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There’s a lot of talk about mankind and all of his failures, but why do so many things in our world work?

If people haven’t asked themselves these questions, they should: Why, when nature blows, the power out for three days, we cant live without our TV, microwaves, computer, we don’t consider what real horror is—living in the Middle Ages without hair conditioner.

We get angry at traffic jams and long lines at the grocery store.  However, would we really rather be trying to find a nut and berry out in the bog?

Never in the history of the world, has mankind ever stopped and patted himself on the back and said, “Good job. You never gave up.”

Answer me this.  Isn’t it time we started to have pride and shouldn’t we be proud of our neighbors like Bev and Elias Meiki?

Elias is from Lebanon, where Kahill   Gibran, the author of “The Prophet” was born (another amazing human) Elias has been in America for 13 years and is doing what humans do best—trying.

Bon d’ Elle is a line of gourmet foods that the couple has owned and operated since 1987. After many years of hard work, they were able to design and build a commercial kitchen in their home.

The kitchen is stocked like a miniature Middle Eastern Costco, with pounds of peeled garlic, small towers of sea salt, cases of frozen lemon juice and bags of garbanzo beans.

Elias and his family are taking a gamble that the food that he ate 10,714 miles away in his hometown will find its way on to our dinner table and that we will relish it a much as he did when he was a boy.

His mom would serve the roasted richness of Baba Gannoj and the exquisite tang of Tahini sauce mixed with molasses and used as a dip with pita bread.

“Were these the traditional foods your mother cooked for you when you were little?” I asked Elias as we all seated ourselves in the comfortable living room of their home.

“The same food that made me homesick.  I was 32 years old when I came to America.  I was very lonely and very hungry for my home food, so I learned to cook myself,” he explained, as he brushed his dark hair from his forehead.  “Our table at home was always laden with lost of vegetables, cheese, beans, and beer.”

“Little boys drink beer?” I questioned mischievously. Elias looked at Bev she was standing at the large picture window watching their two small children playing in the front yard. Pointing to his wife, Elias asked Bev if she would get the Arak.

‘In Lebanon,” continued Elias, ‘There are no age restrictions and children never abuse alcohol.”

Bev returned with a bottle with a lot of Arabic writing on the label. “You must try our national drink, Arak, it is 100 proof!” Elias chuckled.

I asked if it had been a dream to come to America and open his business.  Elias grinned and smiled at Beverly. “I had no plan to fall in love with an American citizen.” He smiled.

He took a deep breath, his voice touched with an accent and spoke softly and very slowly. “I lived in Lebanon for 30 years and two years in France when I followed my younger brother to here.  Bev and I met at the print shop where we both worked.  I would bring my dinner, and all the other employees always teased me about the unique and different foods I brought to work. But Bev found them very interesting an soon I brought a little extra to share.”

Bev shared that during their courtship she often helped Elias figure out the right spices to use in his dishes. Translating English by the smell and touch of the spice.

After marriage and children, they started contemplating a business out of their home. “We believe in a close family,” Elias said confidently as he led the way downstairs toward their commercial kitchen.

“This is where we make our Bon d’Elie frozen food products,” Elias said, ushering me toward an enormous wok (big enough to sit in).

“Our most popular product is our Garlic Sesame Tahini sauce which has many uses.”

“Here is a taste,” Bev said, as she came over with a spoon.

“Garlicky,’ I smiled.

Just before I left, Elias looked around at his clean, bright, fresh smelling kitchen.  He saw the refrigerator and brought out their newest product, Falafel, which is not a dip but can be shaped like a pattie, fried or baked in a muffin pan.  It is rolled on top of pita bread like a sandwich, with or without tomatoes and lettuce.

“For you,” Elias said, as he generously offered me samples of all his product line.

As my car pulled out of the driveway, I thought how thankful I was that someone rolled up their sleeves and invented the freezer and all the other goodies of modern life that our ancestors had made a stab out of trying something else one day instead of the same old nut and berry.

If you are a lover of garlic, you will most certainly enjoy Lebanese food.  Here is a dish Bev serves her family often.  Eaten hot or cold it is called;

LUBIA

12-16 oz Frozen green beans

20 oz can chopped tomatoes plus three large ripe, peeled and sliced tomatoes

1 whole head of garlic with each clove peeled

1 large onion

1 tablespoon olive oil

½ tablespoon tomato paste

One cup water

Chop onion and brown in olive oil until clear. Add all of the garlic – brown together.  Add frozen green beans.  Stir until soft and done.  Add tomatoes.  Salt to taste. Cook 10 minutes.  Add tomato paste and water.  Let simmer on medium.  Add more paste or water as needed.

It’s a pleasant, wet and rainy day, and I am standing in a semicircle of approximately 133 “you cut ’em” Christmas trees.

