Mischief

It was 6:45am Friday and I noticed several cars pulling into the parking lot of a largely abandoned shopping strip on my way to work. Then I realized they were cutting through the parking lot to zip over to the Shipley Donut shop. Thoughtful folks that they were, they were probably going to get a big box to take in for their coworkers. Or maybe not, who knows?

Regardless, it reminded me of a story that my mom likes to tell from time to time. About Shipley donuts. The best darned donuts around, if I do say so myself.

When my brother and I were young kids, my dad would buy a dozen Shipley donuts from time to time, as a Saturday morning treat. He wasn’t the type of man who would get up early on Saturday morning to drive over to the donut store to get fresh donuts. He’d buy them the night before and wrap the box in kitchen towels to try to keep them fresh. My brother and I were kids and didn’t know the difference. I guess my mom and dad just didn’t much care whether the donuts were fresh or not-so-fresh. In hindsight, this is weird, because my dad loved sweets.

Anyway, one particular Friday night, we had a box of Shipley donuts on our kitchen counter wrapped in dish towels.

The next morning, Dad awoke and made his way into the kitchen. He noticed my younger brother sitting on the floor watching cartoons. As he started making the coffee, he glanced over to the box of eagerly awaited Shipley donuts and to his surprise, only saw an empty counter. Naturally, he asked my brother where he put the donuts, thinking he had already snaked one or two from the box.

Hey, where’d you put the donuts?

What donuts?

Uh-oh.

A quick look around the house revealed an empty donut box and some kitchen towels casually tossed aside. And a family dog with an upset stomach casually sleeping it off in the laundry room. Apparently the kitty had acted as an accomplice and pushed the box to the floor for amusement.

No one else was very amused at the time, but all these years later, it is a continued source of amusement, at least for my mom, my brother and me.

RTT - the early edition

Robins arrived in Houston today. I look forward to them each year and they arrive reliably on schedule, about 4 weeks before the official start of spring. They will be here for a couple of weeks before heading a bit further north to chase the edge of the ground temperature change. Of course, I’m just making this up because I am not an ornithologist. But it could be correct.

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I stumbled onto a new blog yesterday and the author listed ten things that she learned last weekend. If you think about it, we learn things all the time. So I stopped for a moment or two to consider what I learned last weekend. I did not undertake any particularly studious endeavors, so the things I learned were rather ordinary. But useful, nonetheless. At the top of the list is that fact that when you bake with whole wheat flour, the baked product tastes different. Previously, I had believed that you could bake with whole wheat flour but wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I was wrong. The banana bread coffee cake I made with whole wheat flour is still good, but in a healthy-good sort of way. Not a yummy delicious treat sort of way.

Unfortunately, I purchased a standard size bag of whole wheat flour, so there is plenty remaining for future baking projects. And since I am frugal-girl, completely unlikely to discard a perfectly good bag of flour, there are plenty of whole-wheat baked items in my immediate future.

Finding a metaphor in the mundane

The correct tool for the job turned out to be steel wool. Worked like a charm. Scrubbing that burned-on residue from the bottom of the soup kettle was relatively quick work once I got the steel wool engaged.

Yesterday I made corn chowder and started by boiling pearled barley with some onion and celery. Barley gives the soup texture and makes it taste chowdery. But in my poorly managed multi-tasking frame of mind, I neglected to keep watch on the barley and consequently the water boiled out too quickly leaving the starchy grain to burn. And stick to the bottom of the kettle.

After discarding the contents, I tried an old remedy that has always proved successful for me in the past – boiling soapy water in the kettle. I think I read it years ago in a newspaper column. Probably Hints from Heloise.

But it didn’t work. Usually that technique makes the job of cleaning so much easier. No scrubbing even required. Not this time.

So this morning, as I was physically scrubbing the pan with my steel wool, I found my brain casting about searching for someone, something to accept the blame for the situation I was in. I landed on Heloise. Damn that tips column. Load of baloney!

Then the scrubbing was over and I almost had to laugh. So ridiculous that I would be trying to escape responsibility for something so insignificant, a minor inconvenience. But I was. Yeah, I’m human. Give my idiot card a punch.

Coincidentally, this is precisely the topic that one of my favorite bloggers recently presented in a very humorous way. Karal, at the orange chair. Check it out.

Family dinner recollections

I was reading an essay by The Blushing Hostess in which she promotes reclaiming the family dinner hour, the kind I (sort of) remember when I was a kid. Setting the table, fresh prepared food, serving plates, bread basket, a pitcher of tea. Reading her essay brought back so many startlingly clear memories that it inspired me to dwell on them for a moment or two.

Our family dinner table was the place where my mother taught us basic table manners. Placing a napkin in our laps, holding our silverware properly, passing the salad bowl, navigating the tricky combination of eating and conducting polite conversation. My father never failed to proclaim that the meatloaf was delicious and he ended each meal with a thank you.

Supper was not a leisurely activity because there were a variety of tasks that needed tending to each evening afterwards, homework among them. Our meals were simple; my father assisted by tossing a salad, my brother and I set the table and fed the pets, and we all participated in clean-up afterwards. Telephone calls, music, television, magazines or anything else that did not belong at the dinner table was prohibited.

