C is for Camping

It’s also for clueless, confused and downright crazy.  And for this Southern girl, one has to incorporate all of the above in order to put one foot inside a giant, netted, bustling insect hive (which some people call a tent) and the other foot in a sorry sack of zippered up flimsy fabric meant for you to lay down on and slumber (you know, some call it a sleeping bag.) 

Now, I have been on many a camping trip, but I will fess up and tell you I don’t remember much about any of them.  It’s called denial. To this very day, my brother and I are unable to even talk about or process what took place inside a pop-up tent we spent with our parents for two weeks in Yellowstone one summer when we were in elementary school back in Texas.

Not having TV, hot water, and sharing twelve feet of space and a collapsible potty with three other humans, a few frogs, a family of squirrels, and a hungry bear who was fascinated with our revolving dinner table-slash-bed, does that to some people.

My husband loves to camp.  And it’s one of the things I love about him.  He keeps me guessing. 

As in why would a grown man, squish himself between a formation inside the earth called “Pancake Rock”, repel down the inside of a 30 foot deep cave, then set up camp next to a slab of rock covered in guano?

Now, that’s bat poop for all of you indoorsy types.

Beats me. 

But y’all, now that I have children, I am starting to get scared.  Not that my hair will turn grey, my back will permanently ache and I will no longer remember my name by the time I can have the bathroom to myself.  No.  I am tougher than a two dollar steak when it comes to most things, but sometimes I do get a little shaky at the possibility of hearing three dreaded words announced at the supper table: Family.  Camping. And Trip.

So far though, I have been doing a pretty good job of heading it off at the pass or before the insect repellent and collapsible fishing rods to catch our only dinner make it into hiking packs, if you know what I mean?

It’s all about another “C” word that most people really rely on for their own sanity.  It’s called comfort.  And if you provide it, they will come….or stay home…….depending on how you think of it.

So, fellow non- camping moms, heed my advice.  It only takes ten minutes to set up a tent in the den with some funky quilts and a dozen squishy, soft pillows, put a few triple A’s in the mini flashlights, download a few Gothic Southern ghost stories and broil a few s’mores in the oven. Oh…..and break-up a few dozen glow sticks to coat the inside of a couple of Mason jars to look like fireflies at night.

While it takes 6 hours to drive, 4 miles to hike, 3,000 calories and 2 boxes of granola bars to make it to a camp ground inside the middle nowhere that upon arrival you’ll have to hang your food from a tree and pray it doesn’t rain. 

Instead, here are a few tricks for providing the ultimate, elevated camping experience in your very own abode.   Just think of all of the bug bites, blisters, and doctor bills you’ll avoid by staying home in comfort and in style.

 

Tomato Bacon Bisque with “Camp Crackers” and  Oven Broiled S’mores

This is my foodie representation of grilled cheese and tomato soup that I like to serve “camped out” in the den with my family on a summer week-end movie night (think Stand by Me, Caddy Shack, the Great Outdoors, National Lampoons Vacation, On Golden Pond).  It has taken me over a year to perfect my bisque but it was worth every slip of the serrated knife and burn of the boiled over cream.  I do have to confess I borrowed the camp cracker recipe from one of my favorite New England restaurants The Common Man’s Camp.  Click here to make these yummy gorgonzola cheese slices of heaven below, and like they do up there in Meredith, New Hampshire, slice the pita bread into tiny pizza triangles and place on a long wooden cutting board sprinkled with green scallions and then serve family style-genius.

For the Tomato Bacon Bisque, you’ll need the following but, by the way, I ALWAYS double the recipe. It’s that good:

4 cups of peeled and diced fresh tomatoes; salted to taste (or the canned kind depending on the season)

2 cups chicken broth (or if you have time, it’s always better to make your own-  sauté some butter, onions, carrot and celery, add an already cooked, rotisserie chicken and 2 cups of canned chicken broth(how is that for irony) over boiling water for 30 minutes and then strain chicken and veggies to make your own stock.)  Unless, you have absolutely nothing else in the world to do- I suggest canned chicken broth.

