Strange Craving Combination

I remember exactly how old I was when lunch item crossed my plate.  I was six years old, in my first year of kindergarten, probably terrified of what the world had in store for me.  It was a time of joy and care free living, no bills, and no issues yet, no time for grown up ideals, just being a kid, what could be better?  Let me tell you.  At this point in the Longstreth house there were three children, an oldest Tami, a second Jo and the greatest son ever, me.  But trouble was on the horizon.  You see, as luck would have it, after having 5 ½ years of joyous living due to the fact that your perfect only son was brought into your life, Marie was pregnant.  We were going to have another sibling.  Why, I would ask, perfection has already crossed your door, I would need no other sibling in my life.  I already have two sisters who cannot see how great I will become.  This child will not have any chance; he or she will only have to be second best at everything after I leave my mark.  But I could not stop this.  This is going to happen and I am going to like it, says Hank and Marie.  We’ll see about that!

My mom is pregnant.  Many of you have siblings, younger or older, or children.  So when I tell you that most pregnant women have cravings comes to little or no surprise.  More times than not this would most generally be a combination of food that would not normally go together.  My hopes at this time is that maybe my mom would crave ice cream, see GICED posted 5/29, or even Ho Ho’s, a future post.  Here is the problem in my kitchen; how will I determine if what Marie makes and eats is a craving or is something she has seriously made for family consumption?  By even having this blog you can see my dilemma.  I haven’t read any research; could it be possible that as embryos our palates are created by the feeding behavior of our mothers during gestation?  Or could our tastes be programmed by the eating habits of our expectant mothers feeding rituals applied during pregnancy onto siblings outside the womb?  This adolescent period in our lives is a great developmental period.  In this case, I think it is the latter, because I get cravings as do most people.  Some of my yearnings can be solved with ice cream or something spicy or chocolate, even salty and crunchy.  I have one craving that cannot be solved by anything aforementioned.  It was a craving my mom had during the incubation of our fourth sibling, LOL, that’s funny!  Sorry Margo, but you weren’t born yet and incubation is funny!  I digress, back to the unsolved craving.  There are many combinations concerning one ingredient, peanut butter:  PB & J, PB & banana, PB & marshmallow.  All of which were conceived, no pun intended, by expecting mothers.  Why else would you ever even try such combinations?  I think my mom got this from her mom, believe it or not; Peanut butter and Pickle.  Not sweet pickle but dill pickles.  Mom and I would have these sandwiches together and later in life she would pack these in my lunch for school.  My friends would make fun of me for eating this combination but I would never forget the satisfaction each sandwich would bring.  Not even to this day; this amalgamation of ingredients will always bring back my then, six year old memories of fulfilling my pregnant mothers’ cravings. 

Here is the recipe:  two slices of soft sandwich bread, apply a thick layer of peanut butter to each slice.  This is important; because you do not want pickle juice soaked bread on one side.  If you can find them, dill pickle chips (hamburger slices), they used to call them, add a row of 3 across the top, middle and bottom of the peanut butter bread, 9 total, no more no less.  Top the pickled side of bread with the other, the craving solver can now be enjoyed.  Try this for your next craving and see if it works.  Maybe it will or maybe it won’t, but don’t knock it until you try it.

The Condiment Conspiracy

As you may have figured out by now I’ve been pretty hard on my mother’s cooking skill, or lack thereof.  It has been an issue for my culinary views and tastes since I have been a toddler.  Hopefully my mom didn’t try her hand at baby food.  Or did her ineptness actually start in the womb?  She will never let that cat out of the bag.  On a recent trip to Ohio, I had the opportunity to consult my sisters.  I say consult with reservation.  I should say asked my sisters about any memories from their past that I may have missed or was not around to taste.  Nothing came to their minds…really, nothing more to add?  This got me thinking.  What am I missing?  Did she only try to poison me, her only begotten son?  My head is spinning with doubt, confusion and contemplation.  Aha!  I am beginning to remember now.  My second eldest sister, Jo, must have figured this bad meal thing out early.  My oldest sister, Tami, I’m not sure about her palate just yet.  But Jo, she had it figured out early.  Memories of Jo eating meals lent me to this one conclusion:  My mom’s meals must have really sucked or I just didn’t have the nerve to pull the condiment thing off like my sister.  Quite possibly there is one sibling in every family who gets it.  The “it” I am speaking of, is covering up the bad taste with condiments.  I use the term condiment loosely.  Condiments in our house were very conventional, only the basics: mustard, mayo, extra salt, maybe some leftover relish from a past hot dog night.  Not sure why we had mayo, oh yes the tuna salad.  Yuck, it’s still haunting.  Hot sauce you may ask; are you kidding?  I didn’t even know they made hot sauce until I was about fourteen.  That would have given me cause to experiment, maybe even make Marie’s cooking tolerable, but back to my sister and her masterful preparation of choking down meals prepped by America’s worst cook.  She never let on to her secret, not even to this day.  Maybe she doesn’t even know she has a secret.  But I’m on to her.  It went like this: scrambled eggs w/ketchup, meatloaf w/ketchup, pot roast w/ketchup, hash browns w/ketchup, fried chicken w/ketchup, scalloped potatoes w/ketchup, tuna salad w/ketchup: you’re starting to get the picture now.  It has become very clear to me that Jo wasn’t even trying to hide the fact my mom’s cooking sucked.  Or I was too naive to see.  She put ketchup on everything!  What the hell could I have been doing?  I surely wasn’t paying attention.  The answer was there and Jo had it all the time.  Could it be possible my other sister Tami was sneaking hot sauce?  Son of a bitch, the pure neglect and abuse I have been put through just keeps coming.  Ketchup on everything was the answer to my mom’s cooking all along.  Nice going Jo.  You went through your childhood knowing Marie had zero culinary ability.  Damn it, how could I be so blind?  Lucky for your taste buds, mom kept you in supply.  I guess you deserve the ketchup; I still got the Hi-C Grape juice.  By the way, Tami, if you read this and you come clean with the hot sauce, I will know it was a conspiracy against me.  Jo with her ketchup and you with the hot sauce, always against the younger brother: I see how it works.  I think Jo has outgrown her ketchup thing but if you happen to get an invite to Marie’s for dinner, there will ketchup in the fridge for sure.  Enjoy! 

Cans Cans Cans

As summer comes to a close around the country, I begin to remember the cozy dishes from the Midwest.  It may occur to you that I have a complete disregard for canned peas.  The remainder of the year will be served to me from a can.  Canned peas, canned corn, canned green beans, canned pork and beans, well you get the picture here, there will be even further canned vegetables from my grandmother and her home canning process.  My family will consume nothing fresh until next August when the garden harvest resumes.  By the way, we have no garden!  My grandmother will have one and the vegetables from it will be canned for the winter.  She will can tomatoes, green beans, corn and cherries from her two cherry trees.  These trees of which I am only allowed to climb during harvest season, go figure.  Looking back and talking with co-workers and friends we speak of good and bad meals.  Just yesterday I was saying how there is nothing like the sweet corn of the Midwest.  This could be my favorite vegetable without question but only for a limited time.  Mid August to mid September, prime sweet corn picking time, if you pick or consume corn on the cob any other time of the year you are not getting what you pay for.  If you eat corn on the cob from any other area you are being robbed of the sweetest taste of corn you may ever eat.  As a kid I could pick an ear from the field, strip it down and eat it right there.  It was the sweetest tasting corn in the world.  My mom would boil some ears in a stock pot and I could eat 3 or 4 ears at one sitting.  The problem would be applying the butter, salt and pepper to the ears.  It wasn’t until later in life, I think my cousin Judy showed me the secret.  By using the end of a loaf of bread, which no one eats any way, place the butter in two rows on either end of the bread, stick your corn with skewers and roll on top of butter using the bread like a mitten to cradle the hot corn.  Roll the corn round and round until the melting goodness is dripping like a melting icicle.  Salt and pepper the corn and begin your best method of corn eating, side to side like the old typewriter method or around the cob systematically going from end to end.  Whichever your method, you will not be disappointed.  But until you have had the Midwest corn, all other corn will pale in comparison. No canned corn or even cut fresh and frozen corn will satisfy my late summer craving.  Thank goodness my mom couldn’t screw up boiling water.  Thanks mom, Midwest corn on the cob rules!  I give my humble apologies to those of you who have never had the pleasure of corn from corn country.  So if you non Midwesterners have good sweet corn, multiply that taste by 10 and then you have Midwest corn.

