October 29, 2019 – Pansies and pansy flower girl spoon

         I love fall in the South for one specific reason – Pansies.  As the prices go up, so doesn’t my enthusiasm – which should be just the opposite.  [Maybe because I’ve been reading Rand Paul’s recent bestseller: The case against socialism, which has reaffirmed what I learned in economics and history.]

         I am only a couple of chapters into it, but it discusses price controls in detail, among other things.

         But, I digress from the topic at hand: Pansies.

         This year I bought an entire flat of the same color – medium blue. I haven’t planted them out yet, as I seem to be busier than I was when I was working full time with stress-filled extended hours.  Who knew retirement was going to be so exhausting.

         But, the pansies will get planted in the next few days and then I will look after them until late spring when it breaks my heart that I usually have to yank them out while still in flower to make way for summer annuals. 

         We only had Johnny Jump ups – those type of diminutive perennial pansies that come back every year when I was a child.  I am only guessing, but I imagine hot-house grown pansies were too expensive for my parents to buy with three growing children.  So, I never really got an up-close and personal experience until later in life through gardening magazines and garden centers when I began gardening.

         Down here in the South is has always been a game to me to have “fresh” flowers from the garden on the table for Thanksgiving and/or Christmas.  Well pansies fit that bill for me as I also have a pansy ring vase I use for that particular purpose.

BUT:  Why do I have this unusual affinity for pansies? 

         As a young girl, my mother showed me one particular silver spoon that was given to her by her mother – that would be my grandmother, Madeline.  As a young girl, Madeline was a flower girl for a ritzy, upper class wedding and as a gift for being a flower girl – she was given a silver teaspoon, which has a pansy flower at the handle and half way down the stem.

         Today, after a bit of research on the internet I discovered it was manufactured by Manchester, MFG. Co, Providence, Rhode Island, which was in business from 1904 to 1914 then later Manchester Silver Company eventually sold in 1985 to J. C. Boardman Co. This spoon falls in the time frame for Manchester, MFG. Co.  I believe it is a demitasse spoon or a 5’oclock spoon.

         It is engraved, “August 4, 1909”.  Since my grandmother was born in 1902, she would have been seven years old flower girl.

         Picking out the flat of pansies the other day I thought about this family heirloom and decided I need to bring it out from safe keeping and actually use it – why not – who will want it in the future in my family.

         Now I understand  why my mother started her spoon collection and why on her 25^th anniversary she gave out favors of Jordan Almonds in a tulle circle tied around a demitasse spoon engraved with “Babs and Al ’46 to ’71.”  I remember her guests were “stunned” by such elegance when she handed out the favors.  Mom must have gotten the idea from Madeline’s “pansy” spoon.

         Last couple of days, I’ve been debating just using it as my sugar spoon in my sugar bowl.  That way I will be able to finger it and admire it day in and day out for years to come.

         I still wonder who got married that day – back on August 4, 1909.  I guess I will never find out – but what an elegant and expensive gift for a little seven-year old flower girl – no wonder Madeline cherished it as well as my Mom.

         And, like grandmother, mother, and now daughter – what can I have up my sleeve to continue in the tradition?  Yes, fingering that pansy spoon daily will give me food for thought for some future connection with demitasse spoons.

October 28, 2019 – Nature’s confetti

         Today was another beautiful day in a string of beautiful fall days here in the Carolinas.  We have been blessed with Carolina Blue skies, sunny yet cool days these last few days.

         Great day to go for a drive as the foliage is starting to give us its free fall show.  At the end of the street where I live, there are giant Tulip trees in half mud brown and half yellow leaves.  No wind, yet the leaves cascade down like ticker tape in the deep valley beneath them.  Made me pause and just watch them a moment or two before I pulled out onto Hudlow Road.

         The ride north on Hudlow Road and then again on HWY 64 north gives me a vista of the mountains that are starting to tinge with color.  Along the way to the convenience center [the southern quaint name for the county dumpsters], I witness more falling leaves raining down across the road and as I drive over them when I glance in the rear view window they are dancing in a swirl of wind I’ve created.  Sometimes it is well worth looking behind you as you drive forward.

         Fall never gets old for me, I never tire of it.  We never get the same color on the same tree every year – it all depends on the rain and weather.  I could sit and watch bright leaves fall off a tree for hours studying how they undulate to the ground or catch an updraft and swirl around a bit more. 