My husband is running with a saw blade in his left hand, a blue tarp in his right hand, and a translucent look in his eyes.  Evidently, he has spotted yet another tree that might meet his specific conditions.

My 7-year old daughter is lying on the ground at my feet, moaning deliriously that she is “tree sick.”  Her tiny limp body is lying quietly as she explains that after rows and rows of trees she can no longer muster the energy to walk another step.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to ‘cut’em” I don’t waste a lot of time. I stride briskly to the most attractive tree standing and shout, “Here!”

Your professional Christmas tree cutter (husband), on the other hand, does not even think about cutting until he has conducted a complete tree study of the site. Circling the selected tree warily, as though it were an alien space-ship; checking it out from every possible angle; squatting and squinting; finger in the air checking the wind, feeling the needles, analyzing the distance from the road to the truck, back to the tree.

And so, amid an atmosphere of unbearable tension, comparable to not being able to find your car keys when you are already late to that very important meeting, my daughter and I wait, and wait, and wait.

By now our daughter is trying to make snow angels in the mud, and I am unbelievably letting her.  I see other families in the tree farm.  They’re staring intently at trees way off in the distance, but I think they’re staring at us.  We have been here so long.

I think about grabbing my daughter’s hand and pulling her up to her feet and taking her down the hill for our third cup of hot cider and her second candy cane, but too late, she has been entertaining the crowds by holding her breath as she runs up and down the tree rows.

The more time that passed with virtually nothing happening, the more excited I got about that cider.  I started down the hill when suddenly I heard a loud, long, whopping yelp that I recognized as my husband.

I turned to see him stand up, wipe tree pitch off his hands, and in a voice that would have made a gold digger stop, announced, “This …is the tree.”

There it stood in all of its glory-all 14 feet of it.

“That’s too big,” I said.

“Not so,” he said. “I will trim off the bottom.  You’ll see.”

“Don’t you remember last year?” I asked.  “It was too big; you did not trim enough.”

“Did so.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“Did not.”

“Did.”

“Not!”

Like anything else, success depends on the proper tools, so in the back of our truck is an assortment of many saws, blue tarps, gloves, rope and any necessity to fall Paul Bunyan’s tree.

“Quick, run back to the truck and pick out the yellowed handled two blade milliliter saw.  Oh, and by the way, grab me a cider,” he says with a big smile.

Rolling my eyes back in my head and shrugging my shoulders, I approached the tree surgeon punched him in the arm where he pretended to be knocked into the fir tree, and I headed to the car trying to consider the many, many complex factors involved in the “you cut ’em tree man.

This is, after all, a once a year experience.  And this tree-prepare to experience a heart tremor- was home cut.  How were we going to get it in the truck, let alone through the front door?  At least when I finally do get home, I can make a nice hot cup of:

HOT SPICY APPLE CIDER

Six cups apple cider, one cinnamon stick, 1/4 cup honey, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, three tablespoons lemon juice, one teaspoon lemon rind, one can (2-1/2 cups) unsweetened pineapple juice.

Heat cider and cinnamon stick in a large pan.  Bring to a boil and simmer covered for 5 minutes.  Add remaining ingredients and simmer uncovered 5 minutes longer.

SIMPLY DELICIOUS EGGNOG

One egg, two tablespoons sugar, 1 cup chilled milk, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla.  Beat egg and sugar together.  Beat in milk and vanilla.  Serve cold in a tall glass sprinkled lightly with nutmeg.  Serve immediately

Note:  This column published in Sandra Haldeman Martz of Papier-Mache Press,  anthology “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays”. A book signing and reading held at two Barnes & Noble bookstores.

Do you remember your last family meeting?  You all exchanged sheepish glances, a chair scraped the floor, a relative started to get up, then sat down, and finally, you stood up.

You had been busy keeping your child’s fingers out of Uncle Bud’s toupee and missed the part about the first person to stand up would be cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year.

Not to panic you but when was the last time you made gravy?  You say you can not remember?  Unless you grew up in Erma Bombeck’s family where gravy was considered a beverage you may have only made it twice in a whole year.

No other holiday feast celebrates the importance of good gravy and not to put a large guilt complex on you but pay attention here; we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.

Lumpy, bumpy, pale, or runny gravy does not have to be!  Give yourself a little time and try this quick practice recipe.  Take one tablespoon butter, one tablespoon flour, and one cup chicken broth.  Heat the butter in a skillet when melted, slowly sprinkle the flour on top and stir with a wire whisk briskly until the flour and butter are well blended.  Stir in vigorously your cup of broth and cook on medium heat.

Now don’t run off and do a load of laundry.  It’s when you turn your back that the lumps emerge.  It honestly doesn’t take much time, just a lot of patience.  You need to stand by your gravy and stir it—constantly.

