Get the Pan

So my mom sends my family the traditional Christmas card.  All the right things are included; Christmas message, her love and her underlining special words, like we wouldn’t understand the way it is written.  This underlining is a special talent.  I don’t remember having a card sent by my mom without some portion of it being underlined.  I guess this is her thing.  So as usual we received the Christmas card, nothing out of the ordinary except the note handwritten on the card itself.  This is another Marie thing, her cards either lack the proper information when purchased or just not enough time in a day to find the right message.  So as I’m reading this note I’m thinking to myself, this is going to be visible to anyone who comes to the house.  Like most families we have all our cards displayed.  As you may already know, my mom does read this blog and likes it.  This must be her way of hinting about an entry.  Mom here is your entry, thanks for reminding me of this wonderful memory.  So here goes.  The message written on my Christmas card reads like this.  ”Remember the stainless steel pan?”  In my head I answer, yes how could I forget the mixing bowl?  I remember her calling it “the pan.”  This bowl was our only mixing bowl, probably not, but at least the largest of our family mixing bowls.  We used this bowl for everything; brownies, cookies, cakes, meatloaf, salad, scotch-a roos, popcorn I mean everything.  So I continue reading.  She states,” remember how we used this pan for everything?”  Yes, I remember.  She expounds; “remember when you kids would get sick and I would put this pan beside your bed for you to vomit in?”  Enough said mom, this is my family’s Christmas card.

A Christmas Recipe for Colored Television

The expectations during Christmas are virtually uncontrollable for children.  The buildup leading to the fat red-suited guy landing on your roof and coming down the chimney, more pressure than any kid should endure.  Believe it or not that fat guy sliding down your chimney, leaving presents with no trace of existence except for some cookie crumbs, is very hard to swallow.  I don’t remember when that light bulb moment happened but I’m pretty sure it was sometime around 7 or 8 yrs old.  The guy is a fake?  Santa isn’t real?  WTF!  All this time my parents were the ones!  I mean, what happens now?  Do I still get presents?  Wait, we don’t even have a chimney!  Oh, now this is all starting to make sense.  Reindeer can’t even fly, no sleigh marks on the roof?  By the way I did go up and check.  What now…Grandma, yeh, yeh grandma will come through for me.  The light bulb goes out on Santa, what a bunch of crap he was.  So now life without Santa begins.  There was one family tradition brought to us by my grandma Kate, my dad’s mom.  This was such bull shit that it makes me want to gouge my eyes out.  It’s not that I am ungrateful but, like I said before expectations.  I am an adolescent male with needs at this time of the year.  Gimme some f’n presents.  I need gifts.  Shower me with all the crap you can afford, just make sure that these gifts are not clothes.  I knew my one grandma would come through but Grandma Kate, she was as predictable as a trip to the bathroom 10 minutes after Chinese takeout.  My dad would tell us kids when she would be coming.  Would this year be different?  A basketball, she knows I love basketball.  Maybe a BB gun, I would love to do me some killing.  Insert”A Christmas Story” joke here!  The Saturday before Christmas we would wait for her to arrive.  Usually later in the day, so she wouldn’t have to stay very long.  She did not like being driven around after dark, especially if it were snowing.  With great anticipation my sisters and I would watch out the front window to see her get our packages out of the trunk.  What could it be?  Nervous excitement, would gather in my stomach almost making me pee my pants!  Awe Man I caught a glimpse of something, a sick feeling came over me.  Much to my chagrin, I saw the yellow cellophane, the wrapping on the monumental collapse of my dreams and wishes.  Strolling un-merrily along our front porch that lady was packing my now crushed dreams, like a peacock strutting.  She actually thought she was going me a favor.  Like her shit didn’t stink.  The nerve!  Anger began to grow inside me.  It was like the feeling right before you throw up:  Sweaty palms, lots of saliva, dizziness, the urge to go somewhere else.  I knew what was next; I had to put on the happy face and make believe she was welcome in my crumbled home of anguish, at least for the 10 minutes she would stay.  This was like getting a spanking and having to like it.  10 minutes of torturous hell and the following days of disappointment would make me secretly spew profanity toward my Grandma like Richard Pryor catching on fire.  Our present…A FRUIT BASKET!  Are you kidding me?  A F’N FRUIT BASKET!!  What kind of soulless, anti Santa, battle ax gives young children a fruit basket?  Where’s the sack of reindeer turds, and the lump of coal, the fruit cake, the Yule log?  She should have given me a pick and shovel to go out and just bury my dreams alone in my anger and grief.  Besides, maybe she didn’t know that fruit gives me gas.  Maybe I should eat the whole basket and deliver her a little hint of a present as I lock the door behind me when I leave her house.  Let’s see how she likes that.  You can’t give me a fruit basket for Christmas.  Boy, if I could have spoken my mind, she would have been lectured on the fundamental principles of gift giving.  But my mom always said, “If you can’t say anything nice”… yeh yeh there was a whole lot of cursing nothing coming out of my mouth.  There’s a lesson to be learned here.  If you are yearning to offend your children or grandchildren, sabotaging the holiday here’s the way:  Show up to their house and give them a nice present for Christmas…A Fruit Basket.  Keep the car running because you won’t be there long.  A fricking fruit basket, I still can’t believe it.  I guess there was one small consolation.  My dad would use the yellow cellophane.  He would hang it in front of the TV.  VOILA !  Colored Television! 

