Clarity: The View Through My Window

Most of us, if we’re honest, spend a good amount of our precious time searching for a certain level of clearness, or transparency, in the way we hope to one day see the world.  Life, relationships, our tight-roped walked dreams and holding-our-breath hopes rarely emerge crystallized in our heads after a few downward facing dogs or a twelve hour sleep.

   Let’s face it.  More times than not, we only get a glimpse of the “now”, through a murky, muddled mess.  A smoggy, polluted haze of the wish I could of’s and all of the should’ve been's.

   It’s not like the simple easy first few steps of childhood, the wide-eyed innocence of infancy; a small stride, a crooked grin.  For me, my clarity came in the early movements of my youth; a twirl, an extended arm, a warm palm, my own ballet shoes dancing a top my father’s slippered feet. 

   It’s easy to forget sometimes how wonderful it is to be loved like that. No strings, or what ifs, or what could have been.

   My bay window in my study where I write looks out across the porch. I love it; this shell tabby material thing that belongs to just me.  Maybe because it protrudes from the house on its own, with nothing under it, weightless but sound in structure and intent.  Or maybe it’s because I can see my kitchen and breakfast room table on the other side through another bay window... this one, though, firmly planted on a concrete slab and surrounded by shiny teak.

   But see, it doesn’t matter.  Rain, sun, fog, tears; I can always voyeur into part of my life from the past that belongs in my daughters present now.

   I watch my husband make my daughters laugh…hard….their heads thrown back while their bellies shake.  I see them deep in concentration over a math equation, a bad day, or maybe just trying to decide what snack to eat.

   I smile as I see his hand extend, and they dance without music, chest on cheek… and I can’t help but think…..

  How wonderful it is to be loved like that.

  Happy Father’s Day.

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.

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!

Critters and Kids

Previously published on thesouthernc.com- August 8,2012

               “You’re a sweetheart to the max. I love you like Crispy Critters.”- Wesley Willis

    People like to say down here in the South that if you can fry it, well…. you can surely eat it. I don’t know about that seeing as it was my brother who inherited my PaPa’s .22, his deep fryer, and a shared affinity for wild, domestic, and backyard game. See, in tribute to the gentility of the stoic Peach state and, of course, concern for the fairer sex, I got the oak china cabinet and the crystal. Trust me, social stereotypes aside, I’m not complaining.

    But what I did become heir to was an appreciation of what you hunt, you eat. What manages to get away, well….that’s where all the good stories come from.

    Rabbit stew, venison jerky and 1950’s cordial glasses aside, it seems this has all fallen on deaf ears, or more correctly, on the freckled, tiny earring pierced ones of my eleven year old daughter with her two index fingers firmly shoved in deep.

   We’ve talked food chain, overpopulation, protein, and malnutrition. It doesn’t matter. There isn’t a caterpillar too fuzzy, a pig too fat, nor a bee too busy. Every creature-big or small- she encounters is not only worthy of life, but of a more prosperous one at that. She will not stop until the “meek” have inherited the earth, or at least her room, our porch, and every Tupperware container out of the kitchen.

   And that’s what I love about her the most.

   We’ve rescued lady bugs, turtles, frogs, dogs. We’ve resuscitated stunned birds, hermit crabs, sand dollars, cats, and a trio of three legged lizards.

    We’ve formed triages on the trampoline, emergency medivacs from kite string, and recovery rooms out of coolers equipped with the finest bottles of water straight from the freshest of springs.

   This summer was no exception up on Lake Winnipesaukee.

   “Baby, no, no, no. Don’t cry,” says my friend Nick to my daughter as she spots something suffering, then bends over to pick up a crumpled dragonfly off the swim dock they have just hoisted themselves onto. “Whatever you do darlin’, just don’t name him.”

   He knows her too well.

  “But his name is Chocolate,” she wails.

   I watch Nick shrug his shoulders across the water. It’s done.

   The next hour is a frantic blur of E.R. reality TV proportions as we hunt for iPhones for research purposes, fill empty beer bottles with fresh lake water, huddle in and around an empty chicken salad container that contains a working IV, a twisted up insect and half a dozen fresh picked wild blueberries...oh yeah, and prepare for the worst.

   It doesn’t take long.

   “For the LOVE of God,” Gramma yells over her knitting and Michael Phelps going for gold on the TV. “Someone pronounce the thing dead already.”

   The fact that my daughter has used her iPad as a sound machine near Chocolate’s ICU bed and is simulating noises from the woodland forest probably doesn’t help matters…or her grandmother’s sanity….or mine for that matter, either. But yet, she still isn’t ready to give up.

   “Shouldn’t someone tell her it’s dead,” whispers her Aunt Alicia, as we all peer into the plastic abyss of uneaten blueberries and lost hope. “It’s the humane thing to do.”

   But I can’t.

   “It can wait until the morning.”

   It was a restless night. Especially, I am sure, for Livi, who kept vigil over both of her two broken things: her dragonfly and her heart.

   The summer sun rises especially early in New England (around 4:30) and with it all sorts of critters: loons, ducks, insects, small children.

   I tip-toed downstairs.

   “Mom, guess what,” Livi pops up from the sofa. “Come look!”

   Sure enough, Chocolate was perched on top of a curling piece of birch bark, bright eyed and bushy tailed, flapping his once crumpled and mangled wings in a quick and steady rhythm like a heartbeat.

   “Come on, Mom.” She reaches for my hand. “Let’s go outside and let him go.”

   People who can feel someone else’s pain and tragedy and importance on this planet-I mean really feel it, not just pontificate on empty words and failed promises- are the ones who have the strength and endurance to stand by and to help. Of this, I am sure. And of this, I am hopeful.

   I think of my PaPa often. I picture him with his rifle, hunting squirrels and tending to his garden. I am grateful for the ultimate intangible gift he has given me: life and the continuation of it.

   No matter how great or how small.

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.