Now, if you have kept stirring you should have smooth and thickened consistency—and really it took you the length of one song on the radio.  And without even knowing it, you have also learned the basic rules for creating any brown sauce and the versatile cream sauce: white sauce.

Butter, flour, and milk create a white sauce nothing short of miraculous for there is no end to its variations and uses.  One tablespoon of flour for one cup of liquid gives a thin white sauce.  Three tablespoons of flour for one cup of liquid will provide a very thick white sauce.  Remember that the sauce thickens immediately after the flour is added, with patient stirring, of course.

Now don’t be flatten by Aunt Em’s pesky eyes over your shoulder on Thanksgiving, make our gravy the night before!  It will be our secret but believe me; you don’t have to wait for the drippings in the pan to have rich dark brown gravy.

The 1950’s moms knew that before there was Kitchen Bouquet the only way to get that nice rich brown color in gravy was to cook the flour thoroughly with the fat.

After taking the cooked turkey out of its roasting pan, all the juices from the pan are poured into a cup so that the fat would rise.  The roasting pan is set on the stove over low heat, and about four tablespoons of fat are added, stirred and cooked while the brown bits left in the pan are loosened.

The ¼ teaspoon of sugar added (to help with the flavor and browning) cooked and stirred until brown.  One quarter cup flour was added to the fat and slowly stirred until a rich, dark brown.  The heat increased until the gravy was at the boiling point, still stirring.  Then the heat is lowered, and the gravy left to simmer 5 minutes.  Seasoned with salt and pepper.

Unfortunately, today we are all too aware of fat.  Are you afraid of gravy because of the fat?  Believe me; you can still make a great gravy with some or none of the fat.

Next time you roast a chicken, take ½ cup chicken bouillon and ¼ cup water mixed.  Spoon this over your chicken every 15 minutes during the cooking.  After taking the cooked chicken out of the roaster, add the juice of one lemon to the drippings in the pan.  Scrape and stir then season to taste.  Easy gravy.

For a clear gravy, perfect over a frittata, use either chicken or beef bouillon and thicken it not with flour but with one tablespoon cornstarch.

To make gravy for stews just mix measured flour and cold water.  I prefer to use cold milk or even cream to make a smooth paste.  Pour this mixture into your stew, cook until thick.

EASY LOW-FAT GRAVY

4 cups chicken broth

½ cup dry white wine

¼ cup water

1/3 cup cornstarch

½ teaspoon pepper

In a saucepan, mix cornstarch with ¼ cup water until smooth; add broth, wine, and pepper.  Stir over high heat until boiling, keep stirring about five minutes.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.  For a roast use beef broth and red wine.

Be creative with your gravies, don’t just season with salt and pepper.  Try adding thyme, marjoram, lemon juice, red wine or even a trace of instant coffee.  It will make any meal special.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

To me, now and forever, I promise to be socially responsible and have enough self-respect that I will not ever lie in a comatose state for five days due to uncontrolled candy eating from the Trick or Treat bag.

There are no records to prove it, mind you. However, I have every reason to believe that the days after Halloween not only get darker and shorter; but the mixed consumption of Snickers, Mars, and Milkyway (all consumed at the same time by millions of people on the same night) put added weight on the earth’s axle spinning everyone on the planet with optimal velocity into. . . The Holidays.

Soon our days will be spent with good food and good conversations. Our appetites titillated with enormous feasts.  As a host, we need more than anything to be able to relax and enjoy these special moments. Difficult after having raised our blood pressure to new heights due to being tricked into eating Halloween candy! It is close to November, and we are recovering so we need to restore our enthusiasm for the plunge into holiday eating.

But stop right there, because the fact is, like a lot of us, I need to regain my composure and adding there are ONLY 68 DAYS ‘TIL CHRISTMAS. We have got to paint the living room, sew drapes, hook a carpet, make matching outfits and bake!  We cannot cook last years’ appetizer again for this year’s party. Help!

Feeling flushed and breathless I found myself searching for recipes and found them last Saturday at the Great American Cookbook show held at Woodinville’s Columbia Winery.   Led through the front door of the winery I could feel myself begin to relax as I entered a room with two huge, beautiful chandeliers, chamber music playing softly and a roaring fire in the fireplace.

French patio doors opened into the gift shop, and Northwest authors cookbooks arranged attractively on roundtables throughout the room.
Many local books were on display, from Jeff Smith’s The Frugal Gourmet Celebrates Christmas to Junior League of Seattle to Pike Place Market Cookbook, by Braiden Rex-Johnson.

Sampling Gratin of Apricots with Rum ( a French dessert) I spoke with Steve Taylor who was autographing his book, Dining Ethnic Around Puget Sound.

“A Whitman sample of 125 restaurants and 235 recipes,” Taylor said. Showing me his book, he explained that a portion of the proceeds from the sale of the book goes to Northwest Harvest, a leading hunger response program in Washington state. “A book about fine dining to benefit those that don’t have enough to eat.’’