¼ cup of real butter (depending on the state of your arteries)

1 clove minced garlic

8-10 pieces Peppered Bacon (alright, you’re all in now…might as well go for it)

1 small, finely chopped onion

2 cups whipping/heavy cream or half & half (tried them all and they all work-your preference)

 

Cook bacon in oven on 400 for 10-12 minutes until crisp.

Meanwhile, sauté butter, onion, and garlic in soup pot over medium high heat until tender.

Add diced tomatoes, chicken broth and cooked bacon to soup pot.

Simmer for one hour.

Next warm cream in separate pan, careful not to overheat. Now, you have to pretty much stir constantly, and like over the home-made chicken stock and pot of tomatoes-you have will absolutely nothing better to do than enjoy a good book (one of my favorites The Forgotten Garden or The Lake of Dead Languages) and a hefty glass of Pinot.

Add cream to the tomato mixture then transfer to blender or food processor; blend well.

Serve immediately with camp crackers.

Oven Baked S'Mores are just as easy.

Oh...and here is My Kind of Camping Pinterest board for all sorts of inspiration.

The only thing left for y’all to do is read my story, A Diary of a Sleepover, on my website.  Especially, if you’re letting your kids invite a few friends over for the campout fun.  It’s your need-to-know Sleepover Survival Guide.  Have a great night and don’t let the bedbugs bite!  Much love and high hopes for all sorts of pseudo outdoor fun, Laura.

 

Previously published on thesouthernc where I am a contributing writer.

SOUTHERN LIVING'S FEEL GOOD FOOD COOKBOOK CONTEST

Morning, everyone!  For those of you who have already picked through the Wednesday paper, you already know I'm having a contest for a free copy of Southern Living's gorgeous new cookbook Feel Good Food: Simple and Satisfying Recipes with a Fresh Twist.  All you have to do is message me with one of your funniest and most treasured cooking tales of all time.  Here's mine that was published in this morning's column of the Coastal Illustrated: 

My favorite cooking tale involves my husband’s families Christmas Eve party a few years back.  Those of you who know Charlie’s mom, Flo, know she’s Pennsylvania Dutch, born in Harrisburg by way of Quebec.  His dad’s is New England all the way coming over not too long after those first pilgrims from England in the later part of the 1600’s. 

His parents were the first of both their collective families to move down South and soon after many followed for the warm climate, great food and …of course…down-home hospitality.  At least, for the holidays, that is.

I’ll never forget that night my mom, as Southern as Southern comes, brought a Virginia Country Ham.  She presented the gorgeous burlap-encased slab of swine to Flo tied with an over-sized cranberry crushed velvet bow as a holiday gift not knowing she would immediately turn around, slice it with her electronic saw, and then place it raw on a platter next to GiGi’s Banberry tarts and a Dutch oven full of Boston Baked Beans.

It wasn’t long before Flo’s cousin Rick gnawed on a healthy slice of the cured ham, then promptly stumbled to our table, downed my daughters High-C, Charlie’s half a cup of warm beer, someone who was still at the buffet line’s full glass of Cab and a pitcher of water that previously housed several stems of holly, a fresh Poinsettia sprig and a plastic Elf.

“Whatever you guys do,” he says between pants.  “Don’t try the prosciutto.”

Stories aside, I just really love this cookbook. It's got it all- from Beer Margaritas to Kentucky Benedictine Tea Sandwiches to Mama's German Chocolate Cake.  It truly is more than just a cookbook with sweet stories and memories from Southern Living's senior writer Valerie Fraser Luesse tucked in among the pages.  For a Southerner, it's like coming home and for a first-timer trying their hand at this down-home regional cuisine, it couldn't be a more simple or delicious.

So as promised, I have reprinted the Pickled Okra and Shrimp Salad recipe to share with your family and friends and thrown in the recipe for Texas Toast Tomato Sandwiches.

All you have to do now is share a funny memory or two from the kitchen.  It's like story telling...family style.  Can't wait to hear from you soon!  Laura

                                               TEXAS TOAST TOMATO SANDWICHES

1 package five-cheese Texas toast

2lb. assorted heirloom tomatoes

1/4 cup bottled blue cheese vinaigrette

6 Tbsp. torn fresh basil

Salt & pepper to taste

Garnish: crumbled blue cheese, fresh basil leaves


1 .) Prepare Texas toast according to package directions.

