Home Cookin'

by Beth

My son comes home tonight for Easter break and after four months of college living he is very much looking forward to some home cooking *g* He's asked for Cheesy Chicken Pockets and Paninis this go around. Over Thanksgiving it was roasted chicken and Paninis. At Christmas he wanted my mom's goulash and Paninis.

In case you missed it, my boy loves a toasty sandwich! He'd often make one or two of what he called Man-wiches for breakfast, lunch or a snack, piling it high with meat, at least two types of cheese and more often than not, a fried egg *g* Sadly, those days are gone as his dorm doesn't have a stove, only a microwave. Which means I'll have to make sure we're stocked up on bread, deli meats and cheeses and eggs this summer.

Some of my guy's other home cooked favorites include cheeseburger soup, cheeseburger pie, barbecue ribs, twice baked potatoes (his aunt is making these for Easter so he'll be thrilled) steak roll-ups and snickerdoodles.

I also try to have all of his favorite foods and snacks on hand. Funny how my grocery bill goes up significantly when he's home :-)

But that's okay. It's worth it to have him in hugging distance!

What home cooked meal would you ask your mom (or any family member) to make for you?

Fishing

by Cassondra Murray

Have you ever gone fishing?

When I was a kid, my dad used to take me fishing a lot.

I remember my first fishing pole. I was probably seven years old when Daddy made that pole for me. If I close my eyes I can still see it, just like it was yesterday. And I can see my dad as he sat on an old stump in the back yard, putting my fishing rig together.

Once a year or so, my dad went to a creek a few miles away to harvest "cane poles". Cane poles were really a type of native bamboo that grew along the creek banks in Southern KY. He'd bring home a few big armloads of these each year, to use as bean sticks in the garden mostly. A secondary use, though, was fishing poles. Once the canes were dried they were strong, lightweight, and flexible.

He cut the pole to about six or eight feet long, then he wrapped fishing line around the end of the pole and tied it off, leaving about 8 feet of line free at the end. He attached a hook and a round red and white bobber, and I was in business. It was low-tech, but it worked.

First, we'd go out behind the barn to a shady spot. My dad used a hoe or a shovel to dig a hole deep enough to get to dark, cool earth. That's where the worms were.

There's a picture of earthworms here, so if you're squeamish, don't look. Focus on the text.

My job was "Keeper of the Bait." First I had to find an appropriate container. A margarine or Cool Whip tub would do, but a coffee can was the best. I'd dig through my mom's cabinets looking for just the right one.

Once I had the container, I'd meet my dad behind the barn. He'd dig the hole while I stood ready. When he turned the piles of damp earth, I'd bust up the clods and pick out the worms, dropping them into my coffee can along with a bit of dirt to keep them cool. Daddy was apparantly in sync with some universal higher power because at some point he'd stop digging and say, "that's enough," and it always was.

He'd grab a bucket and a tackle box and off we'd go, through the woods and across the fields for an afternoon of fishing.

There were three farm ponds in walking distance of our house. I suppose it was the same universal higher power that told him which one to choose on a given day. It didn't matter to me as long as the fish were biting.

Actually that's not true.

The truth is that no day fishing was ever wasted. I will stand right here in front of God and everybody and say that even if I never got a bite, some of the best times of my life were spent fishing.

It took anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour to walk to the pond, and then there was a ritual to be observed.

First, find a shady spot to set the bucket and the bait. Next, unwrap the line from the pole. Dig a worm out of the can, thread it onto the hook. For the first few years, Daddy did this part for me. He also dug into his tackle box and chose an appropriate weight for the line, based on how deep he guessed the water to be, and where he guessed the fish to be hanging out. It's that universal higher-power connection thing again. It always seemed to come through when he needed fishing guidance.

Last in the ritual was picking the spot from which to fish. He always picked out a spot for me on the bank, settled me in, and once my line was in the water he'd go around the pond to find a spot for himself. Far enough that we each had our space, but not so far that I was out of sight.

One of the lessons I had to learn as I sat there on the bank was when to pull the line in and re-set, and when to leave it there. I'd get impatient and start futzing around with it, and I'd hear my dad's voice from his side of the pond. "Quit messin' with it. Leave it in the water."

One of my clearest memories was the day I landed the biggest fish I've ever caught. No monster in fishing terms, but it was a big deal for a little girl. A big bass. So big I nearly couldn't land the thing. I'd been catching little bluegill all afternoon and tossing them back in. Suddenly there was a huge splash, and my bobber went deep, toward the bottom of the pond. I remember my dad dropping his pole and running around the pond toward me as I backed away from the bank, throwing my weight against it, pulling pole, line, and fish with me as I tried to bring it in.