He and his wife, Mary, spent many hours researching opinions of others and reading restaurant reviews to find the best restaurant. They then mailed letters to restaurants expecting a flood of return mail, only a trickle returned. English is a second language to many ethnic restaurants and translating some of the letters and also downsizing complicated recipes was a real challenge.

A mix of Jewish, Creole, Indian, French and Vietnamese recipes, to name a few, and a fabulous glossary of ethnic ingredients, I highly recommend for entertaining guests with unique dishes over the holidays.

How were 1,000 books selected? ‘It started with a list of 2,400 books from Pacific Pipeline distributor,” said Peggy Rawson, Culinary Director for Columbia Winery.   Rawson started at Columbia when it was called Associated Vintners, which is still the name of the parent company, which just recently purchased Paul Thomas Winery.

In a short amount of time, she was expecting 260 people from the Spirit of Washington dinner train to disembark and attend the cookbook show. With her bubbly enthusiasm and still very pronounced English accent she sets a mood of excitement that runs throughout the winery.  When asked what her official title designation was, she asked if I had brought a lot of paper. Her work week is sometimes 80 hours. She has an extensive background in catering having owned and operated Penny Farthing Catering for many years where her food and wine pairing had quite a reputation.

She even created the recipes for the neck hangers you find on Columbia wine, which can be quite a challenge when she only has three inches of space, she has to find a recipe that has 10 or fewer ingredients.  Head of procurement several times for KTCS pledges, her passion for enjoying good causes an interesting people gives Penny the spirit to walk up to celebrities like Graham Kerr, introduce herself and end up maintain a lasting friendship. She has even found time to have a restaurant review column that runs in the Journal-American every Friday.

Her reviews have an incredible following, and sometimes the restaurants are not prepared for the double in business when she gives a five-star review. Always thinking of the public first, she tries to give an honest view of the food, and with her background in wine and food, she is a natural reviewer.

Few things are as pleasant as a recipe that can be an appetizer for your first-holiday party or even turn into the main course. Enjoy serving one of Penny’s recipes for your first-holiday party and relax.

PENNY RAWSON’S BAKED SHRIMP
An appetizer serves 12-15. Will feed 6-8 if served as a main course.

¼ cup oil
¼ cup Columbia Chardonnay
¼ cup finely chopped parsley
Three large garlic cloves, minced
One teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
One teaspoon dried tarragon
½-one teaspoon Tabasco
2 lbs uncooked large shrimp (24-36 count)
¼ cup toasted breadcrumbs
¼ cup grated parmesan

Preheat oven to 400F. Combine first seven ingredients in a two-quart baking dish. Add shrimp and mix well. Sprinkle toasted bread crumbs and grated parmesan over shrimp. Bake 10-15 minutes, then serve immediately on toothpicks as appetizers or over pasta for a substantial lunch or supper dish.

There is something funny going on around here.  When I realized the extra noise in the house was my lonely footsteps echoing hollowly on the bare floor, I recognized that I wasn’t quite ready for the silence that the first day of school brings.

Since the day has started, I have thrown myself at any brainless endeavor just to keep myself busy with an attack of monotony.  This way when I am stacking the plastic bowl lids in a standing position and watching them slide down on the shelf or scraping the harden toothpaste off the faucet handle; I can do the one thing I don’t want to do…think.

Quite frankly, this is where the real trouble starts, with the quiet, comes all the thoughts racing through your mind.

You spend years protecting and providing from the minute of birth to keep the adversary of life away from your children.

Taking the gum, they found in a mall ashtray out of their mouth, breaking your nails to open child-proof doors and medicines, living without onions in any meal for a decade; only to throw them on a bus full of strangers with instruction to eat the lunch you made them.  It is then you realize the beginning of leaving the nest has started.

Will, her teacher, appreciate her uniqueness and be kind and gentle?  Will, she really eat anything you packed in her lunch?  Who are all these people she will spend seven hours a day with?

Questions that will never really be answered because if you ask your children, “What did you do today?”  You will receive a, “I dunno.”

Suddenly, they have a life away from you, full of moments that you can’t see or hear or be a part of.  It is one of those awkward, embarrassing moments like when you discovered you had lipstick on your teeth all day and realize how many people you affected by this and there is nothing you can do about it now.

You try to take small comfort in knowing they will soon be home again and you can hug them tight and stop brooding because they are back in your nest.

I always wish on the first day of school that I had been another type of woman, that I had walked another path.  You know what I mean.  If I had only had spunk, I wouldn’t have to be feeling the pain of motherhood.

Because if you were alone and no one cared you could have the tenacity and live only for adventure. I wish that I had more spunk and had more courage because today I would have been standing in the bush of Africa wearing a pith helmet.