Memory Blocker

As I was trying to recall this dish of plenty, it occurred to me that I have no significant memory of this treat.  I am racking my brain, trying to resurrect some sort of hidden horror.  Nothing…what to do now?  I decide to go ahead and write like it will come to me and during the creative process trigger some memory of my past to share with everyone.  Still nothing…maybe this dish is so ghastly that my memory has been erased.  Maybe this dish is so terrible that even my brain cannot withstand the amount of energy it will take to recollect my past.  I do remember seeing this dish at many a picnic, graduation, pot luck dinner etc.  Yet to my dismay, I cannot put the pieces together to spark that day or night.  I am certain the day this dish hit my palate, it posed the worst combination of flavors known to mankind.  The dish most likely re-shaped my palate at that very second, to what I surmise today as edible.  This amalgamation of textures and flavors, not to mention the crossing of food group boundaries, which should never, ever be contained in the same bowl, was served proudly at many functions.  Why did we do this to my generation?  Or was it just me?  I will share with you to decide.  The dish I am speaking of is none other than Lime Jello with Vegetables.  WTF!  I need say nothing more:X  

Crap My Lips Will Never Touch Again

If you can imagine the horror and plight of my hatred for canned peas compounded with the sheer disgusting smell and taste of canned tuna, then welcome to the nightmare.  The bad dreams have been terrorizing me for the last 6 days.  Let me explain.

This one will begin with two of the most disgusting ingredients known to man, canned peas and canned tuna.  For my tastes this could not get any more horrifying.  See “Take Your Medicine” from November of last year.  There is just no use for canned peas.  Now if you recall back in May, my post of Odorous Pescado, my hatred of canned fish, you are going in the right direction.  I think just maybe canned tuna out ranks canned salmon.  I just thought again and it DOES out rank canned salmon for complete nastiness.  I can only recall eating canned tuna once in the very dish I am about to explain.  Once was enough!  Wait, once was too many.  Canned salmon patties were served numerous times in the Longstreth house.  But one day long ago, a fork, canned tuna and my mouth shared a very brief moment together.  That day, that moment changed my life forever.  When I smell canned tuna, I get that stomach wrenching, deep throated hurling, over activated saliva producing, eerie feeling of discomfort that comes with anguish and much fear.  Get away, my brain tells me.  But like a car wreck, I just have to get another whiff of vomit starter.  I can tell you for certain that I have no recipe for what is about to be unleashed.

The Tuna Noodle Casserole, you guessed it.  Why on earth is there any reason to create such a revolting dish?  What did I do?  Am I in trouble?  Are you serious with this?  What kind of mother comes to the table smiling carrying this?  Picture your mom as the grim reaper approaching with a casserole dish instead of the scythe, now that is a more realistic dramatization.

 As I sat down to watch fireworks on July 4^th, a lady of similar age to me was eating a bag of kettle corn.  I asked if she would like to try my bag of homemade caramel corn, she said no but her daughter agreed to try and loved it.  I explained to her daughter that if she read my blog she could get the recipe for Marie’s Caramel Corn, thank you mom for the recipe.  But as we began talking, this lady (also from the Midwest) began telling me about her bad meals.  Bam!  She said it out loud!  “Did you ever have the Tuna Casserole with the canned peas, canned tuna and smashed potato chips on top?”  WTF, I began sweating, my mouth salivating (the bad way) this conversation had taken a turn for the worst.  I listened to what she had to say but the entire time I was in fear.  Fear that somewhere around the corner that grim reaper looking mother was coming with a Pyrex baking dish full of putrid tuna and soggy peas for only me to consume.  I was near panic and tried to change the subject as to why the potato chips were used.  Neither of us could come to any logical conclusion.  My thought for the chips was to make it appealing to young children.  What kid doesn’t like chips?  And what family doesn’t have a partial bag of broken chips in the cupboard?  Logically you put them on top of something you want to hide.  Mix in a bag of noodles and it sure sounds delicious.  Whatever!  I stopped talking to the lady behind me, she’s scary, and I think she saw the fear on my face and got a kick out of frightening me.  I quickly polished off my bag of caramel corn and continued fretting about the casserole.  I wondered what the sauce was holding together this weapon of mass of destruction.  Why do I have a frozen container of this in my freezer?  I didn’t buy it, where did it come from?  Is someone trying to kill me?  I have no answers for the sauce and will never be able to tell you what makes this dish so yummy.  But I do know this. I know what makes it revolting.  If you mix canned peas and tuna together and think about bringing it to my house, think again brothers and sisters.  You, my friends, are not welcome.  Come back and try again with the following recipe.

 Caramel Corn Recipe:  16cups of popped corn (please pop your own corn, it makes the recipe), 1 stick of margarine (I used butter), 1 cup of brown sugar, ¼ cup Corn syrup, ½ teaspoon of salt and baking soda.  In a sauce pan combine margarine, sugar, corn syrup and salt, bring to a boil and continue for boiling for exactly 3 minutes.  Remove from heat and add baking soda, mix thoroughly and pour over cooked corn, mix to combine and place on sheet pans to bake for 5-10 min @ 200°.  Break up clumps and enjoy.  Caution it is hot.  I added some coarse salt to mine and wow what a difference.  Sorry Mom, I just had to change it a little.

