stalks celery, sliced
2 carrots, sliced
2 -3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, cubed
1 large or 2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups frozen mixed vegetables
Small, whole, fresh mushrooms (optional)
2 cups beef broth
1 - 12oz. bottle Guinness Extra Stout

Place the meat and flour in a bag, and shake to coat thoroughly.

Heat the oil to medium-high in a large, heavy pan. Cook the meat until brown. Place in crock-pot set on low. Add the vegetables Add the beef broth and stir well. Cover.

De-glaze the hot pan with the Guinness, being sure to loosen any bits. Let it boil at least 2 minutes, to evaporate the alcohol. Scrape the pan again, and add the liquid to the crock pot. Stir well. Cover and turn the temperature up to desired cook time.

Cook on high 4 to 5 hours, or med/low 7 to 8 hours.

Charlie

2013-09-07T18:54:00.000-07:00

The old man glanced across the pick-up seat at the little girl sitting beside him. She wore faded jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, and Keds that had once been pink. She was eight years old, and the picture of her mother at that age. Blonde and tan, a tomboy from head to toe. In her lap she held a small, green plastic tackle box.

It was late summer in central Oregon. An excellent time to take his granddaughter fishing, Hank thought. The water level in the canal had been dropped for the season, leaving the trout trapped in isolated deep holes. It was, almost literally, catching fish in a barrel.

The pigtailed face turned toward him. “Papa, doesn’t it hurt the worms when you put them on the hook?”

“Well,” Hank hesitated, unsure what to say, “I don’t think they hurt the way we do. Their brains are too little”

“But can they swim? It must be scary if they can’t swim. Don’t they drown?”

“They can breathe in the water,” he explained patiently improvising. He had no idea whether a night crawler could swim or not. It hadn’t occurred to the girl that the worms would be eaten alive by a trout. Grandpa was deciding it would be better to use Powerbait.

He cranked the steering wheel hard left and turned onto the BLM right-of-way. It was a rutted, hard-packed dirt access road, which meandered along, following the canal out into the desert.

“Look, Papa!” Lucy giggled, pointing, “Look at those funny birds!”

A family of Valley quail marched, single file across the road. Mama was in the lead, followed by a six adolescent chicks, with Daddy bringing up the rear. Lucy was delighted.

Hank slowed to an idle to let them pass. “They were most likely down at the water hole. Just up a bit is our spot.”

The old truck rumbled to a stop by the side of the road. There was a bend in the canal here, where the water widened and slowed. This was the fishing hole. Lucy jumped out and slammed the door. They settled down on a fallen log and grandpa set their lines. He fixed the girl up with a baited hook, making sure no worms were injured in the process.

“Hold down on this button,” he instructed, “then let go at the top of the cast.”

“I know.” She grinned confidently, “Daddy showed me how.” With a look of supreme concentration, she swung the pole through the air, the bobber landing with a plop. Hank nodded, proud of her. The child had been practicing.

They caught four nice pan fish within the first hour. It was the perfect amount for dinner.

The day warmed. Dragonflies floated on shimmering heat waves. Sometimes, a breeze rippled the water, or raised a dust-devil. Otherwise, all was still.

When the sun was straight overhead, they went back to the truck. Hank put the tailgate down, and spread the lunch Nana had packed. Lucy munched on her ham sandwich, asking questions about the desert animals between bites. Her grandpa had lived in the area his entire life. He knew all about the wildlife, and loved to share his knowledge.

“Look at them whistle pigs,” he said, pointing to a prairie dog colony the size of a football field, a few yards across the canal road. “They dig holes to hide in, deep burrows, and then just stand there on the edge and watch. If a hawk flies by, they’re gone just like that.”