I'm No Baker's Man

My mom could bake.  Some of the best chocolate chip cookies, whoopie pies and scotch a roos, were made at my house.  These items were sometimes fought over, who would get the first /last one?  I on the other hand can’t bake a lick.  I don’t measure.  Baking takes precise amounts of ingredients.  For me, taking the time to measure is a waste.  Maybe I just haven’t taken into consideration the science behind baking powder, baking soda, salt, yeast, etc.  Oh well, we can’t be everything.  My mom on the other hand could bake up a storm, especially around this time of the year.  I remember her making fudge, divinity, buckeyes, sugar cookies and hard tack candy.  This candy making skill can only be found by someone who cares about the end result.  Christmas time was the best in our house.  Somewhere around 7 or 8 years of age I was finally old enough to join in and help produce these wonderful delicacies.  My specialty was cinnamon toothpicks.  I would share these carefully prepared splinters of wood with all my friends, keeping the candy to myself.  Today is your lucky day.  I am going to present you with the recipe for one of my all time favorites.  My mom would surprise us somehow.  We would arrive home to find the smell of melting peanut butter and chocolate.  My sisters and I would head straight for the kitchen.  There we would find a 9 1/2 x 13” glass baking dish filled with gooey, chewy, chocolaty treats.  We couldn’t cut or eat them fast enough!  For me the knife would just be getting in the way.  I still make these today, as a matter of fact just a couple days ago.  So here goes.  Follow this recipe exactly.  Do not make substitutions.  I would not want you to misrepresent my mother’s recipe.  You will need the following:  about 25 toothpicks, one bottle of cinnamon extract and one small glass container large enough to hold tooth picks and oil.  Combine and let soak overnight.  Remove from oil and allow toothpicks enough air time to dry.  Share and enjoy.  Ha ha just kidding!  Scotch-a-roos:  Combine 1 cup Karo syrup, 1 cup sugar, bring this mixture to a boil.  Allow this mixture to boil for 1 minute.  Remove from heat and add 1 cup peanut butter, mix until smooth.  In a large bowl add 6 cups of Rice Krispies and pour in peanut butter mixture mix to combine all Krispies.  Place this mixture in a 9 ½ x 13 glass baking dish and allow to cool at room temperature.  In a double boiler add 1 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips with ½ bag of butterscotch chips.  Heat until chips are smooth, pour and spread over cooled krispie mixture.  Allow chocolate to set before cutting and eating.  You can thank my mom for sharing this recipe with me as a young boy.  I don’t know where she got this, but I am grateful she made these treats once and a while.  Enjoy! 

Hi-C you!