As I grew older, I learned to appreciate how my mother cared for table linens, pressed the napkins and used pretty greenery and ribbon to set a festive table on holidays and other special occasions. Having a meal in the dining room by candlelight was an exciting luxury to be savored. I considered it a special treat to drink my water from a pretty goblet and noticed that the clink of our knives and forks against the china plates sounded ever so much nicer than our ordinary tableware.

As the Blushing Hostess points out, family dinner is often victim to competing priorities. But without family dinner, there is not much opportunity to glean the essentially important life lessons generally imparted around the supper table. I’m squarely in her corner on this particular topic.

Ghosts of dinner tables past

I have not always been sentimental, but I’m noticing this change as I get older. This year, my holiday serving table will be decorated with an assortment of items that have some history but work together, bonded by a prevalent color of either red or white.

I’m bringing out three luncheon plates that belonged to my grandmother for serving breads and breakfast burritos. Their pretty red and white pattern is reminiscent of a weekend at grandma’s but still festive and fresh. I’m tumbling a large helping of little apples into a tall clear glass vase with an origami star made from white ribbon nestled on top. I learned how to make these pretty stars from a neighbor that lived next door many years ago.

Next to that is a champagne flute filled with white sea glass, adorned by a few pellets of dark red sea glass. Cristy loves sea glass and the champagne flute was a gift from my sister in law when she and my brother first got married.

There are two small dark red glass dessert plates for sweets, and dotted amidst this grouping are teacups that go with the luncheon plates. One is chipped, but I still love them. I added small white and silver glass ornaments and shiny red ribbon to fill the cups with holiday glam.

Finally, I’ll bring out my old, favorite red and green tartan napkins, an assortment of glassware, cups and dining plates and hope my friends enjoy the food.

Racing to the finish line

Yes, the starting pistol has fired. You didn’t hear it? I heard it, but hit the snooze button once already and am about to tap it again. Holiday season! Dinners, family gatherings, traveling, parties, shopping, gift wrapping, decorating. Perhaps my favorite time of year, truth be told.

I know, I know, the accompanying stress associated with getting everything done (beautifully!) is so often a barrier to enjoyment.

Let’s see. Last year at this time, I was well on the road to completing almost all of my holiday shopping except for a small handful of personally selected gifts. Completing my Santa list turned out to be no trouble at all. In addition, Cristy and I hosted Thanksgiving dinner at her (old) house, I completed my seasonal decorating before the end of November, visited my mom in Oklahoma for 4 days, gave a pre-Christmas brunch at my (old) house for my small family and another little dinner party the following week for a handful of friends. Plus, Cristy and I attended several other family gatherings in celebration of the season. It was a busy time, but I managed to coast through it with almost no anxiety.

This year, I’m afraid I’m not going to be enjoying that coasting thing so much.

Decorating is going to be a challenge since unpacking and house arranging is not exactly complete. My gift giving inspiration has not yet arrived and I generally rely on a visitation from this muse to guide my projects and shopping. And much to my dismay, parties at our home may not be on the agenda this year.

So I will consider it my practice year. Yes, that’s it. I need one year to figure out how to decorate the house so it will look splendid. One year to get the chimney cleaned so we can actually use the fireplace for a cozy gathering at home. One year to somewhat recover from the chronic financial drain associated with moving, renovating, furnishing. What's that old saying about Carnegie Hall?

Don’t worry Santa, aah’ll be baahck.

Labor day weekend

Cristy is making a pie for a birthday gathering later this evening. The fact that she is in the kitchen is not highly unusual but the fact that someone is in the act of preparing food is of immense curiosity to the family canines. We live in a very small house with limited floor space in the kitchen. It is further limited with the lumbering shapes of one or two large dogs lounging on the kitchen floor and the three small dogs hovering around Cristy’s feet, following her as she walks from pantry to refrigerator to mixing bowl, stepping across the large dogs along the way.

Most of the dogs will lose interest in this activity and wander away except for Tristan. He will stay close to Cristy as long as she is occupied with any food related activity because there is always a possibility that something, anything, might fall to the floor and he will be there to discover whether or not it is edible. Generally, this tactic pays off for him and saves us from sweeping up stray bits of carrot, potato peel or bread crumbs.

I wlll be next up for food-prep duty, making a simple lemon-blueberry cake. The blueberries in the refrigerator are not getting any younger and it is time to enjoy them. Tristan’s reward for his vigilance on this day may be in the shape of a small, round sweet tasting berry.

Food of love

Cristy likes to watch the food network channel on cable. She mostly likes the competitive cooking programs and I have watched some of these programs too. But I have a theory about cooking. I believe is that competitive cooking is inconsistent with the principal that stress and cooking are not supposed to mix. My theory is that cooking for yourself or for someone else is one of the most loving things you can do. Preparing nourishment in a thoughtful way is a true act of love.


Regardless of the outcome of the food, if the act of cooking originates from a pure spirit of sharing, then you will surely find joy from the experience of cooking. The product created from a joyful cooking experience is truly food of love. And sharing food of love enriches the experience only more. It is a circular equation, a renewable resource.


My opinion regarding competitive cooking is that the Food Network does a disservice to its viewers by portraying cooking as a stressful, disappointing, shaming experience. While I am open to celebrating the talents and culinary creativity these programs attempt to highlight, the backhanded television production methods focus less on celebration and more on failure. Competitive cooking eliminates joy, consequently removing the opportunity to create food of love.