Daddy never would take me to the lake when his buddies brought out their boats to fish. I wanted to go, but I always had to stay home. Mom told me a few years later that the guys were just not prepared to have a little girl on the boat. They'd have to take me to the bank every so often since I couldn't exactly hang over the side like they could ever time I needed to pee.

That was okay. I got the point of fishing on the bank of the pond.

I have a quote above my computer, cut out from a calendar I had a few years back.

Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.~~Henry David Thoreau

Recently, when the days have been a little nutsy, I've thought a lot about those afternoons at the pond, dangling my line into the water, watching the world around me, waiting for a bite.

It's a little like writing and publishing in a lot of ways. You do the work, you build your rig, you bait your hook and you toss the line into the water. And then you wait for a bite. Sometimes you get a nibble. Sometimes you have to go back and study the weather, the water, and sometimes you have to put your worms back in the can and get out the minnows because the bait just isn't right for the fish you're after, or sometimes you have to move to the other side of the pond.

The thing is that even if I'd never hooked a fish, I still would have come away a richer person. I was after something other than fish, though I didnt' know it then. Solitude. The sense of nature around me, and nature's ability to put things into order, no matter what. Peace.

I'm after that again. With my writing and with my life. As we swing into spring and summer, into conference season, with its travel, pitches to editors and agents, and its need to be "on" emotionally and mentally and physically, I think the best thing I could do for myself would be to find a spot on the bank, bait my hook and just sit there for a while, listening to the birds, feeling the sun on my skin, the breeze kiss my cheek, watching my bobber float across the water, waiting for a bite.

I think maybe that's where some of my stories came from. Maybe not from the fishing itself, but from the quiet, the solitude, and the slow-down-and look-around time I spent sitting on those banks.

I tend to keep myself so busy now that I couldn't hear my muse if it had a bullhorn. Slowing down takes effort now. I have to wonder if what Thoreau meant was that when we dip our line into the water, what we're really hoping to catch is a bit of our real selves. That's certainly true for me.

The last ritual of the fishing day was to take the leftover worms and toss them into the pond. That's probably considered a bad thing now, artificially feeding the fish and all, but for my dad and me it was a sacred thing. A dedication to the idea that nothing goes to waste. A giving back, of a sort. Our way of giving back to the fish, the pond, and the higher power that had given us that time on the bank, whatever measure of luck we had, the warm sun and the gentle breeze. Jeanne blogged about honor yesterday. For a little kid, how I treated the fish on my line and even the worms in that can was important. To give back was an honorable thing and was only right. Actually, it might have been her blog that got me thinking about my dad and about summer afternoons sitting on the bank with him, fishing.

The thing about fishing is that it's a valid excuse not only to sit still for a while, but to tell everybody else around you to "Hush. Be still. You're scaring the fish."

I could use an excuse like that every now and then.

It's been years since I went fishing. I have my dad's fishing gear stashed safely in the garage, and one of my goals this year is to take an afternoon, buy a license, find a quiet spot on a bank somewhere, toss my line in the water, and see what nibbles

How 'bout you?

Have you ever been fishing?

Did you bait your own hook?

If you haven't been fishing, what do you think of the idea of going?

And if it's not fishing, what do you do when you want quiet time?

Do you like to eat fish?

Do you know how to CLEAN fish?

What are you after when you toss your line into the water?

Peace? Solitude?

Or plain old fish?

Holiday Sharing

by Susan Sey

So I hosted Thanksgiving this year, although I don't know if "hosted" is the right word. We didn't have anybody over but ourselves. My family gathered in Michigan where my parents live, my husband's family gathered in California where his brother and his family are based. But we stayed home. All by ourselves.

I'll have been married ten years this coming summer, and it's taken us the full ten to get the hang of this sharing the holidays business. It's no easy thing. You want to respect each other's family traditions while making the space to create your own traditions. Throw in kids, pets, in-laws, limited vacation time and several hundred miles and you've got a real quandry.

At first we simply switched sides every year. If his family got Christmas, my family got Thanksgiving. The next year we flip-flopped. But we live twelve hours from my folks, and six from his. Then we had a baby. Then we had two. When #2 was born I called a halt to holiday travel. I said, "We love you but we are not leaving this house for the holidays anymore. You are all welcome to come here, I will love having you. But I will not take this show on the road."