2.) Meanwhile, halve larger tomatoes and cut into 1/4 inch thick slices; halve or quarter smaller tomatoes.  Gently toss tomatoes with vinaigrette, basil, salt and pepper to taste.  Serve immediately over hot Texas Toast.  Garnish, if desired.

PICKLED OKRA AND SHRIMP SALAD

1 (3-oz) package boil-in-bag shrimp-and-crab boil

1 ½ peeled and deveined shrimp- medium/raw

½ cup sliced sweet-hot pickled okra (Wickles is awesome and at the HT)

1 (4 oz) jar dices pimento, drained

1/3 cup mayo

3 Tbsp minced red onion

½ tsp lime zest

3 Tbsp fresh lime juice

¼ tsp pepper

1/8 tsp salt

3 large avocados, sliced

1.)    Bring 8 cups of water to a boil in a 3-quart saucepan; add crab boil, and cook 5 minutes.  Add shrimp; cover, remove from heat, and let stand 10 minutes or until shrimp turns pink.  Drain and cool ten minutes.

2.)    Meanwhile, combine pickled okra, diced pimento, and next 6 ingredients.  Add shrimp, and serve immediately with avocado slices or chill until ready to serve.

           

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

For most people, picking is just a verb that has a lot of different meanings.  For moms, it's something we do every day; constantly picking up after all those who live with us so we can see the floor in order to sweep it.  For siblings, picking means knowing which buttons to push and how long we can keep on pushing them before getting a major licking.

But for Southerners, it's not just a verb, but an experience, a way of life.  Something generations can, and still do, together as a family.

 For me, growing up, every late spring and early summer, we would go picking in my grandfather, Papa’s, garden outside of Athens, GA.   At the time, his garden seemed as big as Sanford Stadium, but now, if I was to go back, it would be what it is... and was at the time.....just a small slice of space no bigger than the carport behind it that my family all used to sit and rock on and watch the cars go by.  But just as loved.

If I did go back, I would hope to still find all of those luscious, vibrant colored tomatoes, squash, and zucchini growing out from the same tilled up dirt……the ones just like I’d find from my youth that I’d wrestle off of vine and bring into the kitchen with pride and dirty fingers. 

Because I know I will never again find my grandfather there, tending his beloved garden with his generous hands and strong, solid back.  He passed away many years ago, but I still hold out hope that whoever owns that spot of land now, cares as deeply about what can spring forth from it as much as he did. 

I guess I'm a little scared to go back and check.  I don't want to find weeds and dead grass where treasures and childhood memories once grew.

I have two daughters now.  They are 9 and 11.  It saddens me when I think about how they never had the opportunity to see Papa's garden and all of that love.  But we still take them picking every May anyway.  Now, it’s at Barefoot Farms located on St. Helena's Island near my parent’s beach house off Beaufort, SC.  They've been picking now since they could walk, talk, and count on their little, pudgy hands to ten and back again.

My most cherished memories are watching them with empty buckets, toddling up and down the strawberry fields.  Their buckets were bare because every, single strawberry they picked went into their mouths, the juice squirting down their sundresses faster than lightening.

 

It about time for a road trip to Beaufort to visit Barefoot Farms yet again seeing as the strawberries are at peak season during the month of May.   Though they are older, my girls still pick a plump strawberry or two right off the vine and gobble them up from their longer, leaner, yet more grown up fingers.  They also enjoy being in the kitchen and helping create something divine straight from the earth to our table….where they get to see the fruits of their labor born.... and appreciated.

I'll share with y'all now one of our families favorite early summer suppers.  It is all about slow cooked BBQ chicken, sautéed squash and onions, and strawberry short cake for desert.  From our heart and table to yours, I hope you can taste the love in the simple things that can grow from a single vine and into a lasting memory.