Sunday Morning Biscnuts

What the hell?  Let me inform you again that my ancestors are German/Pennsylvania Dutch.  So I can eat me some noodles, pastries, strudel, etc.  Who would believe that my palate would not recognize my family’s   homemade donuts?  Some Sunday mornings my mom would rev up the electric skillet.  What?  Didn’t every home have an electric skillet?  How did you survive?  This electrical gadget was my mom’s microwave, which hadn’t been invented yet.  She would turn that baby on to the magic number, 350°, scoop out some Crisco shortening and place into the electric cook all.  Once the shortening had melted and was brought to temperature, the fun was just about to commence.  This procedure was a family affair.  Yes I said family affair, 3 young children, scalding hot fat and a pair of tongs that didn’t close squarely, a used brown paper grocery bag and two other lunch size paper bags with sugar and powdered sugar respectively.  Let the child abuse begin.  The dough; are you prepared for this, one cylindrical tube of…biscuits!  Yes I mean the Pillsbury prepared dough miniature hockey pucks.  I remind you this was the 70’s there were no jumbo, buttermilk, only the standard small size.  I remember there being about 10 discs of dough in each package.  So this means someone in the family was getting shorted.  I was the youngest at the time so guess who?  Now the preparation:  my mother would have us take an empty, sanitarily rinsed with hot tap water, pop bottle, remember those.  My sisters and I would take turns pushing this pop bottle through the center of each disc of dough, thus creating the donut.  The best part was the treasure inside the bottle, the donut hole!  Once this production was completed each dough puck went into the hot fat, flipping half way through the cooking.  The fully golden brown donuts would then be placed on the folded, brown paper grocery bag to drain.  We would then place 2-3 hot donuts into the lunch bag of sugar, shake and eat.  The donut holes cooked very quickly and were bite size nuggets of goodness.  This was my revenge for being youngest.  I would always be the one to shake the sugar on the donut holes.  Thus being the one to dig them out of the sugar.  I would eat as many donut holes I could get away with leaving my sisters to enjoy nothing but the donuts.  I’m guessing we weren’t the only family eating these.  This suggestion of making donuts out of biscuit dough probably dates back to ancient times.  Now we cut the prep time in half by using prepared dough and the electric cook all.  I remember these Sunday mornings as being good times.  I haven’t tried to replicate this memory because of Top Pot, Krispy Crème and the likes.  They do a much better job with the donut than any biscuit dough you can find.  But feel free to treat your family to these Crisco laden, sugar covered biscnuts. 

GDIC, Say What?

As I see it in present day, I have a problem.  I love Ice Cream, I have GICED.  Never in my adult life have I ever refused a serving of ice cream.  I could be just finishing 6 or 7 tacos and still ask my daughter  ”do you want to go to Dairy Queen?”  Off we go and I polish off a medium blizzard without a problem.  I can only assume, like any adult with a problem, affliction or addiction, I can trace this back to my childhood and my parents.  Yup, I blame them.  They are responsible for my Genetic Ice Cream Eating Disorder.  I dare tell you why. 

My father, Hank also loves his ice cream.  It is now out; the Longstreth gene pool is responsible.  He would eat a bowl of ice cream on a regular basis.  I know what you are thinking, but hear me out, I wasn’t really that spoiled.  My dad would come up with some of the weirdest concoctions with ice cream that I ever saw.  Root beer floats with Pepsi.  I was 4 or 5 years old & I didn't really understand, but man were they good.  No root beer or Pepsi?  No problem, just use the Hi-C grape; there is always some of that in the fridge.  Vanilla scoops, with chocolate syrup topped with Spanish peanuts, aka The Tin Roof, a father and son personal favorite.  There is something to be said about the sweet and salty goodness with that ice cream sundae.  Although I was never allowed to stir my bowl of ice cream, somehow the very bottom of the bowl always was mixed to a smooth texture.  The local ice cream place was somewhere I dreamed about.  I fondly remember Hank introducing me to the wicked, gooey, warm goodness of hot fudge.  He introduced me to the Fudgesicle and the Drumstick.  Baskin Robbins was always a treat and I saved my fruity side of the palate for the BR Orange Sherbet in a cup.  My pet peeve; the pronunciation of the word SHER BET, for those of you who believe your ears and not your eyes there is only ONE R in the word SHER BET.  That’s enough of the English class.  My next memory was the chocolate malt.  I can drink a chocolate malt in about 45 seconds, therefore I now keep some malted milk in my pantry for the after dinner dessert malt.  My current addiction to this frozen confection has been perpetually fueled throughout my child hood.  My need for ice cream with toppings is beyond compare.  Oh, I forgot to mention we only had vanilla, thus the need for toppings or added flavors to choke it down.  Are you very confused yet?  Here’s the deal breaker.  Marie didn’t buy ice cream.  Frozen yogurt hadn’t been invented yet and we didn’t have an ice cream soft serve in the kitchen.  Nope, Marie proudly purchased ICE MILK!  That’s right, I said ICE MILK, it wasn’t even ice cream.  Now it all makes sense, the need for additional flavors and my addiction to the real thing.  I know every Cold Stone location in my area, Dairy Queens and local mom and pop frozen confections.  I love Ben and Jerry’s, Dreyers, fudgesicles, Klondike bars, drum sticks, chocolate, neopolitan, malt cups, and for my favorite combination Wendy’s fries dipped in the chocolate frosty, life could not get better than that.  I think the ice cream gene has been passed to my daughter.  She shares the same passion as I for this frozen delicacy.  There is one small difference, she knows when to stop.  Hopefully she will pass this genetic trait to her offspring.  If you happen to find ICE MILK in your local grocery, pick up a half gallon and bring it home proudly.  Don’t forget to get something to put on top because you won’t be able to eat it otherwise.

Odorous Pescado

 As an adult I have had the opportunity to eat some great food and now living in the Northwest the King Salmon is at the culinary apex.  This is the fish locals and visitors choose and think of when you mention Seattle.  I never had the opportunity to eat fresh fish as a child.  I did however have the opportunity to eat any fish I caught when camping with the family.  I caught mostly yellow belly cat fish and blue gill, not the most appetizing fish and never large enough to actually eat.  I’m not even sure my mom could cook fresh fish if given the opportunity. Let’s leave the cat fish fry to the Cajuns.  Although leery, on my first visit to the great Northwest I quickly jumped at the opportunity to order a fresh salmon dinner.  It took only one bite of fresh salmon to erase the bad memories of canned salmon patties served at my house for dinner.  Salmon patties made from canned salmon!  Imagine the smell!  Imagine the oily, nasty discolored meaty flesh clinging to the inside of the squatty round can, freshly opened with a can opener that has never been washed.  Now before you say, but your mom didn’t have access to fresh fish, I say you are correct.  But listen to what I’m saying, can salmon tastes nothing like fresh salmon.  Add that to the fact that Marie could mess up box macaroni and then she pulls out the salmon patties.  C’mon man!  This could have been my greatest nightmare dinner.  Miles from the front door you had an olfactory sense of the death patties that waited lingering on the dinner plate.  The odor of cooking salmon patties would overcome every distinct smell of my memory.  Worse than liver and onions any day of the week.   The putrid stench of that single patty on my plate made me sweat like Mike Tyson taking the SAT.  I could barely choke it down, second only to canned peas, and never a condiment to mask the flavor or odor.  The salmon patty has taken over my memory right now and I cannot, for the life of me, recall any side dish that may have accompanied it.  Could it be possible that there is no side dish capable of complementing the salmon patty?  If that is so, then why serve these?  Canned salmon should be served to cats with no sense of smell, that live outside in remote parts of the world, or at least another area code.  Marie’s salmon patties would quite possibly be a strong deterrent for prisoners serving short sentences.  The fear of the salmon patty meal would send shivers to any hardened criminal.  Do yourself a favor, if you choose fish for your next meal and you even think about salmon patties, think again, cat food should not be pattyized for human consumption.  You will be better served to heat up the Gorton’s Fish Sticks.

A note from the Easter dinner Sloppy Joes!  They were delicious.  I found that the soy was overpowering, cut it out or back depending on your taste.  Here’s the recipe if you wish to partake:

In a large skillet add 1TBL Olive oil, over medium high heat.  Add 1.5# of ground turkey and season with 1TBL of poultry seasoning, salt and pepper.  Cook until browned and then stir in 1 small red pepper chopped, 1 small onion chopped and 2 cloves of garlic chopped and cook until the vegetables are tender.  In a bowl, stir together 1cup tomato sauce, ¼ cup maple syrup, 3TBL soy sauce, 2TBL cider vinegar, 2TBL brown sugar and 1TBL Dijon mustard.  Pour the sauce over the meat and vegetable mixture and simmer over med-low heat to combine flavors.  Serve on a bun with shredded cheese or favorite topping.