I stuck to my guns on it, too, and people understood. They weren't happy but they got it. Babies aren't easy-going travelling companions, and they require a lot of stuff. A lot of routine. A lot of tending. All easier done where all the equipment is near at hand.

Then my husband's parents had their 40th wedding anniversary, and all they wanted for a present was a Christmas with everybody together. So we packed up the kiddoes, got on a plane and spent the holidays in California. And it was wonderful.

The baby was a year old, on her feet and tremendously cute. Her cousins fawned over her and we had a lovely time. I thought, "Goodness, why was I so dead set on never doing this again?"

And since we'd just done one Christmas in California, it was only fair to do the next one in Michigan. So we loaded up the old station wagon and hit the road. We made it to Chicago before my oldest's notoriously touchy stomach decided to act up. I sat backwards in the front seat holding a well-used barf bowl all the way to Detroit, and I remembered why travelling with kids can be problematic.

I thought to myself, "Next year is an At Home Year." And thus my current philosophy was born. One year for his family--they get to pick whether they want Thanksgiving or Christmas & we show up wherever they say with smiles on our faces. The next year for my family, same deal. But the third year? The third year we stay home. Anybody who wants to join us is welcome but we are not budging.

This--as you may have guessed--is an At Home Year.

We've had an incredibly good time. A nice, leisurely dinner on Thanksgiving. A brisk hike along a deer-tracked foot path afterwards. Pie and tea in front of How The Grinch Stole Christmas. We laid around like slugs the day after, and the day after that we hosted a Post-Thanksgiving Left-Overs Potluck for other folks who were sans family for the holiday. We all got together, shared food and conversation, and enjoyed being home.

And part of that enjoyment is from just being here, where we live, cementing friendships with people we like. But another part of it is knowing that next year, we'll go to our family and be with them. We'll demonstrate our love for them by taking this travelling circus on the road, and sharing their traditions, their homes, their food. And we'll be delighted to do it.

What about you? How do you share the holidays? Have you ever spent a holiday alone? What are your traditions? Your family's traditions? What did you take from your childhood, and what did you leave behind? How do you balance your family's traditions with your spouse's/partner's?

Laeti Congregamur

by Nancy

No, that's not gibberish in the title. It's how the first line of the hymn "We Gather Together," my Thanksgiving favorite, translates into Latin. My high school Latin teacher provided translations of that hymn along with "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Ruldolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." I no longer remember the rest of it, but there's a full Latin translation of the lyrics here.

This is all a lead-in, of course, to the fact that it's Thanksgiving Day in the United States, a time when many Americans "gather together" with family and friends to commemorate the things and people for which we're grateful. Our blog community gathers daily, and I hope some of you will pop in today to join me and the gladiators and the cabana boys and maybe take the rooster home for a visit. Sometimes we're thoughtful, sometimes we have fun, and sometimes we mix our moods. No matter what feeling rules a particular day, I'm grateful for the Lair and its denizens, actual and virtual (because, really, there's power in imagination), and for all our buddies.

Just FYI, Sven and Demetrius are currently squabbling over who gets to carve the turkey, with Demetrius maintaining that his sword will do much better than that "dinky little knife" Sven is holding (it's a carving knife, actually, "dinky" only in relation to a sword). I'm just keeping my head down, trying to be invisible. They're the last two I want to referee between, and asking the rooster to help would be like throwing thermite on a fire.

When I was growing up, my mom worked at the college I later attended. Her secretarial position in the registrar's office let her get to know a lot of students. Those who lived too far away to go home for Thanksgiving often wound up at our dining room table. While I didn't always appreciate that at the time, I'm now thankful for the way those guests broadened my perspective on holidays and taught me to look beyond my immediate circle on such occasions.

Some of the students Mom befriended became friends of our family, too. I recently saw a couple of them at a gathering of the women in my college class. We go to the beach for a weekend every year, whoever can turn up. Even though there were comparatively few women in our class, I didn't know most of them well. I transferred in as a sophomore and so missed the orientation that would've brought me into contact with them.

I'm pleased to have made, after all these years, friends among the women I missed getting to know the first time around. So I'm grateful to Sue M. and Ann "Wicked" for pushing me to go the first time and for all the women who've participated during the years for weekends of camaraderie and memory. And to Van for posing with me and the Silver Surfer in the photo at the bottom of the blog (with only minimal wine involved).

My high school friends have started a community on Facebook to connect those of us who used to live near each other but have since scattered. I appreciate the ability to keep in touch with old friends and our collective past even though the level of activity on Facebook sometimes makes my mind go "tilt."