         It’s peaceful watching leaves and even more so when you can hear them touch ground or the cement sidewalk.  The sound of falling leaves to me is just as delightful me as the purr of a cat. I hope my hearing is the last of my senses to go.

         Today I also tried out my leaf vacuum/grinder.  It is our first and I picked it out and put it together.  Now that I have an official hardscape driveway [got about 30 more feet to finish on the paved driveway], I can now sweep them into a row and then come along and suck them up with the leaf grinder.  I can also blow them into a row – which I will try the next time. 

         I must say, that was productive fun and even more satisfying was taking the ground up leaf pouch to a segment in my garden, unzipping it and pouring the mulched leaves out on the ground.  How pretty – diced up yellow maple leaves – what a nice surprise.

         I cranked the 100-foot electrical cord on its new holder and mission accomplished – for today anyway.

         I can’t wait to see how the yellow gingko leaves will look when I suck those up and pour them out – something so “country” to look forward to.

        

October 26, 2019 – Cock-A-Doodle Pie – Recipe

         Below is one of the recipes that my brother asked me to copy out for him when I have time.  I had so much fun yesterday with the “English Apple Pie” looking up its history that I jumped right in on this recipe.

         This was a big hit at our house when we were kids.  A traditional Catholic household, we trooped off to church Sunday morning on an empty stomachs, came home to a quick breakfast and then Mom was in the kitchen making her “from-scratch” Sunday Dinner.  [Like all most woman in the 1950s through 1970s.]

         Often Dad would be in the kitchen helping [washing and cutting up the broccoli or some other vegetable] and after dinner, Dad would literally “kiss the cook” and go out into the yard and do some sort of garden chore – rake leaves, pick up downed limbs – whatever to get out of the way.

         When Mom needed a special casserole to go to a family gathering, this was it. When she invited back her adult kids for special occasions, this was what was served.  Us kids loved it, the in-laws – I am not so sure.

         This is a good way to get kids to eat broccoli.

         My research indicates it is a “Crisco’s Cock-a-Doodle Pie” from a magazine advertisement by Crisco. Could be as early as 1940, but I see it listed also as November 1952, Household Magazine with the exact ingredients in my Mom’s recipe.

         There are two parts to the Crisco advertising recipe – the crust part – of course made with Crisco shortening and the Cock-a-Doodle part. Mom’s copy does not have the piecrust part written out – she thinks everyone should know how to make a good piecrust.

         The only drawback on this old recipe is my Mom used Kraft’s grated American Cheese which was sold in a cardboard shaker container and Kraft no longer manufactures it.  So, locating dried powder grated American Cheese has been impossible for me – I find only grated Parmesan Cheese or the orange Cheddar Cheese powder. 

         What our Mom made did not have an orange color to it when I was a child – later when Kraft no longer made American Cheese, she had to opt for the orange colored Cheddar cheese – it just didn’t have the same flavor.

         I can never find the powdered stuff – so I buy a cheap box of macaroni and cheese and use the powdered cheese packet to make this dish and later find a use for the elbow macaroni.  But, at the price of 3 for a $1 on the boxed macaroni and cheese – it is an inexpensive workaround.  When it comes to the cheese part – you need to do a bit of playing around when you are making the sauce.

         Below is Mom’s recipe.

COCK-A-DOODLE PIE

Mrs. Alfred St. John, Berlin

Page 75

The Apron Cookbook

St. Joseph’s Church

Dated 1970

One 3 to 4 pound chicken

1 bunch broccoli

6 Tablespoon liquid shortening

½ cup flour

4 cups chicken stock or milk

2 tsp salt

½ tsp pepper

½ cup grated American cheese

Piecrust for top

         Cook chicken.  Remove meat from bones and cut into large chunks.  This yields about 2 cups meat.  Cook broccoli until tender.  For the sauce: In a wide saucepan, heat shortening and blend in flour.  Add chicken stock [or milk] and cook until thick.  Add 2 tsp salt and ½ tsp pepper and ½ cup grated American cheese. Stir well. 

         Place broccoli in the bottom of a 1 ½ quart casserole, add chicken and cover with the cooked sauce.  Cover all with a pie crust. [Added touch – vent the crust with a chicken shaped design.]

         Bake at 425 for 30-40 minutes [will bubble around the edges].  Serves 6.

This is old fashioned cooking – Mom used to parboil the chicken in water until done and reserve the liquid for the chicken stock.  Modern cooks may buy a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store and proceed from there with canned chicken broth; but, the flavor will be completely different due to the additives in the canned broth.  Mom’s sauce was subtle, not over powering.