Hi-C grape juice; my favorite juice in the entire world.  I could drink the better part of the entire can.  Remember having to use the pointed, chisel side of the can opener to seek access to the yummy goodness inside?  Ohhhh and there was nothing that gave me more satisfaction than opening that fresh can and drinking right from that frayed metal edge.  I swear my mom had x-ray vision.  Without her presence, she would yell down the hallway, “Stop drinking from the can!”  How did she know?  She couldn’t have seen me.  I’m behind the fridge door, there’s no possible way she even knew I was in the fridge.  Anyway I drank this juice every day of my childhood.  I made Hi-C frozen juice pops with my Popsicle making Tupperware.  My dad and I, believe it or not, made ice cream floats with this juice, no root beer.  I would drink this for breakfast, lunch and sometimes for a nightcap, Hi-C grape from the can.  Every now and then my mom would buy the orange.  This however was not the same; the grape always had top billing in my world.  I love my mom for buying this juice.  This simple act of keeping her son happy may have been her greatest triumph as a mother.  There is nothing more important in my world than having a can of cold Hi-C grape juice in the fridge and a spare in the cupboard.  Now I don’t recall if this juice was high or low on the nutritional scale but even if it were only 10% real juice, it was 100% keeping me content.  Keeping her only son 100% happy should have been my mother’s main concern.  She succeeded!  My Hi-C Grape in a can, in the fridge, childhood could not be any better.  Kudos to my mom, Marie!

Puzzled

Corn
If there are no nutrients being absorbed by our bodies...
why do we eat it?
I'm just sayin.

Totally Off the Subject

Sitting in a warm house in a basically paralyzed city brings back memories of snow days in Ohio.  Seattle has been shut down for 3 days with approximately 2-4” of snow and cold weather.  This is understandable considering the hills and amount of elevated roadway.  Come on people, if you really don’t need to go out, don’t.  All of you UW grads and your All Wheel Drive Subarus are just in the way.  Park that pile and go home and take your UW stickers and license plate bracket with you, because you don’t belong on the roads today!  Any good dawg should know how to stay!  As for the rest of you morons who think you need to be out, YOU’RE NOT THAT IMPORTANT!  This family however has Nutcracker rehearsals to go to.  PNB can cancel regular classes; but in no way, shape or form will they ever cancel a rehearsal or show.  Go figure?  See sentence in red!  I, on the other hand, can handle this weather but I have slipped a little.  Growing up in the Midwest I should not be so under prepared.  I have been to the grocery 3 times in 3 days.  Maybe it’s the over 45 male ADD kicking in, but I can’t remember shit anymore! 

Anyway, my sister (the driver) and I (the passenger) would drive to school in 4” of snow in a VW bug.  No heat, frozen windshield, bald tires on an unplowed road with me breathing in my coat just to stay warm and not fogging the windows any further.  Let me explain what paralyzing really means.  Winter in Ohio can be brutal.  There were winters when our family would be exiled from the big city (pop. 3,000) for days at a time.  Some drifts on our road would be impenetrable by normal plows.  The normal bad drifting area just west of our house would reach 12-15’ high.  We would watch out the window as the County Department would try desperately to get our road open.  The standard ODOT plow would hit the main drift, back up to get another running start and hit it again and again, multiple times trying to get through.  We would laugh and giggle while the frustrated workers fought the snow drift battle.  After hours of failure, they would finally bring out the big guns, the V-plow.  A few rams with this baby and POW our road was now clear.  Now it was my turn to do battle.  Our road being clear meant only one thing, THIS FAMILY NEEDED SPACE, WE HAD TO GET OUT, before all hell broke loose!  “Boy,” my dad would say, “get that driveway cleared.”  My days as a youth were spent shoveling our 60’ long driveway.  The need to shovel each time we needed to get out was exhausting.  This painstaking work was completed by the only shoveling apprentice in the house, just to go to the grocery for necessities, milk, bread and eggs.  In our case my mom extended our milk by mixing it with dried milk powder and water.  Now doesn’t that make you want to jump right up and do some shoveling?  Thank goodness we had some frozen ground beef in the freezer.  Watching it snow, playing outside, coming in for some Swiss Miss instant cocoa w/mini marshmallows was a pretty normal day for a snowed-in, apprentice one-handled lever operator.  I guess I didn’t have it too bad.

Happy Thanksgiving, deer anyone?