Reading comic books ignited my imagination. If a couple of guys from Cleveland, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, hadn't invented Superman, the superhero from whom all others flowed, I wouldn't have had that stimulus. So I give thanks for the creators of the many imaginary worlds I love and for the friends I've made through fandom and writing.

I'm grateful for the education that made me an insatiable history geek and for scholars and hobbyists who feed that interest. And for the dh's willingness to carry home suitcases full of books. As we had brunch on our honeymoon in San Francisco, on the first full day of our married life, we looked down from the glass-sided restaurant atop a hotel and were jointly thrilled to discover a bookstore a few blocks over. We went there immediately afterward and added to the total weight of our luggage. We spent our first New Year's together with him building and staining bookshelves in our living room because our joint book collection kept growing.

A few years later, as we walked through Gatwick Airport to catch our flight home, he had to stop every few feet and renew his grip on the suitcase. The woman behind him said, in a friendly voice, "What are you carrying--bricks?" He said, "No. Books." And sort of forced a smile. If he wishes the customs agent hadn't shared the news that books were duty free (at least then--except for dealers, I think--but that may have changed), he sweetly keeps that to himself.

And of course I'm grateful to have the dh and the boy (who once replied to a question about what he wanted to do when he grew up by thinking a moment and then saying, "I'd like to be someone who doesn't get arrested," a goal his father and I heartily support and for which we are thankful). The boy is taller than I am now and never loses an opportunity to remind me.

Our lives are enriched by our friends and extended families, who're also celebrating at their homes today. And, foolish as this may sound to some of you, by our yellow lab, the latest in the string of dogs who discovered they could be bosses of us.

We're having dinner with friends, who are contributing fabulous brownies for dessert. Since I'm utterly incapable of creating such a thing "from scratch," I'm grateful for people who can and for the warmth this family's presence will add to our table.

What are you doing today? Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving memory? A holiday that seemed bound for disaster but turned out well after all, or vice-versa? Have you made a friend later in life that you missed out on the first time around?

Do you love the Silver Surfer? Do you remember the name of his girlfriend, whom he never stopped missing? Do you have a friend who'd be willing to join you and the Surfer in a photo?


I have SFF samplers from DragonCon for two commenters today. To kick off the holiday season, I'm also including below the recipe for the dh's holiday favorite. Every year, his late mother made her Aunt Lillian's [Cringe-Proof] Fruitcake (as adapted, so it doesn't feed a battalion, by the dh's sister and brother-in-law).

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Aunt Lillian's Fruit Cake (Cringe-Proof, according to Nancy's dh)
This makes a spice cake with candied fruit and nuts in it.

Be sure to check ingredient list and adapt for any allergies. We use one large loaf pan and two small ones, filling them a couple of inches each, per batch. This cake does not rise.

Warning: Requires very large bowl to mix

Overnight, soak the following in inexpensive brandy:
1/2 cup chopped dates
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1 and 1/2 cups candied fruit (often sold as fruit cake mixture)
1/4 cup dried cranberries or dried cherries
1 tsp. grated orange peel

Mix the following and cream well:
1/2 cup shortening (butter)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar

Add:
2 beaten eggs
1/2 cup pineapple juice
1 tsp. pumpkin pie spice
1 and 1/3 cups flour
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder

Mix well, then drain the brandy-soaked fruit and add it;

Mix well, then put into greased and paper-lined pans (use either parchment paper or brown paper);
Bake for about 3 hours at 275 degrees (Fahrenheit);
Test doneness with a toothpick--cake should not be doughy;
When cool, remove from pan and wrap in brandy-soaked dish towel (optional). Wrap in plastic and refrigerate until serving, sprinkling brandy on the cake every few days if desired.

A tale of three grandmas

Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go...

I think this time of year is when I remember my two grandmothers the most because Christmas was always the day when we went to visit them both. Even though my grandmothers only lived one county away from each other, I cannot remember a single time when I saw them in the same place together. Perhaps that was because one didn't drive. Perhaps it was because they might never have even met if not for my parents getting married. I'm not sure. But my happiest Christmas memories revolve around these two women.

My paternal grandmother was Grandma. She died when I was 10 (27 years ago), and I still remember the night my other grandparents came to tell us about her passing. We didn't have a phone at the time (I know, hard to believe), so the nursing home where Grandma was a patient called my maternal grandparents instead. But let's focus on happier days with Grandma. She was a tough woman, and if she were alive now I suspect my adult self might see that she was a bit crude. But when I was a child, she hung the moon and spoiled my sister and me rotten because we were her only grandchildren. She lived in this tiny house in rural Kentucky that had an enclosed back porch with a well in it. She didn't have running water, so she hauled water up from that well with a bucket. That's the house at the right as it looked a year or so ago. The little side porch is now open, and I guess the well has been closed off. My memories of her have their shadowy beginning at my grandpa's funeral when I was 5. I don't remember much about him other than him dying and he was old (he was born in 1889 and was 20 years older than my grandma).