 Cock-a-Doodle Do to you! 

October 25, 2019 – English Apple Pie - recipe

         When my brother was here visiting, he did the most extraordinary thing, he slipped two or three cookbooks out of my dining room library shelf and flipped through them knowing they were cookbooks from home, the ones Mom used to donate recipes to.  It didn’t take him long to find neighbor’s names, Mom’s name, both of our Grandmother’s names as well as my name.

         It was a memory-lane moment for him reading out the names and revisiting in his mind the taste of old recipes that filled our childhood. 

         He said, “When you’ve a chance, copy out . . . .”

         Now that they all reside in one place, I was surprised how many cookbooks my Mom had asked me for recipes to submit. Later when the cookbook was published, she’d send me a copy for my shelf. 

         So, when you ever ask a writer if she is published and she cooks – you might get, “Sure, if a recipe in a cookbook counts.”

         We went up to Hendersonville, North Carolina – apple country and stopped at one of those sheds with the huge wooden crates of apples out front.  I’m usually roped into having to buy a whole bag of one kind, but as I have grown older and more savvy in buying that day I asked the owner,

         “Can, I just pick out a few of each variety and fill a bag that way?”

         I was more than surprised when she answered,

          “Why of course,” and she snapped open a bag and handed it to me. 

         So, in less than 10 years, merchandizing has changed in apple country to cater to the customer instead of forcing the customer to buy a full bag of each variety.  I was like a little kid who picked two of this kind, two of that kind, two of another kind, until I filled my bag and paid for it with delight.

         The objective of the apple purchase was to make my favorite pie – English Apple Pie.  But, running out of time and energy, I didn’t happen to accomplish it while Ken was visiting. It is a recipe I found – has to be over 25 years ago in a magazine.  I researched it just now and it comes from Page 120 of the Woman’s Day magazine dated 2/5/1985 – Silver Spoon Award – and I believe the person who submitted it was Mrs. Fairy Hoellerich. 

         So, my memory of over 25 years is more like 34 years.  I can only say – Thank you Mrs. Fairy Hoellerich, it has brightened my beautiful fall days over many, many years.

         Why do I go out of my way to tell you the origin of the recipe?  Well, I made the recipe a few days ago and divided it between two casserole dishes with the intention of giving one away to a friend that doesn’t “bake” much. It is better for my household as I am on a diet and my husband is diabetic and can’t have but a taste.  I also gave my friend a copy of the recipe that I had submitted many times in several cookbooks and she asked,

         “Did you make this recipe, I mean create it?”

         That startled me and set me back a moment.  Is there some rule that you can’t put a favorite recipe in a cookbook that your church produces that you didn’t create, but that you use often and endorse it’s deliciousness.

         I was honest, “No, don’t you have recipes you cut out of magazines when you were first cooking that you’ve used for years?  I got this out of a magazine over 25 years ago.”

         So, that is my ethical question about recipes.  How long do they stay under some sort of copy write?  If one changes only one ingredient, is it now your creation?

         How would community or church cookbooks even begin to be the best fund raisers in the world if you couldn’t donate your favorite recipes that you have clipped out of magazines, or ancient cookbooks, or have been handed down through your family if that is true?

I will leave that answer up to you,

and without further ado as they say in the theater:

ENGLISH APPLE PIE

believe from Woman’s Day

Silver Spoon Award

2/5/1985

Submitted by

Mrs. Fairy Hoellerich

1/2 cup butter

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1 cup all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon - divided

3 tablespoons water

1/2 cup chopped pecans

4 large cooking apples, peeled and sliced – about 6 cups

1/2 cup granulated sugar

         In a medium sized bowl, beat butter and brown sugar until pale and fluffy. [I use an electric mixer.] Stir in flour, 1 tsp cinnamon and the water until smooth and thick.  Fold in the pecans.  Mound apples in a 9-inch pie plate.  Mix 1 tsp cinnamon into the granulated sugar and sprinkle over apples.  Spoon pecan topping over apples in dollops.  Bake on lowest rack in a preheated 375 degree oven for 45 to 50 minutes until apples are tender when pierced with a knife.  Serve in bowls.  Best when served warm.

 Enjoy 

October 24, 2019 – My Brother to the rescue

         I own a dishwasher, but with only two people in the house, I find it senseless to use on a daily basis.  Others in small households use their dishwashers when they get the washer filled up.  That seems just ICKY to me – dirty dishes sitting there waiting to be washed.