They decided it was getting too hot to fish, so they packed up the gear and started for home. As they bumped along the rutted road, a flurry of activity caught Lucy’s eye. Something had scattered a covey of quail, sending dust and feathers flying. Hank hit the brakes, swearing under his breath, as several birds erupted in front of the truck. They heard the thump of several bodies coming in contact with the vehicle. Lucy leapt out and ran onto the road. Most of the birds were across now, looking flustered. One, however, lay in the road, twitching. “Oh, Papa,” the girl cried. “He’s hurt! Did we do that?”

“I think he ran into the truck in the dust cloud,” Hank answered. “We should put him down. He can’t survive if he can’t fly. He’d be someone’s supper before nightfall.” Damn birds, he thought could’ve cracked a windshield.

The bird’s wing was badly damaged. “Can’t we take him home? I could take care of him while he heals up.” The pleading dark eyes were hard to resist. He melted like the marshmallow that he was. He couldn’t deny that the bird was still alive, and didn’t seem to be suffering. He wrapped the wounded quail in a shop towel, laid him in an empty pail, and handed it all to Lucy. “Gives a whole new meaning to a Bucket of Chicken.” He grinned.

“This is Charlie Quail,” she announced after a bit of thought. “He’ll heal up better if he knows his name.”

Grandpa nodded gravely, hiding a smile under his mustache.

Back at the house, Fran found a box for Charlie. They lined it with newspaper and set it in a warm corner of the kitchen. Lucy got a handful of chicken scratch from the henhouse and the water dispenser they used for day-old chicks.

By the time she was through fussing over the injured quail, dinner was ready. They ate a fine meal of rainbow trout, baked potatoes, and corn, fresh from the garden. There was blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. After dinner, the neighbor kids came to get Lucy for a game of flashlight tag. She brought them in, one at a time, very quietly, to see Charlie. She insisted on slow movements and low voices. The children were suitably respectful. They had all nursed wounded birds. Most had not survived the first night.

After the children had gone, Fran looked at the little quail. “What do you think his chances are, Hank?”

“Oh, I’d say about fifty-fifty. He hasn’t died of shock yet. He’s not hurt that bad, but the kid might love him to death.”

In the morning, Charlie was not only alive, but quite alert. He was up and pecking at the grain when Lucy came down for breakfast. His wing drooped, and he stood on one foot. Hank smiled, watching from behind his newspaper as his granddaughter painstakingly inspected the bird.

Days passed, and Charlie continued to improve. “He needs more space,” Lucy complained to her grandma. “How can his wing heal if he can’t stretch it out? I can’t turn him loose until he can take care of himself.”

Hank and Fran smiled at each other. At least she wasn’t planning on making the thing a pet, they both thought. “We could put him out with the chickens,” the old man offered. “He’d have room, and company, too.”

“Thank you, Papa! Thank you, Nana!” the girl cried enthusiastically, hugging them, “I’ll go get him set up!”

That was how Charlie Quail came to live with fifteen white hens. Within hours, he was swaggering around like he owned the place, apparently forgetting about his injured leg. It was clear he felt he was in charge.

Lucy looked after Charlie with tireless dedication. “For an animal that’s not a pet, he sure gets a lot of pampering,” Hank teased, “He’s getting fat on my chicken feed. You think he’ll be well soon?”

The little nurse looked thoughtful, “He’s pretty much healed,” she decided, “I think he’ll be ready for release soon.” Evidently, she had been watching Animal Planet.

The next afternoon Lucy confirmed that Charlie was ready to return to the wild. She put the now docile bird into a crate in her wagon and headed east. When she found a good field, she stopped and opened the box. After a wing-stretch and a feather ruffle, Charlie started pecking at sage seeds. Smiling with satisfaction, the girl returned to the farm.

In the morning, Fran went to gather eggs. From the porch she saw a small figure on the wrong side of the fence. Coming closer, she realized that it wasn’t a chicken. Charlie had returned.

Hank and Lucy decided they had released him too near the coop, and he was attracted back by the available food. This time they would go to the mill fields. There were other wild quail there. Two days went by, and there was no sign of the bird. Then, on the third evening, coincidentally at feeding time, Charlie came sauntering up to the hen house.