 Here goes:

 

My Mom's BBQ Chicken

Sautéed Summer Squash and Vidalia Onions

Strawberry Shortcake

 

Now y'all can't rush this….no matter how bad you want to get into the strawberry shortcake. You'll need to plan at least two and a half hours of loving care for the bird itself.  Not for the faint of heart, you'll need to dissect a whole chicken, skin and all, or pick one already cut up at your grocer or local butcher if you possess a weaker constitution.

 

1 whole chicken

2 cloves minced garlic

3 Tablespoons Olive Oil

Salt and Pepper

 

Set oven to 350 degrees.  Arrange your bird in a baking dish.  Poke the darn thing over and over again with a fork (good aggression therapy at the end of a long day) and then place the minced garlic in the fork holes.  Now, drizzle olive oil over the chicken and add salt and pepper to taste.  Place in oven for 20 minutes uncovered so the skin can brown slightly and hold onto the oil and garlic…basically it’ll get a nice, little beach tan but still stay juicy inside.

 

Next, decrease oven temp to 325 degrees and pour your favorite BBQ sauce (mine is Southern Souls BBQ- Sweet Southern Soul) generously all over the chicken before covering it with foil and sticking it back in the oven.

 

Cook another 2 hours at the reduced temp.  I promise y'all, it's going to fall right off the bone and is so unbelievably delicious.

 

While your bird is slow cooking, pour a glass of wine (for yourself, not the food) and sauté a pan full of fresh, thinly sliced yellow squash and a Vidalia onion in butter over medium low heat until tender.  My secret squash recipe calls for a cup of bottled zesty Italian salad dressing for a little kick, but that's just me.

 

Also, slice your fresh picked strawberries and pull out the Bisquick.  They have THE BEST shortbread recipe on the back of the box, so don't try it from scratch unless you're a pro. It's flaky and buttery with just the right amount of flakiness.  Never, ever, use the packaged sponge cake.  That’s sacrilege, y’all.

 

Let the shortbread cool, then cover with sliced strawberries dashed with a little bit of sugar and a dollop of whip cream and you are good to go!

Mamma Mia

 

I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

It only took me four decades, 11 moves, 5 states, 5 years of college, 1 husband, and 2 kids to do it. 

I want to be an Italian grandmother.

I know, I know. No need to state the obvious, since I am not Italian, nor I’m I married to one.  And genealogically speaking, on both sides, I’m as English as English comes; but I still can’t stomach stout filled pints, Prims, or pies with organ meat stuffed into to them.  I don’t like rain, trench coats, royal watching, fog, or those ridiculous fascinator’s English people wear to weddings. 

What I do love are figs, capers, rich cheeses, wine, sundresses and three hour lunches.  I like to move, not with great purpose to get somewhere, but with great curiosity to find the purpose in the commonplace.

            Sometimes, in the evenings, when I am taking a can opener to a 14 ounce of Hunt’s stewed tomatoes and snapping my Winn Dixie brand spaghetti in half so it’ll fit in the pot while listening to the sounds of doors slamming and pre-teen fighting, I can’t help but yearn for the salty taste of paper thin prosciutto, the heady smell of orange blossoms, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter.

            On occasion, I will spend an entire Sunday in the kitchen nurturing my fantasy.  I will simmer my sweated pearl onions in garlic and white wine sauce for an hour before I even toss them into my homemade tomato sauce that’s been slowly bubbling since dawn.  I will cut, with love and military precision, my own tagliolini made from dough of farm fresh eggs, organic flour, and the finest of virgin olive oil. It will not matter when I sit down with family and friends at our outdoor table draped in heirloom linens and lined with tea candles and carafes of Chianti when someone salts the food before they taste it.  I will not be deterred when someone proclaims they hate tomatoes and then asks for ketchup.  And even after one of my angels refuses sauce on top of her pasta then politely declines to eat it because it resembles snot, I will smile over my wine and think of lemon trees, wandering goats, sea salted breezes, and olive groves.