Put on Your Easter Sunday Best

Happy Easter everyone, or is it Merry Easter or hurray for Jesus has risen?  Whatever the case may be, let’s really look at the reasons we celebrate Easter.  First of all, we as parents get to hide shit around our houses and laugh at our children as they try to find the hidden treasures.  Wait, I think we hid something behind the lamp, or is it behind the book?  I hope they find it because I can’t remember where we put those damn eggs!  Speaking of eggs, coloring them is a priceless, messy and time consuming event that always produced eggs that were at best dual colored.  Nothing in our house ever, ever looked like the beautiful eggs on the box of the PAAS coloring kit.  I don’t know about you, but that little wax pencil never did the detail work like suggested.  Our family would boil one dozen eggs and proceed to color them and hopefully find all 12 when morning came.  The joy of peeling a colored egg and eating this for breakfast may have been one of life’s little moments.  Like you were getting to do something that the rest of the world looked at as taboo.  Wash down the egg with a little chocolate, now you’re in business.  Deviled eggs for Easter brunch, yup, every recipe included mayo and mustard, variations beyond that were never realized in our house.  Maybe some salt and pepper.  I love them but, in hind sight (or should I say “hind smell”) they do not love me.  Enjoy your eggs everyone!

The chocolate:  I was one of those kids who would wish for nothing other than a solid milk chocolate Easter Bunny.  What happiness it would bring if only the bunny was solid.  Each year I would be greatly disappointed.  The hollow bunny would rest in my basket amongst the little chocolate footballs, a few Peeps and usually something marshmallow.  Before I could read, deciding if my bunny was hollow or not was by weight.  I would carefully grasp and curl the bunny, was it heavy?  Maybe, curl again, maybe not.  I can’t tell.  At this age I couldn’t differentiate between what should be heavy and what heavy actually was, all I wanted to know is was this bunny solid or not.  If not, disappointment soon would follow and if it was, joy and celebration would ring out through the house.  One good bite off the ear and son of a bitch, disappointment always found my house and Easter basket.  My friends got solid bunnies, why couldn’t I?  I didn’t have a clue about finances or budgets or what a solid bunny may even cost, but I didn’t care about any of that crap, I wanted a giant solid Easter Bunny in my basket!

I’ve eaten one hardboiled egg, slightly tainted with color, one bite of hollow bunny, a couple of little tinfoil wrapped footballs, I ‘m dejected, disappointed, sleepy and now the bad news.  Okay family let’s get ready for church, Sunday Easter Service.  These long and painful celebrations of Christ rising from the dead, yeah, yeah let’s get it over with already.  Now don’t get me wrong I am not the anti-Christ, but I’m a kid and I have more chocolate to eat and Grandma can still come through with the solid bunny.  Our family went to church every Sunday, but on Easter Sunday it was different.  It was longer, there were more people, you know the ones, and they only show up twice a year, Easter and Christmas.  I could handle twice a year, you bet, but no we were there every Sunday, very painful for a kid like me.  Our pastor knew the Easter service was long and painful because during the sermon, every year, he would belt out JESUS HAS RISEN, or PRAISE THE LORD, people from every pew would snap from sleep mode and re-focus on him.  I think the only ones paying attention were the kids because we would be the ones giggling at the sleepers who were awakened.  I couldn’t wait to get out of church, get that Easter suit off and get to some more chocolate and Grandma’s house.

Grandma’s house would be filled with aromas: ham, potatoes boiling, and grandpa’s cigarettes and chocolate… now where is my basket?  Would Grammy come through with the solid bunny?  My mom’s entire family would be there, everyone would bring something, including deviled eggs, my aunt’s chicken noodles and then the feasting would commence.  First let’s get to the searching, let me get to it, I know there is something hidden in this house for me and I need it now.  Disappointment soon would follow the searching, hollow bunnies for all.  I know what you are thinking, I have no appreciation for the hollow bunny, you are right.  Hollow bunnies are worthless and nasty.  Any young male between the age of birth and death will never appreciate the need to manufacture a hollow milk chocolate bunny.  The solid bunny rules and always will.  End of story.  So all of you chocolatiers out there stop making the hollow crap, give us the goods, solid, yummy bunnies.

Now for our Easter meal today; ironically Sue found a recipe for Ground Turkey Sloppy Joe’s and we are trying them out for dinner tonight.  I will update on the success or lack thereof next week.  So enjoy your LONG ASS SUNDAY SERVICE, your brunch with deviled eggs tainted with egg dye and chocolate, solid or hollow I guess it is still chocolate.  Oh yes, make sure if you have kids and you’ve colored eggs, they find all of them.  One more thing, I don’t want to hear about all of you who want to brag about your solid bunny.  You make me angry:)

Deception Sandwich

I was reading an email response to last week’s blog when a suggestion given rang close to my home and past.  A friend of mine was reminding me about the meals of his past, which have been very similar to experiences in the Longstreth house.  Even though his memories come thousands of miles from small town Ohio the similarities are creepy.  His past reminded me of a couple of things of my past.  One I will share with you today and the other I will work on because once I get onto that subject it may take a while.  Thank you Kevin for the memories, may your palate overcome the damage of your past.

This one I tried to replicate years ago, but without much success.  I could never get the right texture or flavors to come through.  I recall eating this on many occasions.  I loved this on soft bread.  We purchased this product from the deli at the local IGA Grocery store, or in the day the Pangles Master Market.  Recalling from memory of smells and creamy smooth texture took me back to days less troublesome.  How this is made, I would wonder.  I couldn’t find it at any deli in Seattle. I would get looks of disgust and nausea after asking if they carried such a product.  Am I some kind of alien?  Is there a ban on this product?  Maybe it can’t me made west of the Mississippi.  Could it be possible that the recipe was lost and could never be replicated?  I need to get my hands on some of this.  I know, I’ll show’em I’ll just make my own!  To the grocery I go!  I have made a list of ingredients: mayonnaise, ham, relish, onion, cheese.  That should do it.  This must be the ingredients for my memory of Ham Salad Spread.  Remember this concoction?  Well I tried to make this from scratch without any direction or recipe, just memory.  I was so close too.  But it was just not right, something was missing or something was not supposed to be there.  Some of you probably already know the ingredient which was misidentified.  I did not.  I was stumped.  But as usual I proceeded to eat my mistake, about 1# worth of mistake.  But I made it through.  I was still bound and determined to make this and satisfy my craving.  This time I was making a phone call.  But who do I call some local grocery deli in Ohio?  Nope, I call Marie, my mom.  “Hey mom, I have a question, I’ve been trying to make ham salad spread, and I’ve tried everything.  Here is the list of ingredients I’ve used without much success, what am I doing wrong?”  All I hear on the other end of the phone is laughing.  Now I’m wondering what the hell is going on, am I an idiot or what?  This reaction, by a mother who has over the years probably contaminated my digestive system hundreds of times, is borderline insulting.  Upon regaining her composure she informs me through additional chuckles that I was so wrong with one ingredient that it is beyond her that I would miss this small detail of HAM salad spread.  “What is it I asked?”  “Oh, Robbie,” she snickered “ham salad is made with bologna.”  “Son of a bitch,” I say “then why do they call it ham salad?”  Boy do I feel stupid, I wonder what tuna salad is made with?  After thanking my mom and feeling very depressed I made a trip to my local grocer and purchased some bologna, returned home and made some of the best HAM salad spread ever.  I’m positive there are many recipes for sandwich spreads available to the public, but be leery, do not try and replicate without first doing some research on the ingredients.  It may save you some embarrassment and 1# of nasty spread to consume.