“I think you’ve got yourself a pal,” Hank said to his granddaughter, “You better open the gate.”

Charlie went right in and made himself at home. Strutting along the fence, he inspected the boundary. He was a comic little figure, bopping around with the big white hens. When Fran fed the chickens, he joined right in. Evidently, he intended to stay.

Vacation ended and Lucy went home, but her grandparents promised to take care of Charlie. After all, the quail had chosen their chickens as his covey.

Homegrown Tomatoes

2013-08-15T18:24:00.000-07:00

            It had been more years than I care to admit since I was able to grow a really good tomato...until now. The cool sea air on Orcas was not conducive to ripening tomatoes, not to mention the deer. I had to pick everything pretty much as soon as it was remotely red...or it was gone. We have "suburban deer" here, we see them in the yard occasionally, but so far all we have lost are some strawberry leaves. I think the rest of the garden is too close to the house for the deer to feel secure.
            We planted our garden with lovely organic starts, also benefitting Jordan's school. At first Laura and the kids were sure that the cucumber was going to die. The little plant was wilted every evening. I assured them that it would be ok. To make sure of it, I cut the bottom off a Mt. Dew bottle and sunk it upside down beside the cuke. By filling it with water a time or two a day, we made sure that the water got down to the roots. So far we have harvested 3 nice sized cucumbers, with many more little pickles growing on the trellised vine.
             The bell peppers are also coming along nicely, having already picked a nice red one. Zucchini too, after many years of failure on the island.
             It's the tomatoes, however of which I am the most proud. We are having a bumper crop. The cherries are coming in clusters sweet as candy. Connor and Jordan eat them as soon as they're ripe, warm from the sun, straight from the bush. Even the beefsteak, traditionally a long season fruit, is ripening now. I've never had luck with beefsteaks, even here in Portland. There is something to be said for the new organic hybrids.
            To quote the song "there's just two things that money can't buy...and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes."

Simple Greek Salad

2 or 3 perfectly ripe tomatoes, seeded and cut into chunks
1 large cucumber, cubed
1 small jar pitted Kalamata olives
1 small sweet onion, coarsely chopped

Combine all the veggies. Toss with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Serve chilled.

Too Much Zucchin, Again?

2013-08-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

Nearly all zucchini growers have had the problem of over-abundance. It's just a fact of life. They grow so fast, and the succulent young stage passes so quickly that it's hard to stay ahead. No matter, the older ones can be turned into bread or relish, or frozen for later use. There's always enough to go around, and we're more than happy to share with our friends.

During spring-fever gardening time, it's easy to get carried away, and plant waaaaay too much. I was once guilty of planting TWELVE hills of zucchini. My friends stopped taking my calls during August, and most of September. After a lot of years with too much, I finally wised up, and decided to grow just one or two hills. We still had plenty, and I became much more popular in the neighborhood.

I never had luck growing zucchini on Orcas. I don't know if it was my location, the salt air, or what. All I know is that it's embarrassing for any gardener to admit that they can't grow zucchini. Back in a regular "Zone 8", I'm back! But I didn't over do it. This year we have one very large plant, which strangely, seems to have produced a few small yellow crooknecks along with the lovely green zucchini. So far, we've grilled some, sautéd some, and had a batch of pancakes. I'm hoping to have enough for relish later in the season. Laura made some zucchini bread yesterday, and most of it is already gone!

Here are two of my favorite ways to use the succulent little squashes. An oversized almost-got-away can be used for the relish, just be sure to remove all the seeds before grinding.

Zucchini Relish

Makes 7 pints

Grind and let stand overnight:
10 cups zucchini

4 cups onions

5 tbsp. salt

Next morning, drain and rinse in cold water.

In large pan, combine with:

1 each, red and green bell pepper, ground

2 ¼ cup cider vinegar

3 ½ cup sugar

1 tsp. nutmeg

1 tsp. dry mustard

1 tsp. turmeric

Boil together until relish darkens, stirring constantly, about 20 - 25 minutes. Fill jars while boiling hot and screw on appropriate rings and lids.