I hope everyone enjoys their Thanksgiving.  My memories of the holiday meals are not bad, they are very special.  It is a time of forgetting troubles, bills, frustrations and especially the waist line.  This is the time to get out that pair of pants that give you the most room for expansion.  Every holiday, after eating the meal, my aunt and uncle would go “looking for deer.”  I may be pretty naïve, because I’m still unsure what that really meant.  I don’t think you can get in a car, drive around rural Allen County and actually see deer.  Upon their return, they always proclaimed “we saw a couple of does and a small buck.”  Whatever!  You didn’t see anything, especially my aunt, if you get my point.  Now I’m totally off the subject!  The one I remember most is the day our family went to the Silverdome in Pontiac, Michigan to watch the traditional Thanksgiving Day football game.  It was 1991, the Lions were playing da Bears.  The trip took the entire day.  This was the first time our family did not go to my grandmother’s house.  The day was still very special to me because it was un-clear what our plans were for dinner.  Our lunch was stadium food.  After the game we were driving home and I think my mom suggested we eat at the next Cracker Barrel we could find.  My family had turkey dinner in a restaurant somewhere between Pontiac, Michigan and Spencerville, Ohio.  The food I do not recall, but this, non-traditional, Thanksgiving is still etched in my memory.  So enjoy the holiday weekend, football, family, and everything about being together.  These times are numbered, make them all count.  HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Take Your Medicine

I remember I was 6 yrs old, sitting down at the table just like every dinner.  This one, as it turned out, was going to be very different.  Now, as a 6 yr old, your world is very different.  Your decision making skills are not quite as sharp as they are as an adult.  The line between fantasy and reality are very blurry, the only side being somewhat clear is the fantasy side.  My fantasy side was as clear as the muscles on Popeye after that can of spinach.  I begged my mother for spinach from a can.  Every Saturday at the grocery, I whined for a can of spinach.  How does the saying go...“be careful what you wish for?”  It took only  one little fork full of that putrid, stringy, mushy, no good, nasty spinach to hit my mouth, Popeye you jack ass!  Why would you temp young people into eating raw spinach?!  So now the trust I put into my mother grew, because she at least warned me about the spinach; which leads me to this frightful night at the dinner table.  On my plate was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and little green orbs.  Some may even call them peas - Stokely USA, S & W, Green Giant - you get the picture.  My trust in my mother was soon retracted; I would not like peas from a can.  They vaguely resemble peas but taste like ass!  They may taste even deeper than ass, more like shit.  I could not eat them.  “Not with a mouse, not in a house, not in a boat, not with a goat,” it wasn’t going to happen.  Then my dad spoke those words every young person of my generation feared most, “You’re not leaving this table until you clean your plate!”  I felt the tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.  Salty tears or not, this was not going to be enough seasoning to get them into my mouth.  How was I going to choke down 35 to 40 green nasty orbs of death?  Ah ha!  The greatest idea ever came into my little head, if I could swallow them whole, I wouldn’t have to chew them!  Thirty minutes and four 12 ounce glasses of milk later, all of the peas were gone, one by one, swallowed like medicine.  I slowly walked to my room and laid my teary face on my pillow.  With my belly looking like a road kill opossum on a hot day in August, I vowed to never eat peas again, no matter what dastardly consequences my father would place upon me.  Death could not have been permanent enough to get that taste of mushy, green orbs out of my mouth.  Ironically enough my daughter loves peas, but she has never eaten them from a can…to be continued.   

The Branding Fork

Growing up we never ate appetizers, as a kid I didn’t even know what they were.  Maybe I was naïve, but I am positive we never ever had anything to eat before a meal; at least not without getting an ass whooping for spoiling our supper.  We may have, on occasion, had a “salad,” iceberg lettuce and carrot chunks.  Wait, my mom had a fondue pot…oh yes still not an appetizer, this was our meal!  I can remember it only being on special occasions.  Nights like New Years Eve, during The Lawrence Welk Show, you know, the special occasions.  Rarely used, our fondue pot is still probably like new.  My mom may still have it somewhere in the room of “stuff the kids will want?”  Whatever MOM; quit packing that shit around and get rid of it already; we left it, because we don’t want it either!  Anyway, it couldn’t have been any more fun or more hands-on than a meal that included our fondue pot.  I don’t know what happened to the thought process in the 70’s, with all the smoking, bell bottoms, Farah Fawcett hair and polyester; but let me tell you, sanity was not living in my house.  In our house it was pre-teens dipping raw beef and Wonder bread cubes into hot oil, and eating from the 350 degree fork!  Safety first, by that I mean dad first.  For Christ’s sake you are making me fry my own, unseasoned, fucking croutons!!!  For dinner…are you kidding me?  But what the hell you only live once, right?!  The skin on my lips grew back okay.  And for dessert, let’s pour out the hot oil, wipe out, not wash the pot and add chocolate chips and dip more croutons.  Have you ever tried to hold a banana on a metal stick upside down for more than a second?  It can’t be done.  Stick with the bread, boy; I’ll get that banana for you.  The bananas never touched my lips, I was restricted to bread and mini marshmallows.  I guess this was my first taste of an “appetizer” I just didn’t know it.