A Mysterious Meaty Memory

I would be inclined to think that we 40 something year olds rarely serve our children meals of our past.  There are certainly dishes we surmise as staples; burgers, meatloaf, spaghetti, etc.  Think back to your childhood and try to recall that one dish you consumed at least once a month.  Without even a consideration of how it became such an iconic staple of our generation, Americans have been eating them since WWII.  This iconic staple would meet specifications for dinner, lunch and budget.  For me it is clear what this entrée was.  This mixture was as traditional as pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dessert.  Within my little community there were as many recipes as families, and it was served in every school as a nutritional entree.  Every household recipe had its own unique zest and texture.  The meal, which I am speaking, also led to a major food company to invent a canned product which made it even more economical.  Since its debut in 1969, it revolutionized the preparation and consistency and has been available in grocery stores to this day.  I can honestly say that I haven’t eaten one of these since probably 1985.  This kid friendly staple is known worldwide as, none other than the Sloppy Joe.  Who was Joe?  Why was he considered Sloppy?  The history is unclear as where and who is responsible for its creation, but mothers across the country made this sandwich their own.  My mom was no exception.  Her recipe consisted of tomato paste, ketchup, chopped onion, salt, pepper and of course 1lb. of ground beef.  Thank goodness for Hunt’s creation, Manwich Sloppy Joe Sauce.  This finally gave our family flavors outside everyday recognition.  We knew what we liked and Manwich was superior to Marie’s formula.  Just thinking and writing about this sandwich makes my mouth water.  I can recall the taste in my mouth, the aroma, the bun, and even the texture of the paper plate from which we consumed these handmade delicacies.  I say we bring this back!  Right now, one or four of these sound really, really good.  Maybe tonight I will make them for my family.  Maybe I will go out and get that can of Manwich, brown up some ground turkey, spoon up some sandwiches, sit back, and recall my past.  Savoring every delicious mouthful of seasoned, tomato-y goodness, I will reminisce of good times and family events.  What a vehicle for a drive down memory lane!  A simple bun filled with simple goodness and served proudly on a paper plate.   How could life get easier than that?

An 8 Year Old Vegetarian?

On a rare trip to the drive-in theatre, yes I said drive-in theatre.  You remember the ones; the gigantic screen, large parking lot overgrown with weeds and a never ending row of galvanized pipe with 2 speakers on either side.  These were not Bose speakers.  This speaker is mono tuned with weather resistant materials inside and out, a sculpted metal hanger to hook on a partially rolled down driver’s side window.  We had a station wagon; yup I had to sit in the back.  Do you think I ever heard one word of any movie our family of 6 attended?  My mom would always pack dinner and put it in a cooler.  Usually some kind of cold cut sandwiches, a can of Faygo soda, and homemade caramel corn for dessert.  The movie, I mean the sandwich, which is etched in my memory was the BLT minus the B.  I know I’m special, being the only boy, but why would you feel the need to deprive your only son of meat, especially bacon?  I recall driving to this movie theatre shedding tears of unhappiness and exclaiming child abuse out the rear window.  My sandwich consisted of mayo, lettuce, tomato on cold toast, a vegetarian delicacy.  Whatever!  I was not vegetarian and do not recall any vegetarians in the 1970’s in my neck of the woods.  I was a growing boy, I needed protein, especially bacon, give me all the bacon and give my sisters vegetables, not to stereotype or anything but I needed meat.  I think Bambi was the movie we attended that fateful night.  If it weren’t for the caramel corn, I could have ended up like Bambi’s father.  Bambi’s father dead from a hunter’s bullet.  Rob Longstreth, 8yrs old, dead from parental negligence (lack of protein intake, no bacon) may he rest in peace.

Two Pieces of Fat

There are many scrupulous recipes.  Most of which contain sophisticated ingredients, time consuming prep time or high levels of culinary skill.  None of which has ever been witnessed in our kitchen.  You may even speculate how anything more complicated than a handful of ingredients was ever assembled and presented as dinner on our table.  One can only assume that treacherous waters like these have never been tapped.  Wrong!  My mom would challenge the one dish that took numerous ingredients, time and love.  She would often try to replicate this dish with little success.  Each opportunity would lend itself to disaster, not un-edible disaster, but lacking the required consistency needed to achieve proper texture and flavor.  I may have sparked your interest as to what dish I am speaking.  To quote my dad, “Get out the straws we’re having baked beans.”  Yes, the alarmingly difficult baked bean.  The straw reference indicated that the beans placed on our table would be very soupy.  I am not certain that replicating Marie’s recipe is possible.  She has mastered the recipe to a T, identical every time.  This recipe has never been shared, never taken to the family reunion picnic, pot luck dinner nor has anyone other than my immediate family ever partaken in this delicacy.  With my culinary skill increasing I think I have figured out my mom’s dilemma.  I think I can actually solve the soupiness.  What her recipe calls for is basic ingredients to flavor the beans.  She would start with the can of pork and beans.  You know the ones; about 8oz of beans, 8oz of syrupy mystery liquid and 2(no more no less) pieces of pork fat.  I believe the fat is pork, I personally have never had it analyzed, but I have never tasted it either.  She would then add some diced onion, brown sugar, salt, pepper and ketchup.  Place this mixture into an oven safe cooking vessel and bake; you guessed it 350°, for about an hour.  They would come out of the oven piping hot, bubbly and of course soupy.  Why, you may still wonder?  I will let you in on the secret.  Not once did it ever occur to Marie to only use the beans.  She always used the mystery liquid.  The thought of having the unknown liquid, adding more liquid i.e. brown sugar and ketchup, never clicked the “duh” switch.  If you subtract most of the mystery liquid the beans would have a chance to reduce and create naturally thickened gravy for the beans to cohabitate.  The beans would be much happier and so would the family. 

I don’t usually have time to bake beans.  So I will give you a stove top recipe.  I have no pre-conceived notion that these are traditional baked beans but they will represent a reasonable facsimile.  Take that same can of pork and beans, but take the lid and strain off most of that nasty liquid.  Remove the 2 pieces of fat.  Take some diced onion, about 1 tablespoon, and soften with one slice of diced uncooked bacon in a medium sauce pan over medium heat.  Next add the beans, salt and pepper, 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard, 1 tablespoon dark molasses, 1 tablespoon brown sugar, 1 tablespoon ketchup, couple dashes of Worcestershire sauce and a drop or two of Tabasco.  Cook over medium low heat.  They will begin to thicken, once they reach your required consistency remove from heat and serve.  This dish can be made in the amount of time it takes to fire up your grill and cook a couple of burgers.  Grilled burgers and (baked) beans…what could be a better pairing?  Throw in a cold beer and I’ll be right over.  I won’t even think about bringing a straw.  