I would whistle through my knuckles, and all the lions would come to me so that I could pet them and ride one around and never give a second thought about going to the dentist.

I wish that I had run off to Pairs and never finished school because I had a skinny nose and no hips and the world was waiting for me.

But, instead I’m in Bothell, and when I have the flu and look like bath water my family still loves me and worrying about each other has become my biggest and sweetest adventure.

The first day of school, who needs a treat more than Mom?  You might even want to share with your student.  Or maybe not!

SCHOOL SNACK FOR MOM

4 egg yolks

2 cups milk

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

In a small bowl beat together the egg yolk, sugar and salt.  In a saucepan slowly heat milk to almost boiling and then add slowly the egg yolk mixture. Cook the custard, stirring constantly until the sauce thickens and forms a thin coating on a metal spoon.  Stir in the vanilla.  Pour at once into a cool bowl and stir for a minute. Pour into your favorite dessert cups and chill thoroughly.

“You promised when summer was here!”

“Look outside.” I pointed to the window as I glared at my child, “You call that summer…it’s raining!”

My child’s bottom lip quivered and her head hung on her chest.

What modern-day mother has never been intimidated when she realizes she is trapped; trapped by the promises of, “Yes, you can have a pet–BUT, not till summer comes.”

Summer’s here.

Wearing a grin and holding a large sandwich bag with a zip lock top my 3-year-old proudly brought home her first pet.  Not just one, but two goldfish, gleamed at me through the plastic.

“I promise to feed them and love them every single day,” exclaimed my child. Somehow I knew it would be a long, hot summer.  We plopped Salt and Pepper (the fish, not the spice) into their brand new fish bowl.

How can something the size of my thumb make so much trouble?  By morning they were swimming gaily in fresh clear water.  By afternoon they were in LA smog.  Every other day they had to have a major overhaul. My daughter’s eagerness to feed them left them, well…dead.

Every day during the entire third grade, every note to Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and birthday wish list, all said one thing, “P-L-E-A-S-E when summer comes may I have a hamster?”

I am as crazy about animals as the next guy, but face it, you really know when a child is serious on a request because they become relentless.  They keep their room neat, don’t slouch, stop snapping their gum and send you “Love You” notes.

That summer we picked up the hamster for $1.50 and his bedroom set for $69.95.  We let it run up and down our arms.  In our sleeve and up and down our pant legs for about a week.  He was cute.  All furry with a twitchy nose.  He had to have clean shavings and water.  A little more complicated than the goldfish.  But then our daughter was now older and more responsible. Right?

The darn thing about the hamster though was that it had this annoying habit of sleeping all day, as as soon as the lights were out, he would hop into the drivers seat of his exercise wheel and like an army marching through potato chips, go around and around all night long.

Then one night it happened.  I was alone in the house quietly sitting in my chair when out of the corner of my eye something scurried across the room.  My heart stopped. Yuck! A mouse in the house.

I heard it behind the fridge.  I must have clipped it just right with the broom because there it lay in the broom straw looking up at me.  How could (Marshmallow) the hamster have escaped his cage of steel?

After the funeral we were all too sick to think of getting another.  We took his deluxe condo and covered it with a towel and put it in the garage on top of the fish bowl.  We missed the sound of the wheel at night.

Thanks to a relative (you know who you are) our daughter got her first gift certificate…for a bird.  Two birds in fact.  They were supposed to mate.  Their cage was decked with all the latest amenities: nest fluff, egg and fruit sticks (to maintain strength), nesting bowl and plant foliage.  They lasted for years and sung beautifully.  Though they never did reproduce.  We changed their names from Fred and Wilma to Goldie and Tina.

As your children grow strong and independent you would like the summer pet urge to cease.  This summer?  Say hello to Chocolate (the brown kitty) and Peanut Butter (the orange calico kitty).

Here we go again!

A summer treat for Mom’s (AAT short for Alias Animal Trainer)

ESPRESSO ICE CREAM

2 – 1/2 cups sugar

2 tablespoons flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 – 1/2 cups hot espresso coffee

2 – 1/2 cups half and half

6 egg yolks

5 cups heavy cream

one vanilla bean, split in half

With a wire whisk, mix together the sugar, flour, salt and espresso, half and half and vanilla bean until well mixed.

Add egg yolks and creme.  Mix well.  Freeze in ice cream freezer.  Before serving remove vanilla bean.

(Shanna Celeste is a Bothell resident who enjoys sharing her recipe ideas and stories with readers.  Her column appears regularly in the Citizen.)

 

 

 

“You know what this weekend is?”

“A honeydew weekend? Honey, can you do this.  Honey, will you do that.  Honey, over here.  I have another chorrrreee…”

I turned and glared at my husband.  “No silly.  Remember last year at the Delmont’s?”

He clutched the arms of his chair and moaned.

“Yes,”  I paused. “It  is 4th of July weekend.”