 

I will simply image a time and place where my children will bring their children and their friends and their children over every Sunday.  I will rise early, feed the chickens, pick the tomatoes off the vine, stir my eight hour Ragu and decant the red table wine from an earthen jug outside in the garden.  We will dine for hours under the shade of an old cypress tree on fresh cheeses, mussels, figs and berries.  There will be no iPads, Dsi’s or shouts for extra TV time; only kissed cheeks, salutes, and everyone calling me “Mamma.”  Because we will eat, we will drink, we will tell stories, and we will be grateful for all that we have; the simple pleasures and, of course, each other.

 

An old lady can dream, right? 

           

And it will not bother me aging and weathering in the salty air of the mediterrean sea like an aged grape- nope, not in the slightest, since we cannot all look like Sophia Loren- the deep wrinkles, the course gray hair, the unending aches and the pains of tending to a lifetime of lush gardens because I will have lived la dolce vita- the good life.

            Y’all may be wondering about now why and when I came to this epiphany after all these year?  Why I suddenly figured out what I wanted to be and how I would like to grow old.  Most people fantasize about writing a novel, climbing the world’s largest mountains, traveling to outer space or discovery something unknown and new and life altering- a cure for cancer, the fountain of youth.  But to aspire to become an Italian grandma?  Why in the world-and how, exactly- does someone hope to become that?

            It was simple, really, like any great meal; a few ingredients tended with love.  It just happened to occur one morning over a crock pot where I usually threw them all in and hoped for the best.  And what I got out of this magic post-war invention that saves time, money, and energy, was usually pretty darn good.  And I felt I sense of accomplishment; coming home, removing the lid, and dishing something out. 

But like life, easy isn’t always best.  Simplicity, yes.  But short cuts? No.  Because there is so much you miss in between. 

There is an old saying in Italy that goes something like this: A tavola non si invecchia.  At a table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

Italian grandmother or not, I wholly concur.

Buon Appetito! Let’s all take the time and enjoy the simple pleasures that come from enjoying the meal of life.

A Redneck Review

previously published in Coastal Illustrated on Oct. 31, 2012

 

Words of Wisdom from the Robertson Clan

            I’m tired; tired of fashion conscious vampires, relentless zombies, underage binge drinking Manhattanites, and Nancy Grace.

Pop-culture these days has left me scratching my head, covering my ears, and, for the first time in a decade, going to bed without turning on the TV after chewing on 4 ounces of dark chocolate with a pot of my peppermint tea.

             That was until I met the Robertson’s. For those of you who’ve had no introduction, I will attempt to fill you in. Phil, the Robertson patriarch, a former college quarterback from Monroe, Louisiana, left a coaching job to get back to the swamp and to his roots….making duck calls out of cedar trees and hunting birds in the bayou. With the help of his sons, Willie (CEO), Jase, and Jep, and his brother Si, Phil turned his passion into a thriving, multi-million dollar family business.

Enter the cable channel A&E, the title “Duck Dynasty”, two generations of rednecks, and a steady stream of no nonsense advice, and you’ll witness the deep South has it’s never quite been portrayed: stripped down and naked as a jay bird- no sappy caricatures or overly sugary accented diatribes…just an honest, beard wearin’, boot peddlin’, mud lovin’, squirrel eatin’, and fun stompin’ insider look at a serious money makin’ merry band of family centric country folk.

And I’ll admit it. Fried bullfrog licking, skinned squirrels, beaver pelts, fish gut pullin’, and dynamite explosions aside, oh what I’d do to be one of them.

Week after week for two seasons now, I have turned off, tuned in, and fell in love with this quirky family as they’ve given more priceless advice (served with a hefty side of knee slappin’ humor) than Oprah, the ladies from “The View”, Anderson Cooper, Mr. Clean and Martha combined.

And to think they never travel North of Shreveport.

So here are a few lessons I have learned from “Duck Dynasty”-TV’s most entertaining, lovable, scruffy, sweet tea drinking- from abnormally large Mason jar, I might add- clan:

First up, of course… since it’s the South, food:

As grumpy, ponytailed wearing, Tupperware tea cup toting, ‘Nam veteran, and Phil’s brother Si likes to say, “when the grub runs out. That’s when things get tough around the house.” And no one knows this more than Miss Kay, Phil’s wife, who believes way deep down beneath her apron covered bosoms that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But said man’s stomach has to be mighty tough since all sorts of chopped up, bone-in, and fresh killed critters will be going straight into it.