Rabbit Ears and the TV Dinner

Yes, I said TV dinner, the 1970’s version of fast food.  Forty five minutes in a 475° oven, yup that fast.  This meal would consist of an entrée, a vegetable, a starch and dessert.  For some reason the manufacturers of these gourmet meals decided to put the dessert compartment next to the vegetable compartment.  Yummy apple crisp with peas; for those of you who have read about my disregard for peas, I cannot begin to explain the horror upon viewing the mixed container of a meal under the tin foil.  Just knowing the repetitiveness of this meal brought on the gag reflex immediately after tearing open and seeing the steaming hot portions of scalding magma.  For those of you, who have never had the pleasure of this meal, let me explain my anguish.  The entrée: some kind of sliced meat covered in gravy of relatively the same essence, usually the largest section of the tin foil tray.  The starch:  typically mashed potatoes, or what resembled potatoes.  They were almost white and somewhat fluffy.  This compartment was also contaminated by the vegetable section and possibly overspills of gravy from the meat portion.  The vegetable compartment, the destroyer of all things contained within the same enclosure; some array of, or medley of, all my favorite vegetables including; peas, carrots and lima beans.  These dreadful tasting nibs of nastiness were planted throughout the tray.  They would form their line of attack and secretly invade across enemy strongholds and contaminate every compartment.  Once you’ve contemplated and taken complete inspection of the forkful, it happens.  POW!  Like a land mine in your mouth, one pea, the orb of death clinging to your tongue like a leech, sucking the existence out of you.  Only a strong determination and stomach would keep me from regurgitating everything back to its original compartment.  And lastly the dessert compartment; this area was selected for the pleasure of each diner.  The final portion there for your enjoyment was usually apple crisp or cherry cobbler as I recall.  This enticing portion cooked with steam trapped under a sealed tin foil lid.  The steam from meat, potato, and vegetable was condensing into tiny drops of miscellaneous flavor; this cooking method, deemed reasonable by the engineers, to cook apple CRISP?  Hardly, this was supposed to be gratifying, something to delight the palate.  By the time the 45 minutes had finished, the compartments had amalgamated into something with one unique smell and taste, one big serving of food of similar taste and dissimilar textures.  My deduction is that this resembled a pot pie with dessert already enclosed.  Excluding only the crust, which is now represented by a sheet of tin foil sealing the tray as one unit?  How could you not be eager about a feast like this?  My recollection can only be surmised like this:

As legend would have it, Sunday nights in the Longstreth house went something like this: pre-heat oven to 475° if it will accomplish this task, retrieve the TV dinners from the freezer, 4 Turkey and 1 Salisbury steak, place in oven regardless of temperature, proceed to the living room and get out the TV trays, turn on TV to the only channel we receive, NBC, and watch The Lawrence Welk Show, get TV dinners out of the oven, take to living room, watch next show, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, take tin foil container to garbage, wash forks and drinking glasses, return to living room and put away TV trays, watch The Wonderful World of Disney and finally go happily to bed.

  Here’s the way I remember.  “Why do I have to eat a TURKEY dinner?”  My dad’s response, “Because I said so!”  “I don’t like succotash and I abhor peas, especially in my dessert.”  “Tough shit!” his retort.  “Why can’t I use a TV tray?”  “Just use the stool, besides you’re the youngest” my mom would answer.  “Do we really have to watch Lawrence Welk?”  “You are really starting to piss me off, boy” my dad would firmly state.  Knowing that I was on the brink of getting by butt whooped I would state under my breath, “I hate this show, I’m 6 not 66.”  “What did you say?”  My dad would ask.  Into the kitchen my dismay would continue and all my thoughts would now be contained inside.  Why do I always have to dry the dishes?  Why does Jim Fowler do all the dirty work and Marlon Perkins get all the credit?  How come they never show Disney cartoons, it’s always some stupid movie?  Go to bed, and listen intently to my mom and dad open pop bottles and enjoy soda after us kids are in bed.  This is just mean, sob, sob, sob fall asleep.

Living on the Edge

Picture yourself in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.  Well not really but maybe 1976.  It is the bicentennial of our country.  Every town across the USA is filled with American pride.  My town, Spencerville Ohio actually painted their fire hydrants as little minutemen.  I know, awesome.  Really, imagine yourself as my dad.  You live in rural Spencerville Ohio, okay Spencerville is rural, but we still live out of town.  Our neighbors not too close but close enough.  You are married and have 4 children.  You don’t lock your car or your house.  There has never been a break-in or theft in our neighborhood ever!  What a country!  You sleep like a baby every night dreaming of better meals and sports.  Your children are all tucked safe in their beds, not a care in the world.  You are awakened by footsteps in your house.  Is it one of your kids?  Is it your mother-in-law, your neighbor, a burglar?  You realize your only form of protection; i.e. a gun is in your son’s room at the opposite end of the house.  You have to improvise, MacGyver style.  If somehow you could sneak to the kitchen, there hanging above the kitchen stove were the knives.  You could fend off this would be thief and save the family from disaster and years of therapy.  Slipping out of bed and making your way across hardwood floors, no creaking , no sound, not even a whisper of noise.  In the faint light of the moon shining through the kitchen window, you make out the silhouettes, 5 shiny knives hanging; ready to do battle with the enemy.  There is only about 15’ between you and all the protection you will need.  Under the cover of the dark night you make it to the stove.  As you reach for the dagger of life a light turns on.  “Hank what are you doing?”  My mother asks.  “I heard footsteps in the living room” he replied.  With all the answers my mom says, “It is just the kerosene heater cooling down because it ran out of fuel.”  “Let’s go back to bed.”  Before you put the knife back on the hook, you flick your thumb across the blade ever so gently, then a bit harder, a bit harder.  At this point, or lack thereof, you realize there is no edge on this knife.  You check the others, with no difference, dull as a bull’s ass.  You think to yourself, how in the hell do we even get food on the table?  You know for a fact that there is no sharpener on the premises and we have no secret stash of good knives.  Could this representation of cutlery actually be for real or are they ornamental?  You go back to bed and think about the ironic situation in the kitchen.  I know it’s a knife, it looks like a knife, is it really a knife?  What if I really needed the knife to do some damage?  Could it have been used in self-defense?  Would the intruder just laugh at me like Vincent Price at the end of Thriller, knowing full well our cutlery wouldn’t damage a stick of butter?  Or maybe your thoughts would go down other avenues.  No wonder we buy everything pre-cut.  How come we never eat steak?  I know I’ve seen Marie use these.  Or did I?  Have I ever eaten a slice of tomato?  I know I have.  But was it here in my house or somewhere else?  You finally fall back asleep and go onto other more interesting dreams. 

There was never an intruder in our house.  I just think about our cutlery and how we prepped our meals.  No accidental cuts were witnessed in our house, no stitches, nothing.  Our knife set was as harmless and useless as false teeth sitting in a glass.  This makes me ponder.  Does every house possess decorative cutlery?  If so, how do they survive?  Check your knives boys and girls.  If they won’t cut through the skin of a tomato, they are not sharp enough.  Put yourself in my father’s shoes and think about this.  What if you have an intruder?  Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies.  No cutlery needed.

Who Gets the Credit?

