Monday, November 20, 2006
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.
My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.
My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.
Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.
“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.
With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.
The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.
Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.
This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.
Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.
My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.
"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.
The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.
"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.
"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.
"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.
"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.
"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.
"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"
We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.
"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."
"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"
Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.
"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."
The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.
"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.
"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"
"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.
"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"
"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.
"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.
"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"
Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."
In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.
All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.
"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.
"Good riddance," I replied.
Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.
We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.
One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.
Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.
Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.
Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.
Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.
There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"
Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.
So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.
Revel in the soundtrack of your life.
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