Not only does she believe squirrel brains make you smarter and that gator balls are even tastier when not in season, she swears that food can keep the young one’s mind off that dreaded hormonally induced idea of “only sex, sex, sex, sex.” She explains this to her 18 year old grandson’s girlfriend in the kitchen over a pot of freshly whisked roux….stirred with what appears to be a shovel straight from the garden.

“Nowadays it’s all about sex. That’s all that’s important. I’m about to bestow a little knowledge on these kids. There’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, special snack night, popcorn night, chip and dip night. That’s what you need to think about. It never hurts to have a good pan of cornbread around, either.”

No wonder her husband Phil always says it doesn’t matter if a woman “may be ugly but if she cooks squirrels and dumplin’s, that’s the women you go after.”

Trust me, I have written all of this down in order to scare the living daylights out of my children. Fear is a rational deterrent and as Phil told his grandson one day in the boat: “better a good day of fishin’ than a lifetime of crabs.”

But Miss Kay is not the only Robertson to know her way around the kitchen, or in Si’s case, around a hot pad on a camouflaged, airbrushed, Duck Commander RV.

“I am the MacGyver of cooking. If you bring me a piece of bread, cabbage and a coconut, mustard greens, pig feet, pinecones- hey, it’s good for the colon-and a woodpecker; I will make you a good chicken pot pie.” That’s great and all but after serving the boys his ‘Nam Surprise (pork & Beans, Spam, and hot sauce), even Si had to admit it “literally, back fired on me” if you know what he means. So after berating the guys about not knowing how to handle their beans and complaining about an intestinal horror show, Si ends up riding shot gun solo with a hermitically sealed helmet on an ATV behind the RV.

He’s also the one who claims to have never been in an auto accident.

“You’ve never even hit a deer,” asks his nephew, Jase.

“That ain’t a wreck. It’s food on the table, Jack.”

Next up in life lessons- how to love, work, and be somewhat civil with your family- because you can’t pick them off, one by one, from a duck blind, anyway…no matter how high you’re up in the sky with a free flowing Keurig and central heating and AC.

            My favorite “character” without a doubt is Phil’s son, Jase, the Duck Commander’s chief duck call expert and second-in-command to his brother Willie, a redneck who ”married a yuppie, lives in the suburbs” and is now scared of flying opossums, rigged-up racing lawn mowers, and manual labor.

            Jase, on the other hand, has never met a rodent he didn’t like. After hearing the “pitter, patter of little feet” at the Duck Commander Warehouse, he takes a hand saw to the ceiling.

            “That’s a U.V.,” he tells his co-workers, all motors running. “An Unidentified Varmint. Is this varmint domesticated? Is this varmint a nuisance? Is this varmint something I can eat for lunch?”

            But he is also the voice of steady reason:

“Having your brother as your boss is a lot like dating your cousin….a little weird.”

“I hate lawn mowers (as well as parallel parking and four-way stops.) Let’s get rid of them all. If you combine the time you waste cutting the grass with the time spent shaving your face, we’d have gotten to Venus….or we could be doin’…. whatever.’

Referring to his brother’s love of Ninja’s:  “Willie doesn’t have the body type to wear a leotard. When he takes off runnin’, he looks like two opossums fighting over a dead squirrel in a toe sack.”

“I’ve got a great filing system. It’s my retrieval system that sucks.”

And my absolute favorite: “When you don’t know what you are doing, it’s best to do it quickly.”

             Yes, words to live by my friends and when you are at a loss for words, never fret, here is a quick Robertson Glossary that may come somewhat close to saying exactly what you mean:

A Terrible Situation: “It’s like hide the puppies bad.”

Things are Looking Up: “Now we’re cooking with peanut oil.”

A Lazy Co-Worker: “He’s like a blister who shows up when the works all gone.”

A Good Time: “Funner than chunckin’ rocks at a sign.”

Too Fancy: “It’s got more sparkles than most Las Vegas showgirls.”