At the age of 11, I began cooking dinner for our family of 6.  My two older sisters were busy with after school activities and my younger sister would be dropped off by the bus about an hour after me.  I was the first of 4 to come home after school.  My mother would have everything written down for me; the recipe, start times even the tasks easy as opening the refrigerator.  I would begin chopping, slicing, seasoning (S & P only) and putting meals in the oven, electric skillet whatever the case.  If I had any questions/problems I would call my grandma.  Land line rotary phone only, no cell phones back then, how did we survive?  She was my culinary authority and continued to be so throughout my life.  My grandma cooked with a purpose.  Her quest was to make everything fresh and pleasing to the palate.  Her cooking is what I hoped for myself.  Cook like you love what you’re doing.  If your meals taste like you've put some love into them, they will be appreciated.  I would continue prepping and cooking until my mom finished her bus route.  She would come home and finish dinner, or take it out of the oven and place on the table.  She would get full credit regardless of the outcome of the meal.  I didn't understand it then, but the timing was impeccable.  My mom knew exactly when to begin and end prep tasks.  She knew how long to cook something.  She could convey these directions on a note for me.  Why couldn't she understand how to make something taste good?  It baffles me to this day.  Nonetheless dinner would be on the table just as my father walked through the door.  How did she manage this?  Knowing now what I didn't know then, about my mother’s cooking skills, it was probably better timing on my dad’s part.  My father somehow knew by the amount of smoke coming out of the house, just kidding, how long he had to make it through the door.  Or maybe he knew the routine going on inside the kitchen and planned his trip home to match the meal for the night.  He knew his meal because my mom had the menu for the week posted on the refrigerator.  He also realized early on in the marriage that it was better to eat Marie’s cooking hot.  Hot and mediocre is much better than cold and mediocre.  Good or mediocre our family didn't go hungry.  My mom took the credit and I gained valuable kitchen skills.  I continue to hone these skills and pass them to my daughter.  Although she is not prepping the family dinner by herself, she has learned many recipes and simple ways to fend for herself.  I’m not sure if my mom had the intentions or the intuition to see my potential in the kitchen, but I thank her for the opportunity.  Maybe I was convenient for her as I was the only one able to get things started.  Through my childhood experiences and further into my adult life, I have been fascinated by the culinary art.  I continue to gain valuable skills, knowledge and passion for cooking.  Thanks mom for getting me started, regardless if it were intentional or not.  I appreciate the effort you made for me.  My family, neighbors and friends also thank you. 

Food Muse

Some of my mom’s special talents include descriptions.  The process of describing certain things may take hours.  It may be a meal, a talent, a chair or a picture, yes I said picture.  Why on earth would you need to describe a picture?  If memory serves me well a picture is worth a thousand words.  I would guess for posterity purposes you may need to document names, dates or places to preserve the memory.  Back in the day, photographs were not automatically dated, especially in the case of the Polaroid.  Ah yes the Polaroid, remember snapping the picture, the heat of the flash bulb that burned your dad’s fingers when he changed bulbs to take four more pictures?  Remember the sound of that little motor churning out an undeveloped square which would magically turn into a photograph?  Because of the sometimes inconsistent development there was a need to verify in writing the actual picture.  Marie has yet to figure out modern technology.  My mom is the Queen of photograph documentation.  Now you may be wondering what the hell this has to do with the subject matter of this blog, I’m getting to that.  She would take pictures of everything at any family function, her little insta-matic clicking away.  She took pictures of relatives, presents, walls, pets and most importantly the food table.  She would take her film to be developed, pick it up and proceed to document the subject matter of the picture on the reverse side.  This process would be completed before anyone could view the pictures of the most recent family function.  This documentation of purely visible subject matter makes very little sense in my world.  Like I said before, some notes are needed.  But really, does every picture need a description?  The day following my wedding ceremony my mom had a small party.  She did everything as aforementioned.  Once the pictures were developed she sent Sue and I the memories, all with her personal descriptions on the reverse side so we would clearly understand what the picture actually represented.  The kicker, which made laugh hysterically, was the pictures of the food table.  There on the reverse side of the picture, Marie’s handwriting, “12/23/1995 Ham sandwiches.”  C’mon mom, really!  Do I really need clarification of this?  Ham sandwiches!  What else could they be?  I keep these memories safe because I may need to reference the subject matter in case I forget what a ham sandwich actually looks like.  Marie has the cure for amnesia!  Her picture documentation is unparalleled.

Victims of Convenience

Who hasn’t eaten or opened a blue box of Macaroni and Cheese?  I know some of you probably have one or more boxes in your pantry right now.  I have no problem with this as I was a blue box junkie.  I used to eat this stuff by the box, yes the entire box.  Macaroni and cheese for lunch, dinner whenever.  This was my meal, one pan, one spoon, and one colander.  Easy clean up, total time start to finish about 20min, eight to make, eight to eat and four to clean up.  I’m not bragging, but once in college I prepared this box without butter or milk…it was a mistake but it still tasted like the description on the box, go figure.  My next favorite as a kid were the little round frozen pizzas; I remember them being about 10 or 15 cents each.  My mom would buy 4 or 5 dollars worth at the grocery.  Three of these frozen cardboard delicacies would be my lunch.  I remember eating these before going to one of my first jobs as a lifeguard at the local swimming pool.  Again about 20 minutes and this is a one cookie sheet deal.  I didn’t know any better, this was good eating for me and I would serve these to my friends, apparently they didn’t know any better either.  I can now appreciate the difference between good eating and not so good eating.  My macaroni and cheese recipe is loved by my daughter, but it doesn’t come from a box.  I know where all the ingredients I use come from.  If your cheese is in dry powder form you may want to be leery.  Fresh still only takes about 8 minutes.  I even do a grown up version with bacon, green onion and jalapeno.  One of my favorites is to take this recipe, put it in a pan and allow it to cool.  I then slice the cooled Mac and cheese into 3 x 1 ½ “ rectangles, coat with egg wash and Panko bread crumbs and deep fry.  What could be better?  Deep fried macaroni and cheese!  This sounds kind of hillbilly, but it’s very tasty.  If you take this to your next party, be prepared to be complimented and many will ask for the recipe.  Some will hesitate to try but once they taste, they will be hooked.  Pizza, although a bit more tricky; all you need is a dough you can handle and the rest is easy.  It’s a hell of a lot cheaper and again you know where the ingredients are coming from.  Frozen cheese just doesn’t melt the same and no delivery person to deal with.  Tip yourself instead!

Here’s my recipe:

  Begin by cooking your pasta according to the directions on the box.

Béchamel Sauce- This is one of the Mother Sauces of French Cuisine.  I know it sounds fancy and difficult, but it is very simple.  Once the pasta is cooked, drain and using the same sauce pan, begin melting 2 tablespoons of butter over medium heat.  Once the butter has melted and stopped bubbling, add 2 tablespoons of flour and combine.  You have just made roux (a thickening agent used in many recipes).  Pour in 1.5 cups of milk, this mixture will begin to thicken.  Once it is nice and creamy (Béchamel Sauce has been created), add salt & pepper and remove from heat, then begin adding shredded cheddar cheese, about 1 cup, more or less to your liking.  Also feel free to use any cheese as long as it will melt.  The possibilities are endless!  Once cheese is melted add your pasta, mix to combine.  At this point you can go ahead and serve or you can place this in a pan and put in 350 degree oven for 15 min to get piping hot.  It is very easy and like I mentioned, the possibilities are endless with the cheese.  Additional ingredients needing some cook time should be added to the butter or bacon drippings before adding the flour to make the roux.  They can also be cooked separately and then added to the roux mixture.  Don’t be shy, your taste buds will be rewarded and your family will be impressed.