As long as we have been neighbors we have gathered together for this annual event.  But this year, like last, the outdoor table was laden with goodies: corn on the cob, sweet pickles, potato salad, pickled beets, deviled eggs, kidney bean and macaroni salad, coldslaw, fresh melons, corn bread, apple pie, strawberry tarts and brownies.

Appetites where whet and the meat was ready to grill.  Then it happened.

“Twenty-four thousand BTU control burner with 225-square inch cooking area, push button igniter and view window, model 5450,” smirked Lawrence  Delmont, our host for our 4th of July barbecue, as he wheeled his new toy onto the deck.

Libby, Lawrence’s wife grinned and rubbed Lawrence’s arm playfully as she told the other guest, Margo and her husband Bill and me and my husband Tom, about their new gas barbecue.  “It taste just like briquettes.  It is the lava rock you know makes the meat taste better.”

Lawrence had put on his chef hat and apron with the words. ‘Cook with Class Use Gas.’

Libby continued on. “Well, no more bags of briquettes everytime I go to the store.  No more lighter fluid, no more. . . ”

Behind Margo, Bill groaned. “Yeah and no more taste either.”

Lawrence coughed pointedly.  He paused his oven-mitted hand lingering over the meat, looked at Bill intently and said, “Oh, are you one of them?”

“Them?”  Bill inquired.

“Yes.  You know. . .there is no difference.”  Lawrence said authoritatively.

“Who are you kidding.  If it ain’t barbecue with the real thing it ain’t barbecue.” Bill scoffed. ‘You might as well cook in the oven.”

Libby appeared at my elbow and nodding toward Tom said, “Well you guys know how great gas is.”

I bit my lip and looked at Tom, who was fighting with a lawn chair.

“Well to me it is kinda like Coke and Pepsi.  There’s a definite difference,” I stammered.

“What?!” hollered Lawrence, throwing up his hands in disgust.

Margo was at the table putting olives on each finger and pretending she didint know us.

“You see,” said Bill.  “Any connoisseur would have an electric starter to put on their briquettes and would not use a lighter fluid.  And would never ever stoop to plugging in an outdoor oven that will never give you the flavor of that delicious charcoal-grilled…”

“Well I suppose,”  Lawrence interrupted. ” that you are the type that can bake bread on a stick and broil trout on a hot rck.  And have you ever taken a look at that old oil drum you cut in half to make into a barbecue? You lose your appetite just looking at it.  But I must say, that was better than what you use to use a wheelbarrow full of sand with bricks holding up the grill. . .”

It never really got too ugly, I recalled with a sigh until they brought out the Coke and Pepsi.

“Yeah, said Tom, as he got out of his living room chair. “I would have rather have sat around the house with a lip full of Novocain.

I began to hum and pick lint off my shorts.  He stole a glance and our eyes met.  “Oh, no we’re not. . .” Tom said, alarmed.

‘No honey, we’re not going over there this year.  They are coming here. Were having Pizza.”

 

 

 

One of the most overzealous groups of people I know are ex-fatty’s.  They have gone from plump to pumped.  No longer does a hot fudge sundae rule their life.   They have learned the secret to controlling their weight by getting control of themselves.

I hate ’em.  They no longer go blindly through their day with their mouths open chewing and swallowing whatever comes through their path.  They walk by the refrigerator and don’t open it.  A treat is not candy but bottled water.  They would never think of putting and M&M found under the couch into their mouth.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I have nothing but respect for these truly unpleasant self-disciplined people.  I was once one, but then something happened.  No one told me I was getting older  and without informing me, my body took it upon itself to re-adjust my metabolism from hamburgers and shakes to don’t eat a pickle, you’ll blow up.

Because I am basically a strong person I was able to resist a lifestyle change. Unfortunately, my husband’s addiction to exercise grew steadily worse.  And to make matters worse he is also a black belt in Karate. Naturally, for the last several years I have tried to ignore this.

The key word was ignore, but he has become right-out obnoxious about the benefits of sweat.  Very frankly, I don’t feel the problem of chubbiness will be worked out in my  lifetime.  This seemed to be my answer until recently when I had to admit my cases of convenient excuses were growing thin while I…

My first day in Karate class I was devastated.  First off this outfit has no shoulder pads and hiding your waistline is impossible–they make you wear a belt!

Forget combing your hair.  In less than 15 minutes you have an entirely different hairdo–the wet look.

Of course getting in shape doesn’t happen in a day.  You have to build up to it through a series of self-inflicted and crippling body movements that immediately cause pain.

Normally articulate and well-spoken, after a one hour class exhaustion sets in, loss of appetite, and all direction.

Unfortunately, by 8 p.m. that evening I’m ready to eat a horse and that one hour is long forgotten, until morning, when everything including things you never think of like wrists, shriek and creak.