         I hadn’t used the dishwasher since I had a dinner party and I always have to fight to open the dishwasher detergent.

         As my brother Ken was here, he stepped in and opened it for me when he saw me fighting with it.  He took it, opened it for me.

         “You used to do this for all of Mom’s groceries after Dad passed away.” I mentioned.

         “Yeah,” was his answer, but Ken did the most extraordinary thing.  He took a knife out of my knife block and cut off the knobs on the cap and said,

         “You don’t have to worry about it again.”

         I tentatively tested it, cap on, cap off.  I was astonished. 

         “I didn’t know that!”  I was stunned at his brilliance.

         Now, why didn’t I or my husband know about this process – snipping off a few knobs to make a safety cap a non-safety cap?  We don’t have children in the house.  I should have known about this years ago – it was part of the reason I never used the dishwasher because I had to have my husband open the dish washer detergent.  [I am one of those people that hates to ask for assistance when it is something I should be able to do myself!]

         Today I went on line and discovered there are many tips for opening “child proof” caps of all sorts.  I won’t even have to use a knife on the next cap of the dishwashing detergent , I can use a nail clipper which will be safer for my fingers.

October 23, 2019 – I didn’t know that & Missing: not yet found

         My older brother, Ken, was here for two weeks on vacation.  Surprisingly we had good weather – except he left glorious foliage in New England and down here, we were at the muddy green, no leaf tips turned red or orange or even yellow yet foliage.

         We did short trips to see the local sights and one destination had been on my list for several years.  It was the closest and we checked that off the first day when I simply drove by to see what hours the FARM MUSEUM in Forest City, North Carolina would be open.  There was a car parked out front and the front door open so I decided we might as well stop and see it right now. We did.

         We both were raised in New England and have seen our share of antiques of all kinds before – some at Grampa’s farm in Littleton, Massachusetts, some at the Fruitland Museum in Harvard, Massachusetts, as kids on school field trips, and even more as family heirlooms passed down through the family.

         Just a week or two before I had noticed an old tobacco mopping piece of equipment hanging from the ceiling in a viable hardware store in Chesnee, South Carolina, and it piqued my curiosity. 

         “What is that?” I asked the gentleman store owner.

         “That’s to apply insect repellent on tobacco plants,” was his forthcoming answer.  Of course, I wanted more details and he was gracious in explaining how they used molasses to adhere the insecticide potion to the young plants.

         “How about that,” I said imagining the sticky mess process, a bit of history to savor and possibly share with someone in the future.

         So, when I saw another one in the FARM MUSEUM I knew what it was before I even read the sign and pointed it out to my brother. 

         We poked around looking at all the treasures; there are rooms and rooms of items at the FARM MUSEUM in Forest City, North Carolina, and we each pointed to the other what we’d seen before and tried our best to one-upmanship each other – I’d say it was a tie – no actually Ken knew all about the engines which I didn’t.

        

         We pointed to one old artifact then to another and nudged each other when we had one in our house as kids. Good example – a bottle capper – that we used making root beer – which I now have in the mudroom on a shelf and glance at it once in a while and remember that idyllic time as a kid.

         My biggest delight was seeing the murals and the actual bail of cotton in the room to the left.  It was bigger than I thought a bail of cotton would be.

         My brother pointed to some blue Shirley Temple glasses and I admitted,

         “Mom gave me hers years ago.”

         “I’d wondered where they were,” was his casual answer.  In my mind’s eye, I knew mine were in better condition. When we got back to my home, I went to pull them out of where they have resided for years – in the back corner of the china cabinet and – they were not there.  How unusual, they had been there for years.  I pondered that.

         Since Ken has left I have been searching for those Shirley Temple glasses and they are still “missing” somewhere in this house.

         Few days ago, I switched out my mantel piece to my collection of colored water filled maple leaf bottles of various sizes.  They are re-purposed maple leaf shaped maple syrup bottles that I have collected over the years.  Then I pulled out the two velvet stuffed pumpkin pillows that I bought probably 25 years ago from the Hallmark store.  But, when I went to pull out the 6 or 8 small wooden pumpkins that reside in one particular vase – they were not where they should be – something else “missing”.

         I’ve been on a hunt for my “missing” items now for about a week and I am still empty handed.  Maybe when I get out the Easter decorations I will find my Halloween pumpkins – who knows – the hunt is still on – I’ve a few more days – Oh, maybe I should look in the Christmas ornaments and see if I put them there when I switched from one season to another last year.  It’s a thought any way.