Fighting Words: “Ready to scratch some gravel with him.”

The God’s Honest Truth: “You never insult a man’s beard. You get thunder or lightening, either one.”

            I can’t help it, but I love the Robertson clan. They remind me, in Willie’s own words, that friends and family are like “having a great pit crew. They make you feel like you’ve won even though you lost…and they’re better than a trophy any day.” So, maybe what’s so delicious about this Louisiana Bayou family is they speak the truth straight from their camouflaged hunting vested hearts.

And yes, maybe we take the people we are closest with for granted, but in the end we always come back together…whether on a duck blind, over supper, or at a family yard sale with a bucket of gumbo and half a dozen mounted squirrels on a piece of scrap wood.

            As Phil reminds us, “we don’t need a world full of straight A students...I’m an ole C average man myself. Si, he’s probably a C minus.” But they are all A plus in my book on sound advice and common sense, not every Wednesday at 10 pm, but every single day of the week.

            Bite that bullet, y’all. See you at the beaver dam. Ka-pow.

 

Southern Summer Memories...on a Stick

                                 previously published April 25, 2012 for www.thesouthernc.com


"You're dripping," I tell my daughter, as I open the back door and shoo her outside to the porch.  I smile at the nostalgia of the words from my childhood, not necessarily the drops of sugared popsicle that now dot my hardwoods from the kitchen to the den and back again. 

Yes, summer is almost officially here, in all its bug biting, sweat sopping glory. Why do we get so excited about the three hottest months of the year when our hair tends to frizz, our clothes like to stick, and the mosquitoes love to nip at our skin? 

Maybe because summer simply reminds us of our youth; that special part of the year that couldn’t come fast enough, when time slowed down, little things mattered, and nothing was more fun than riding your bike up and down the street.

Not to mention, who doesn’t love lightening bugs in jars, bare feet, the slam of a screen door, and ice cold popsicles melting down your arm before you can finish them.

These are the days summer's made of.

So if you are trying to beat the heat this summer go ahead and make something that is sticky sweet and fun to eat.  You may never be ten again, but there will always be a reason and a season to act like it.

Lavender Lemonade Popsicles

Now, we all know a watched pot never boils, and neither does a watched pot filled with:

      A gallon of water
      A vanilla bean
      6-8 sprigs of lavender
      3 cups of sugar
      2 cups fresh lemon juice
      ½ cup orange juice

Bring all of these ingredients together in a pot and start the boil. Go ahead and do whatever you do while you’re hanging out in your kitchen, like reorganizing your junk drawer, rinsing and labeling your fruits and veggies, or standing in tree pose, like me, over the stove flipping through a People magazine.  Whatever you do though, don’t venture too far because as soon as it does boil, it won’t take long before “thy cup runneth over”, if you know what I mean.  Here is the part when you turn off the heat, let it cool on the stove to room temperature, and then take out the bean and strain the plant matter because no one really wants to wear that in their teeth.

Once your lemonade has cooled, it’s time to pour the mixture into a popsicle mold or if you don’t have one there is nothing wrong with going old school.  It actually makes them taste better.  Just pour the lemonade into a small paper or plastic cup, cover with aluminum foil, then stick a spoon or a popsicle stick down the middle and freeze for four hours or until hard.  You can always run a little warm water on the cups to loosen the popsicle so it pops right out.

Now, here is the very special part for the 21 and over crowd.  You can always use the mixture to make Lavender Lemonade Martinis.  Mix two parts lemonade and one part vodka over ice in a cocktail shaker.  Drain from ice into a sugar rimmed martini glass and enjoy! Cheers to summer! Hurry on up and get here!

***Join THE southern social network site and brainchild of Cheri Leavy and Whitney Long, by visiting www.thesouthernc.com and sign up to receive their weekly newsletter hightlighting all the things we love about the South.  You will find me there as a regular contributing writer so look out May 9th for a new piece connecting stories with food, called Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken.

A Graceful Plate

Previously published in Coastal Illustrated Dec.28, 2012

I’m full.