Wait...we have a dishwasher?

Do you want to talk about molding eating habits?  I think we should.  Just in case any of you out there have children, husbands, wives, pets etc, we need to set the standard for eating habits.  If you haven’t quite gotten the picture of my childhood following my story, by the end of this you will.  I have eaten enough bad meals to stay healthy but man, can I eat a lot, fast!  It’s like there was going to be a major award at the last bite.  Where’s my leg lamp?  Why eat slowly?  Would you rather eat poor to mediocre food hot or cold?  Yes, me too.  At least hot has killed any possible contamination, bacteria, e-coli, salmonella etc.  I still eat fast.  I don’t know why, my cooking is quite good.  I should just relax and enjoy.  But I can’t, I have to gobble my meals like there is someone around the corner ready to steal any morsel left on my plate.  And speaking of the plate, my plate is always cleaned.  I wouldn’t want to get in trouble!  If you can detect any portion of my meal on my plate, I am not finished.  My plate will be ready for the cupboard not the dishwasher when I’m done. 

                Because of the meals I was served in my youth, I still despise canned salmon, canned tuna, canned vegetables and TV Dinners.  Oh there is definitely more to come on that frozen 4 compartment tray of plenty in future blogs.  I still love cereal, peanut butter toast and chocolate milk.  My palate has received much abuse.  I would like to think most of my bad experiences have been overcome, but those haunting memories of home cooked delicacies continue to stalk my sub-conscious taste buds like ninjas in the dark.  The silent stalking ninjas slice and dice to bring my mother’s plates of horror back into the conscious.  The long painful hours of rehabilitation have taken its toll.  My life can never be the same.  So please be careful of what you serve or eat.  It can be a difficult road to eating enlightenment. 

"Cajun Style"

This a memory brought to me by my younger sister.  The names have been changed to protect the innocent.  I remember this dish well.  Apparently this struck some finer parts of the palate to the entire family.    