Process in hot water bath 10 minutes. Remove and allow jars to cool out of any draft. Listen for the "pop" of the lids sealing. Check for seal when completely cool, at least 12 hours. Refrigerate or re-process with new lids any that did not seal. Refrigerate after opening.

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Zucchini Pancakes Savory, not sweet!

Heat oven to 300F

4 medium zucchini

2 tbsp. grated onion

1 large egg, beaten

1 tbsp. mayonnaise

½ tsp. mixed Italian seasonings

salt and pepper to taste

1 tsp. baking powder sifted with 2 tbsp. flour

3 tbsp. oil with 1 tbsp. butter for frying,

Seasoned tomato sauce or pre-made spaghetti sauce

Parmesan cheese

Grate zucchini (if the skin is tender enough to puncture with your fingernail, leave it on, otherwise, peel). A food processor or electric grater really speeds up the process. Place in a colander and allow to drain for about 30 minutes, shaking several times. Pat dry between paper towels. In a large bowl, combine first four ingredients. Add seasonings and stir well. Blend in flour mixture, adding more flour as needed until a soft batter is formed.

Heat oil and butter in a heavy skillet on medium-high. Scoop batter by ¼ cup and drop carefully into the hot oil. (In a 12" skillet I do 4 at a time.) Fry until slightly set, turn and flatten with the back of a spatula. Continue cooking, turning as needed, until brown on both sides. Remove to lightly greased baking sheet in oven to keep warm and cook thru. Keep in single layer. Repeat with remaining batter.

Serve topped with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese.

Seasoned Tomato Sauce:

1 - 15 oz. can tomato sauce

½ tsp. sugar

¼ tsp. granulated garlic

dash each of dried basil flakes, marjoram, and oregano

Combine and heat through.

The Sweetest Onion in the West

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The best and sweetest onion in the Northwest, the Walla Walla is only available for a short time each year. Their high sugar content is what makes these huge yellow onions so perishable. It’s also what makes them so succulent. My dad used to eat them like apples.

Even here in Oregon, the legendary Washington State onion is available everywhere. Burgerville and other restaurants feature Walla Walla onion rings, and I've seen them in every grocery store. Winco has 5lb. bags for under $3. That's enough for rings, burgers, kabobs, or a pot of soup. I make a batch every year, even though it's not really soup weather this time of year.

The first time I made it for the grandkids, aged 2 and 5 at the time, I was afraid the flavor might be too strong for them. It wasn't. They both loved it. I usually serve the soup topped with a slice of toasted French bread (fresh from the Safeway bakery) and melted cheese. This year, since acquiring a bread machine (a gift from my wonderful son-in-law, Jimmy) the fresh French bread will come straight from our kitchen.

This is my version of the classic French onion soup.

SWEET ONION & BACON SOUP
4 or more generous servings

4-6 large Walla Walla sweet onions, coarsely chopped

6 strips of bacon

6 cups beef broth

1tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

1/4 cup red wine

Salt and pepper

1 large bay leaf

Toasted baguette slices

Sliced provolone, mozzarella or Jack cheese

Trim excess fat from bacon and cut into thin strips. In a heavy pan, cook the bacon pieces until nearly crisp on medium-high heat. Add onions. Brown slowly until caramelized, 15 to 20 minutes, stirring frequently to prevent scorching.

Add wine and allow alcohol to evaporate, about 3 minutes. Stir in broth. Season with salt, pepper, bay leaf and Worcestershire sauce to taste. Reduce heat and simmer 1-2 hours to allow flavor to develop. Remove the bay leaf before serving.
Top each baguette slice with a slice of cheese. Place under the broiler for a minute or two, until cheese is bubbly. Pour hot soup into serving bowls and top with a cheese toast. Garnish with a sprinkle of parmesan or paprika, if desired.