My friend says, “Have a tummy tuck, it’s less painful.”  I say as long as I stay a white belt my waistline won’t be as accentuated.  I’m trying to be a good sport, but you see that is one of the problems, it’s a sport and I have always been a spectator.  They say that studying martial arts is a lifetime experience.

I will need that time to get a black belt.

QUICK DINNER WHEN EXTRA TIRED

4 Bratwurst

1 large apple cored and sliced.

6 small yukon gold potatoes

1/2 medium size cabbage cut into small wedges

sour cream

Bring water to boil and add potatoes.  Last 10 minutes cook the bratwurst in the same water with the potatoes.  Drain and set potatoes and bratwurst on warm platter.

Bring hot water to boil in a large pot.  Place steamer in side and add  apple,   cabbage over low heat until apple is soft.  Season all with salt and pepper serve warm on platter with the Bratwurst and a dollop of sour cream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flat on my belly on cold linoleum and shoved against the mop head, the pantry shelves above me, I had not been able to move a muscle for three and 1/2 minutes.

Listening intently, I was awaiting the thieves who enter my kitchen.  You know the ones: Husband, alias utensil robber of spatulas, cooking pots, butter knives all snuck out of the kitchen drawers and led directly into …The Garage.

And here’s the clincher.  Once in the garage these precious kitchen utensils instantly become grease scoopers, oil drip pans and worse of all leather rippers.  I have self-described him as a “kitchen utensil junkie.”

The other thieves? Children.  From toddler to teenager they are in there pilfering the kitchen scissors, twine, spoons.  Anything their little mugs can get a hold of and then sneak upstairs to their rooms.

I had confronted, accused and questioned to NO avail.  All I ever received was denial.  “I didn’t do it.”   “I did NOT take it.”  “What would I want with that…duh?”

This week I made my biggest, most rewarding discovery in the time-honored way, by watching and waiting, waiting and watching.

A couple of days before I had hunted right there, in the teenager room blatantly lying on the floor,  Number One evidence-my kitchen scissors.  I took a Polaroid shot.  I continued the hunt with new appreciation, having now seen the competition.

In the garage under the car-my stock pot-with car oil dripping in it, another Polaroid snapped.

I waited until Saturday chores were completed.  Ready now for the confrontation I dropped the ax on this one-time only opportunity.

The tribe sat in a circle as I slowly revealed the pictures behind my back as evidence.  They all sat there silently contemplating their destiny.

“This is proof of what I have been saying that you are thieves and have conspired to deplete me of any kitchen utensils.”  I shouted.

“I know your trick, you think you have learned to be crafty by putting the dishes away in mysterious places.  Well, you cannot throw me off the trail any longer I am on to you!  Several behavior studies (I threw this in as their attention began to lag) says that…”

If you want to know the truth, I glimpsed around the room they were captured, pinned down, stunned.  It was great.

“The closest you will come to life on this planet (home)  I continued,  is to admit to fault and I will go easy on you.”  No one quarreled,  no one disagreed.  Call me cautious, but I’m always suspicious when everyone is so agreeable all at the same time.  All at once.

I thought the case was closed until today, when I went to the cabinet to pull out my Jell-O mold…it was missing.  I looked out the kitchen window and there it was full of dirt…with a spoon in it.

For obvious reasons, I’m resigned to the fact that my pantry is too small for stakeouts and I have learned to cook with…

NO UTENSILS NEEDED RECIPES

CHICKEN -HAM PINWHEELS

2 chicken breasts

1/8 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon dried basil leaves, crushed

dash pepper and dash of garlic salt

3 slices ham

2 teaspoons lemon juice

Paprika

Pound chicken breasts to 1/4 inch thickness. Mix salt, basil, pepper, and garlic salt; sprinkle on chicken.  Cover each chicken breast with 1-1/2 slices ham; roll up length- wise.  Place, seam side down, in 10×6 inch baking dish.  Drizzle with lemon juice; sprinkle with paprika.  Bake at 350 for 35 minutes.  Cover; chill thoroughly.  Before serving; cut chicken rolls into 1/4 inch slices.  If desired, serve with bite size rye bread spread with softened butter and mustard.  Makes 24 slices.

MEATBALL NUGGETS

2 cups soft bread crumbs

1/3 cup milk

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1/2 teaspoon garlic salt

1/4 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 pound ground beef

1/2 pound bulk pork sausage

1 5-ounce can water chestnuts, drained and finely chopped

Combine first 5 ingredients; add remaining ingredients and mix well.  Form into 1-inch balls.  Place on cookie sheet and freeze firm; wrap in foil or plastic bag and return to freezer.  Before serving, place frozen meatballs on sheet baking pan.  Bake at 250 for 35 minutes.  Keep warm in chafing dish.  Makes about 5 dozen.  Serve with toothpicks.