Having grown up on a side of beef, each year one may only imagine that at some point we would run out of hamburger.  What mom referred to as the "good cuts” were long gone before the beef calendar year came to a close.  It was coming, night after night of beef, I knew at one point we would come across the Oh So Special Night of "Pot Roast" yummy, my favorite!  Roast, in this case was sort of an operative word, loosely used to describe both the cut and cooking method for the red hunk of raw meat my mom called “beef.”  Though I presumed it was indeed beef as it was wrapped in the same butcher paper our ground beef was packaged.  My mother used very few pots or pans.  Our “pot” roast was made in the long silver pan, which was used for roasting as well as making our brownies and cakes.  I won’t get started on the knife, that is another entry.  My apologies to those of you who are pan challenged.  I remember the hunk of red meat that was sort of diamond cut and maybe 3" thick going into this pan seasoned with salt and pepper.  Special note: the salt and pepper used in our house was indeed Morton salt in the blue cylinder and the pepper was McCormick ground black pepper in the little red tin.  Pretty normal you say.  I would say our salt container was dated about August 1960…it is now November 1973!  We didn’t get much in the seasoning department!  To say that the container was a little tattered is an understatement.  This container was in complete shambles, with the little metal spigot barely hanging on.  I think the Morton Salt girl had even lost her umbrella!  The pepper tin, approximately of the same born on date, sits proudly on our lazy susan spice rack rusty around the edges, but seemingly lacking difference from the other seasoning tins.  Seasonings get old and tasteless, not to mention hazardous, but in our house everything was still fresh on the inside of the can.  My mom then added about a cup and 1/2 of water, WTF, and chopped carrots and onion.  Everything had chopped onion.  “It adds flavor” my mom would extort.  Now the reason my mom used the term roast loosely is that adding water, in my book, is not roasting.  It is poaching.  I believe that roasting is coined "slow and low" to give the meat time to break down fibrous tissues and become juicy and tender—this method was never used in my mom’s kitchen.  No way people, we had a Roasting Expert in our house.  ”I’ve been cooking long before you kids were even born.”  This would be the answer if her cooking methods were questioned.  Mom was the Queen of seasoning with her Broken Umbrella Salt & Pepper with a hint of Rust, and Oh Boy, did she know how to Roast!  My father once described my mom's pot roast as "Cajun Style" meaning blackened, at least blackened on one side if not fully Cajun.  Hmm blackened pot roast, maybe you should all try her recipe.  It is rumored that professional chefs clamor to get their hands on one of her gems.  Once seasoned the cooking method would begin.  Roasting, low and slow...NOT…in our house it was 350 degrees for everything.  I mean everything: roast, beef stew, on rare occasions chicken, the aforementioned brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and even for holding dad’s Sunday pancakes.  Yes as it would seem, mom's pot roast cooked at 350 degrees for about 3 hours, In Water!!!  Soaked carrots never quite took on the taste of a cooked carrot, juicy or succulent.  Though I can't imagine why?  Maybe it was the temperature or the water you boiled it in!!!  Tenderness is not a word I would use to describe any meals cooked by my mom, unless you call the pre-sliced bread tender.  Three hours later and now time to pull our “Cajun Roast” from the pan, the meal had only begun.  This is where the more sought after meal topper is beginning to take shape.  By using the meat drippings “roasting water,” you can make a fabulous form of gravy, better known as GA LUE.  This coveted concoction, pan gravy, was only enhanced by 4 other ingredients.  I bet by now you can name them, in order.  You guessed them; flour mixed with water; this is the slurry or rue which in most cases adds a little flavor or goes unnoticed.  This mixture in my house created a paste sometimes used for science projects with newspaper, Paper Mache.  This was my mother’s thickening agent, a dash of special salt and rusty pepper and there you have it, the perfect gravy for the instant mashed potatoes.  Yes, I said, instant potatoes.  This boxed version of vegetable which is harvested regularly and are not in the least bit expensive should not have been substituted for in any kitchen.  My mother of course, could even screw this up.  There is no milk and or butter in her recipe, contrary to the directions on the box of dried powdery flakes of death.  Ours were served with hot water and margarine, two ingredients which in no way can form anything delicious.  I may even recall lumps in our instant potatoes, go figure.  My mom would only sacrifice a cow to eat its flesh, not to extract that delicious, nutritious, wholesome milk.  Our powdery flakes were boiled stirred and served.  There were gleaming remnants of the small amount of “oleo” as they called it back then still noticeably swirled in and they were served piping hot.  Oh what a night!  I have heard rumors of comfort food, but growing up in my family, they were just dreams.

Permission?

Sue, my wife, came into the kitchen Halloween morning and said, “Answer this, it’s your mother.”  I hesitantly took the ringing phone from her and answered.  The thought of hearing my mothers’ voice only hours after the group email, the one sent to friends and family letting them know about this blog, was sending shivers down my spine.  The shivers came because the email was not sent to her.  My nervousness I guess was coming from the reaction she may have being left out of the loop.  You don’t leave my mother out of the loop.  Who told her about this blog?  Is she pissed?  What could I possibly say to her to calm her down?  What could I say that would allow her to reclaim me as her offspring?  “Hi mom, how’s it going?”  Holding my breath, she asked how the family was doing.  Exhale.  After a short conversation of cheery exchanges, I felt the obligation to let her in on Crap She Made Me Eat.  With hesitation I explained this blog to her.  I guess I didn’t know what to expect, but she is good with it.  She has not read any part of it yet; maybe her attitude will change after reading.  Apparently her perception of her culinary aptitude is lower than even I expected.  I take this as free reign to rip any or all meals served at my house during my 18 years of living at home.  It’s funny how my brain works.  She even wants to help.  I’m sure her adult memory is better than my childhood memories, although my memories are probably more accurate.  She will claim it wasn’t as bad as we made it out to be.  Sorry mom, my three sisters will back me up, and more times than not my dad will also concur.  But hey, we aren’t picking on you we are just stating the facts as we recall.  So this rainy Seattle day I give you………………………………. my Aunt’s recipe for simple chicken noodles.  This recipe was served every family get together.  For all I know it was the only recipe my Aunt could cook.  This is a good wholesome German/Pennsylvania Dutch recipe minus the home made noodles, my Aunt cheated.  First you need to find some good Kluski noodles, a 1 lb bag.  These were very easy to find in NW Ohio, not so much here in the great NW.  Next you need 32oz of box or can chicken broth, salt and pepper.  Heat broth until boiling, add noodles, cook until noodles are cooked and broth has now turned into a heavy syrup/glaze, season with the salt and pepper.  Serve with your favorite mashed potatoes, bread or biscuits and a cold glass of milk and you may have the whitest (color) carbohydrate laden meal of your entire life.  I f you are the adult prepare to loosen your belts and be really lethargic afterwards.  As a young boy this recipe made me more jikt up than eating Snickers bar washed down with Mountain Dew.  A pure carbohydrate high.  How else could you suffer through my family functions, I wasn’t old enough to drink and my grandpa wasn’t sharing the Jack Daniels.  Otherwise what was the purpose? 