I don’t know about y’all, but I can’t eat another bite….well, unless it’s something chocolate.  The cocoa plant from the gods is simply, to me at least, something akin to a collapsible shoe organizer or a few of those stackable multi-sized Tupperware containers: a reason, if not a vessel, to hoard the things we love and can’t live without until a more appropriate time presents its self sometime in the future (you know, late at night).

With that said, it’s still quite the mystery why I can’t button my jeans, slip on my flats, or tighten my belt, because if you walked into my kitchen you’d think we were all starving to death. 

See, my pantry is full of high hopes, big ideas, and dashed dreams….a.k.a pretty much empty.

My refrigerator is a flaming (but yes, cooling) source of unattainable ambition; a Plexiglas cornucopia of wishful but fleeting aspiration.  A blue print for what could and might have been, but never was.  Or, on a lighter note just filled with strange and unidentifiable objects well into their prime and way past their expiration date.

And thanks to me (yes just me) that for all their thought and carefully consideration, most things that come home from the grocery store never meld into anything interesting, or for that matter edible.  Nope. Nada.  Zip.  Nothing worthy of a Bon Appetite cover, a neighborhood covered dish for that matter, or even a late night supper of scrambled eggs for two.

So if everything is still in there (my fridge that is) and sprouting “hair,” how can I possibly be full?

Aside from the microwaveable chocolate pieces found at your neighborhood grocery store that can be nuked in less than thirty seconds to a thick liquid and then dipped in anything non-perishable found around the house (i.e. broken Pringles, cracked candy canes, days old cherries, a half eaten Twinkie or Little Debbie cosmic brownie), I have just been eating everyone else’s food.

            Thank you Mike and Cindy for the gorgeous red velvet cheese cake, the one with the cream cheese frosting as thick as two abnormally large thumbs.  Much gratitude and kinship for Robert whose bottles of Silver Oak Cab (at almost nine years a grape and ninety nine calorie a glass) have kept me warm and toasty into the night.  Not to mention Gramma’s chocolate chip cookies made from scratch that were (in Gramma’s own words) “delish.”  I am telling you right now, you shouldn’t have…really…especially since you worship at the aisle of REAL butter and understand there is nothing more disappointing than biting into a cookie expecting all kinds of chocolaty chip, buttery goodness and getting a mouthful of raisins and a healthy dose of bran instead.  Well, played.

            I, on the other hand, learned from my own mother not only how to accessorize but how to read and enjoy a cookbook.

I will be the first to tell you how much I take pleasure in the prospect, the truth, of it all.  There is nothing more exciting than an evening in front of the fire place, in my yellow chair, reading a cook book as if Hemingway was watching the bulls in Pamplona: the matadors, the heat, the flesh, the wine at eight in the morning.  It’s almost the same thing. I read, feel, love, shop, buy, and take home my own interpretations of what I have read.  It’s just what I purchase never turns out the way it was intended. 

I like, Hemmingway, had grand plans for life using the most simplistic of measures.  Unlike Hemmingway, I never write anything down.  Or cook and eat it for that matter.

The red and green gelatin salad made to look like a Christmas tree that you’d find hanging out in my crisper, was actually a head of broccoli and bundle of asparagus that accidently got in the way of a spilled can of Chef Boy R Dee and ended up stuck there.

Next up is the chocolate cake in the back of the fridge that turned out not to be a cake at all.  Nope, just a pound of honey baked ham laying on top a slab of baby Swiss and a slice of bacon.  To make matters worse, the mayo jar looks like it will stay there ‘til the end of time, while for the life of me, I can’t ever find the ketchup.

I wish I understood all the intricacies of culinary creation: the thought and creative genius of time and place, taste and pleasure, then in turn, have the gumption to put it on a plate.

Maybe this past year, I might have had an empty pantry, outdated spices, and moldy cheeses, but as we start a year anew, let’s think like Hemmingway… seeing as he would advice no matter what we understand “courage is grace under pressure.”  Just as we should never take for granted all the possibilities life has thrown our way.

Paying bills, working, feeding our families, parenting, making a sense out of senseless and tragic things…..can be scary stuff.   But this year…yes… this year, let’s embody grace no matter what shows up on our plate.

            And be full.