APPETIZER CHEESECAKE

2 cups dairy sour cream

1/2 cup finely chopped green pepper

1/2 cup finely chopped celery

1/4 cup finely chopped pimiento-stuffed green olives

1/4 cup finely chopped onion

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

Dash paprika

5 drops hot pepper sauce

1 -1/3 cup rich round cracker crumbs

Combine all ingredients except crumbs.  Line 4-cup  bowl with clear plastic wrap.  Spread 1/2 cup of the sour cream mixture in bottom of bowl. Layer with 1/2 cup of the crumbs; then 1 cup sour cream mixture, 1/2 cup crumbs, and remaining sour cream mixture.  Cover; chill for 24 hours.  Store remaining cracker crumbs.  Before serving: Unmold onto serving plate; remove wrap.  Top with remaining crumbs.  Serve with assorted crackers.

 

 

 

I stopped on the top step of the Marriott Hotel entryway and sucked in as much fresh San Francisco air as I could.  In my hand I held a check made out to me, Shanna, for $1 million.

Winning the Pillsbury million dollar bake-off was as nerve-racking as a teenager out past curfew, as painful as a root canal, and as difficult as preparing your taxes.

I ought to know, I can now afford to chuckle, but up until this minute, I vowed never to be so humiliated again.

You might think a cooking aficionado, such as myself, would be thrilled and honored to participate in such a wonderful time-honored event. But cooking is not without its dark side.

This is what happened to me.  This is my story.

Last December, 100 Bake-Off entrants were notified that their recipes had been selected for the contest finals, which were held last month.  For me, this meant an expense-paid trip to the competition finals in San Francisco, the opportunity to win $1 million and most importantly national recognition.

If only my Aunt Maddie had lived to see this-she had won every blue ribbon at every state fair for the last 60 years of her life for her famous apple pie.  If she had found out I put her recipe in the Pillsbury Million Dollar Contest she would have throttled me.  She was a mean old bat.

Only on her death bed, when all the relatives were lined up around the bed, did Aunt Maddie point her crippled, arthritic, 90-year-old finger at me.

At a whisper Aunt Maddie said, ‘Tell the family the jokes on them (sickly cough.) The secret in my famous apple pie, (a very long silent pause) I never used apples, (weak laugh). It was pears!” I tore out of that room and immediately sent the recipe in.

Me and a zillion others were flown straight to an oven, where the immense pressure began.  Immediately, when I saw the new crust-free, stainless oven, I became confused and disoriented.  There was no messy kitchen attached to it.  There were no toddlers hanging on my ankles, nor teenagers yelling that they refused to eat that slop another night.

I announced to the group that I could not cook under these sterile circumstances and I threw down my apron ready to walk home a beaten women.

If it wasn’t for Pills, the Pillsbury Doughboy, I–I don’t even want to think about it.   He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes.  Still, even as a crusty old man, he was a roll model for millions.  He persuaded me to stay.  I rolled up my sleeves and began to dirty up that oven.  I threw flour in all directions. I greased the burners and started a smoke fire.  Finally, I was comfortable enough to cook.

Panic ensued anyway.  Even a cool-headed cook such as myself began to succumb to a culinary meltdown.  Unfortunately, I set my finished creation, Aunt Maddie’s Apple Pie, onto the chair to cool, then absent-mindedly sat on it after hearing this doozy from a co-contestant:

My personal new best friend, Veteran Pillsbury spokesman.  The Pillsbury Doughboy, had died of a severe yeast infection and complications from repeated poking to the belly.  He was only 71.

My co-contestant explained to me (she is from Jersey) “Hey, get over it! You’re not his only friend, ya know. I hear Mrs. Butterworth, The California Raisins, Hungry Jack, Betty Crocker, The Hostess Twinkies, Captain Crunch, and many others gonna be thar to help deliver the eulogy.”

Lucky for me, and so typical of Pills good nature, one of the rules he created was to allow for making the recipe three times. I figured, good enough.  That is when I baked a new pie for the judges…it was the winner.

But naturally I knew this would happen because a dessert always wins. One top winner will be chosen in each of the four recipe categories: Yada, yada, yada. BUT first place is always the fourth category: desserts and treats.

What judge is going to remember that simple shrimp taco when dessert is coming around the corner?  I know I’m not alone here because what it boils down to is what does everyone remember about a meal–DESSERT!  What tastes best in a meal–DESSERT.  Why do you eat a meal–DESSERT.

I returned home to an ungrateful family. “Shanna, don’t you think you’re crying over split milk,” my husband said. “I can handle it!” I would holler. “Without Pills do you think I would have won? Huh? Huh?

I’m feeling stressed again.  Having money is nothing but work.  This is my last column. OVERDONE and UNDERCOOKED is POOPED and EXHAUSTED.

Besides, I don’t need the money.