FALL DESSERTS.......BEWARE

Can you imagine trading places with Charlie Brown on Halloween?  I would have.  I would have relished the idea of “getting a rock.”  No no no, not our generation, we had the popcorn ball; a sticky ball of mostly burnt, popcorn, dyed orange or black.  We also had the joy or common misconception of receiving apples, red delicious apples, “the apples with razor blades in them.”  I don’t know where it started but this story grew in popularity in my generation.  This rumor was equal to the wives tale of having to wait 30 minutes before getting into the swimming pool after you have eaten.  What a bunch of BS.  This was our parent’s way of getting their grubby adult paws on our hard earned treasure of sugar.  My friends and I would walk miles for treats from every neighborhood of our little town.  But we didn’t go to strangers houses; no way!  They were the ones giving out those apples!  I grew up in a town of 3000 people, there were no strangers!  More things my parents lied about, strangers in a town of 3000?  I even knew the names of their pets.  I did get a few apples.  To my recollection, I never saw my mom throw them out.  For some strange reason, after October 31^st we always had baked apples for dessert.  Hmm….I wonder why?  Could it be those tainted apples?  Would she dare serve those throat slicing delicacies to small children?  Was she angry?  Did she not want her children to live?  Did she feel the need to destroy her marriage?  We shall only speculate.  Nonetheless here is the recipe:   Razor blade free red delicious apples, cored, cut in half, placed in a baking dish with a pat of butter and a tablespoon of brown sugar on top, baked at 350 degrees until soft and GBD ( golden brown and delicious) red delicious, yummy?  You be the judge.  You now have the recipe.  Share these treats with your family.  Warning to family:  Stick with the popcorn ball!

The in laws

I just had dinner with my in laws.  $5 steak night! Am i lucky or what?  they've been excited about this night for weeks.  They go every Wed.  Me i'm a steak night virgin, cherry was popped.  They think i'm a nut job for thinking my mom was a terrible cook.  They told me about things they ate as kids.  I tell you it is different generation to generation.  I told them about  a meal consisting of 1 can cream chicken soup(condensed) heated, one table spoon dolloped onto one of those 2 1/2 " hamburger bun, you know the ones.  Dinner is served.  Are you kidding me!  SOUP ON A BUN   WTF.  Eat up boy.  Okay dad i'll get my fill.  Why couldn't i just get the soup?

I don't think she really cared

I didn’t starve as a child; I just didn’t eat well prepared, tasty food.  It was probably more nutritious than I supposed but still lacked the flavor of my own cooking.  My grandmother on the other hand was very well adept in the kitchen.  I can still remember the smells of turkey, mashed potatoes, and biscuits at family gatherings.  Some of my recipes still linger with the Midwest meat and potato dishes I grew up eating.  There is nothing better than a meal loaded with carbs and starch.  There were two staples to my mother’s cooking; frozen ground beef and instant mashed potatoes.  I don’t recall why my mom lacked the skill to cook or she just never realized that her lack of skill was shaping the palates of 3 young children.  We weren’t poor but we were always on a budget.  This was the way of most families during the late 60’s and 70’s.  I hope to lead you through my childhood and give you some insight to cooking simple meals that taste like the person who made them actually cared about the end result.My mother tried, bless her; beef stew, beef and noodles, meat loaf, hamburgers, lasagna, pizza with ground beef of course, cubed steak, beef, beef, beef.  Our only ethnic dish as I remember was tacos, from a box of course with ground beef.  I still crave them today.