Rippled Potato Soup?

Rippled Potato Soup you might ask?  Yes, Rippled, referring to an Old Dutch (my heritage) culinary delight made from flour and egg.  It kind of sounds like the start of pasta doesn't it?  But that's as far as it goes.  Ask any culinary expert how to make ripples and I’m sure they will be able to tell you about this tasty delight.  Bobby Flay...how do you make your ripples for your potato soup?  No reply, oh ok.  That's understandable Bobby, my mom's recipe is a secret too!  Though she has allowed me this one exception to share her culinary secret that once it’s out I’m sure will spread through kitchens and restaurants everywhere.

Mom's Rippled Potato Soup consists of: ½ milk and ½ water, potatoes, margarine, flour and egg.  Now doesn't that sound tasty?  Minus the water these are well conceived ingredients.  Everything you need to build yourself a nice soup.  So let’s build a soup, shall we?  We begin with the potato.  In our house this was a staple for recipes like this one.  Mom saved our instant potatoes for dishes we served with meat!  So far, you know this means a frozen 1lb package of ground beef.  The spuds we used were always kept with the highest respect in our concrete floored utility room, right beside the trash can and dust pan, adjacent to the dog's food, in front of the water heater, nestled next to outdated yellow and brown packages of DeCon that had yet to poison any mice.  Our potatoes would occupy the space beside our furnace, bottled soda pop and a soldering torch which was sometimes needed to thaw the exposed water pipes of this un-heated cave.  They were free to collect dirt, dust, and grime anytime!  The accumulation of dust I believe is what gave these fresh vegetables their shelf life, which in this case would be when they started growing sprouts!  Sprouts were a sign that the spuds were, "still good" my mom clambered.  All you need to do is peel, pluck or pull the sprouts then chop the potato.  “It was going to be cooked anyway,” she exclaimed.  I know in her head this seemed reasonable because they resemble bean sprouts.  In any case, bean sprouts are not byproducts of potatoes.  This metamorphosis of the potato is the product of the correct and absolute environment to keep them barely alive so they will begin to seed and make baby potatoes.  So as it were she would use 6 to 7 of these science experiments she called good (peeled and chopped of course) and add them to the pot of boiling water/milk mixture until they were at their prime (meaning before they turned to mush) then she would add her secret culinary delight: Ripples.  It’s also very tedious so one must be precise on measuring.  Take 1 cup of flour, add enough water (why water I do not understand) to make a paste-then add 1 egg to the paste to form a dough.  Now this is the tricky part; take the dough and tear it piece by piece into the boiling starchy potato water and let it go!  These Ripples will begin to boil; as they become fully cooked, watch them rise and break the surface of the pools of melted margarine!  Mmmmmm yummy doughy pillows full of spud/milky/water floating around and among those respected vegetables----potato soup she called it?  Oh, and don't forget to break out the Morton salt container and rusty tin of pepper for this special occasion to give it an extra kick.  I beg you, please do not try this in your home.  This is not something you or your family will appreciate.  This recipe takes years to master.  It can only achieve the proper flavor profile if your palate has proper training.  Years of eating my mom's meals will be needed before you can actually understand the subtle layers of flavor.  And one more small tip: find a better place to keep your potatoes.  Your un-heated, dirty utility room is not the place!  I want to also thank my youngest sister for the reminder.  She has co-authored this entry for the soon to be famous recipe.

Portion Control

If you read the label on every food product there are “suggested serving” quantities listed for your recommended daily allowances.  When I really look at these, I’m unsure if any person could survive on this type of portion control.  If you are an 8-14 year old athletic male, it is next to impossible to survive on these recommended daily allowances.  The two that struck me as in- excusable were Tab soda and Kelloggs Frosted Mini Wheats.  Tab was introduced when I was about 10 may be sooner, maybe later.  Who cares?  At this point in my life I was totally uninterested in diet soda.  But I do remember the total number of servings in a 12oz can being 2.  Are you kidding me 2 servings?  Drink up o’thirsty one, your 6oz serving of soda, quite possibly only 2 swallows if you were really thirsty.  Now for my breakfast; my sisters and I did enjoy Frosted Mini Wheats.  Now I know what you are thinking.  “Man, your mom gave you Mini Wheats?”  “You guys were spoiled!”  “We only had generic Toasty O’s.”  Allow me to continue.  My mom would leave us instructions for our breakfast.  This note would include how much of each breakfast entrée we could consume; i.e. 2 pieces of toast, one glass of juice (Hi-C grape of course), one tablespoon peanut butter etc.  So, on this box of Mini Wheats, the suggested serving size is 4 BISCUITS.  My mom thought this was federal law.  She would also threaten to never buy these again if there were even a suggestion about portion control.  According to her this serving size was plenty and exceeding this recommended daily amount would cause extreme obesity and strain on the family budget.  At a time of my life when I needed valuable calories to get me to my delicious school lunch, I was allowed a mere 4 BISCUITS!  This portion control would barely sustain me until I caught the school bus, let alone until lunch.  My 4 BISCUITS would be consumed in about 90seconds, leaving a yearning for at least 12 more.  Maybe she could have served Tab instead of juice, but we wouldn't want to get bloated for breakfast!  My thinking is that every mom in the United States was doing the same thing.  Why would I think this you ask?  Maybe this is why the fast food chains of my generation thought of the “super size” meals.  This is our way of getting back at those portion control freaks.  Or maybe why my generation is over weight?  Maybe our mothers were smarter than we thought.

New Years Day Tradition

Barbecue spare ribs, the mere thought of these messy, tasty morsels leaves my mouth watering.  There are many different rub seasonings, sauces, smokes and cooking methods.  How does one choose the best of each?  When is the right time to serve this, usually long prep time, meal?  Is it possible to prep, cook and serve without any of the previously mentioned items?  In a typical kitchen setting, home or restaurant I would say no.  This however is not your typical household situation.  My father would have you believe that my mom had some southern cook in her, but that was only one certain style of cooking (Remember Cajun Style) which had no bearing on this meal.  Our New Years Day tradition was the barbecue spare rib, no smoke, no rub, all day cook time.  This process began early in the morning of Jan 1.  First we need to clear up one minor detail; no racks of ribs were actually sacrificed in the making of my mom’s spare ribs.  Again our freezer is full of ground beef, no pork.  Not once did I see any rack of ribs.  No baby back’s, no St. Louis Style nothing even resembling a rack of ribs were seen near or in our kitchen.  The ribs my mom used were indeed “spare.”  This may be why the use of neither smoke nor rub was necessary.  Let’s start with the prep, or my mom’s version of the rub; put all rib pieces in large pot, fill with water (unseasoned of course) and boil for approximately 3 hours.  Instead of enhancing the flavor of the ribs with a seasoning rub, Marie’s method pretty much removed any flavor which may have been left.  Now we need to cook these babies low and slow, right?  Uh wrong, let’s go with the oven at 350degrees (automatic setting of our oven) and place rib pieces on a broiler pan, again no salt or pepper and  smother with Open Pit BBQ sauce and bake for another 3 hours.  Now these were some tender ribs, messy and saucy.  I believe this was my dad’s favorite meal.  I’m not sure why, maybe the fact that it was the only meal that didn’t contain beef.  Nonetheless this meal was prepared for the family every New Years Day.  Traditions are good things; find one for your family.  Even though ours was boiled spare ribs, we still looked forward to New Years dinner.