        

        

        

October 15, 2019 – Title of Essay: Pappy Van Winkle

This is a writing exercise: Think of a memory about a precious item. [This precious item is not my item, it is a dear friend's item.]

        Parking in the drive, the house is exactly as I remember it.   It has nice street appeal, good location, ample parking, and quality landscaping. Having never seen inside, I can easily wait another half hour for my private tour.

        An executive’s home, now empty, and devised to the favored son.   Over the years when I was rarely on this end of the county, I’d drop my speed and give the house a long, critical glance as I took the wide curve.  It hasn’t changed much; it always looked splendid.

        Soon, I’d get to see the inside.  Over time, I’d mentally guessed of its interior.  Probably upscale traditional.  But, then the widow moved out last week taking all the furniture and probably the elegant drapes with her as well.  Would I be left viewing an empty shell?  No, even empty I’d still get a sense of the richness from possible crown ceiling moldings, elegant fireplace mantel, built in bookcases, hardwood floors, or maybe rich wood paneling in a study.  Or, it might be a plain shell of standard walls due to restrained building costs early in the executive’s career yet over the years had been filled with ultra-fine furnishings which are now elsewhere. Well, I will find out.

        On second thought, I can’t imagine it not having walk in closets, double vanities, rich tiled baths.  The kitchen has to have the top of the line appliances, rich custom made cherry cabinets, with granite counter-tops or I will be disappointed.

        What was that phrase from a movie that made me smile the other day?

        “What do you want?” One actress asked another in a scene from an old black and white movie.

        “I want fresh flowers daily on the foyer table, matching vases on the mantel piece, and bookends,” the spoiled socialite answered.

        I had mentally smiled at “bookends”.  Bookends, a possession that you usually don’t acquire until you have quality books to display or you have a quality room to decorate.  I remember my first set of bookends. They sure have braced lots of books and are now chipped and worn, but I still cherish them.

        Bookends – yes, sometimes people allude to two sons as “bookends” holding up the father.  In this instance, from what I have ascertained over the years – not two holding up father, but a father stepping aside and sending them out into the world to do for themselves is more like it.  But, then again, later in life was this one of those instances, two sons, standing close to his side or was it only one? Often it is stylish using only one bookend supporting a row of books on a shelf and leaving space for a decorative vase or objet d’art. Was that this son’s relationship?  I am overthinking the bookend allegory in this situation.

        I tell myself to empty my mind of random thoughts. This is not the time to question what is in the past – not too distant past.  I imagine there is still angst about his Dad’s passing and other family issues he’d rather not discuss or remember.  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, seeing it empty – it might be the first time he has seen it empty – the widow only moved days ago.  I might not have the words he needs to hear, if he needs my words at all.

        I see the flash of the white BMW in my rearview mirror.  He parks, I get out to greet him.

        Just a simple hug by a tall man, but I’ve always admired the height and stature of this man.  He is subdued.

        “So this is it,”  he softly smiles with satisfaction at his sweeping glance, taking in the house and landscape.

        We walk silently to the back door. The key works smoothly in the quality lock and the door swings open.

        No need for lights – the mid-morning autumn sun is streaming in casting beautiful shadows of the long casement windows on the hardwood floor.

        Our footsteps echo in the silent house.

        Wandering room to room to room, he occasionally opens a cabinet or closet door and silently closes same.

        Near the fireplace next to the hearth stands a broken open wooden packing crate, with excelsior spilling out onto the floor.  On top of the crate are two elegant crystal whiskey glasses.  Nestled in the crate is an elegant bottle.

        He laughs that half-caught laugh in his throat.  Not everyone recognizes that laugh – it is a laugh of self-satisfaction of “I knew it” or “got-cha” when executing a verbal touché

        There is a card slipped into the case. I reach down and pull it from the excelsior. His name scrawled on it in manly penmanship.  I try to hand it to him.

        “No, I am sure it is from Dad, I was adamant that he had a bottle of this in the house and, she said it wasn’t here.”

        I again hold it out to him while he is reaching down to pick up the bottle.

        “Pappy Van Winkle - 12 years old,” he announces as he inspects the bottle adding, “already opened, a drink or two gone,” he says as he holds it up to the light. "Want some – I doubt there is any ice – straight up okay with you?” 

He is not waiting for an answer.  He pours two-finger level in each glass and hands one to me.

        We silently salute each other – or are we saluting his Dad - or are we saluting the house?