Some of the best memories revolve around her good cooking and Christmas. Prior to Christmas, my dad would take her to town to do her Christmas shopping, typically at the old Western Auto store, which had toys, and probably the Dollar General Store. I grew up in a small town with the nearest Wal-Mart 23 miles away. The Dollar General is still there, but even the building that housed the Western Auto is now gone. But even with limited shopping options, Grandma always got my younger sister and me plenty of toys, clothes and other goodies. And she loaded down the table with slow-cooked green beans, mashed potatoes, homemade chicken and dumplings (I used to love eating the dough raw as she rolled it out), banana pudding, and other delicious dishes I've since forgotten. She'd make plenty so we always ended up taking a lot of it home with us to enjoy in the days after Christmas.

While I don't recall seeing Grandma all that often, I got to visit with my maternal grandparents, Mamaw and Papaw, a lot more since for the first 12 or so years of my life they were our next-door neighbors. Or maybe I should say our "across-the-holler" neighbors. We lived on one hill, and they lived across the creek on the next one. Papaw would stand on the porch each afternoon and wave at us as we walked home from the school bus, and sometimes I could see Mamaw out in her garden picking vegetables she would can by the quartsful. Christmas at their house was a much busier affair because they had 15 grandchildren as opposed to two. Consequently, each of the grandchildren only got one small thing. That was okay though because I enjoyed the big family gatherings and sampling all the potluck dishes. While Mamaw was also a wonderful cook, everyone pitched in because it would have been a chore to cook for around 25 people. Memories of Mamaw's cooking ran more to her canned pickles and how she could make something from nothing. I guess that came from raising seven children during the Great Depression. (That's the family in 1948 in the photo. Mamaw was taking the photo, but Papaw is the guy in the back and my mom is the little girl at the far left on the front row.) I also remember making mashed potato sandwiches on white bread at her house, and how my sister and I used to cut up cold bananas in these blue tin bowls Mamaw had and pour chocolate syrup all over them. Yum! Mamaw was also a wonderful quilter, and I could kick myself for not learning how to quilt from her when I had the chance.

There are funny memories, like the one my sister reminded me of recently. When Mamaw got older and her arthritis worsened, someone got her the Clapper for her lights. The only problem was that she didn't ever clap loud enough to make it work. :)

Since Papaw died when I was in high school, Mamaw was my only grandparent who lived long enough to see me get married. (She's at the far left on the front row of my wedding picture, and yes, I have some big honking glasses on. Wow, am I glad glasses are more attractive now.) Thus, I have the most memories of her and miss her the most. She was a sweet, quiet lady. When I was 24, she had a stroke that landed her in the hospital. She lingered for a month, and my mom visited her every day. She wasn't only her mother, she was also her best friend. It was hard to think of losing her. But Mom eventually realized that Mamaw wasn't going to get better, so she went to the tiny chapel at the hospital and prayed about it, saying that if it was time for Mamaw to go, it was okay. That night, Mom had a dream in which she saw the hallway of the hospital that led to Mamaw's room. Papaw was walking down the hall as if he was going to get Mamaw. The next day, Mamaw passed on. I can think of Grandma and Grandpa without tearing up because I lost them so long ago that I'm too far removed from the pain to remember much of it. But I tear up every time I tell this story about Papaw coming to get Mamaw.

Now that I no longer have grandparents living, I focus all my "grand" affection on my husband's grandmother, Mom Mim. (That's her at the right with one of her great-grandchildren, my husband's cousin's little boy.) Like my grandmothers, she's a great cook. After I raved over her jam cake last Christmas, she sent me the recipe. For every birthday and anniversary, she sends sweet cards. And I think she was as excited about my first book sale as I was. I think she might have told everyone in her hometown, and it's quite a bit bigger than mine is. We'll see her in a couple of weeks for Christmas, and I already know she'll come with her crocheting bag in hand. She can't sit still without crocheting something.

So do you all have any wonderful Christmas memories with your grandmothers? The Banditas would love to hear them.

I got this recipe from a former co-worker after she made and brought these to work one day.

Pistachio Cream Cheese Fingers

1 cup sugar
1 cup margarine or butter, softened
1 (8-ounce package) cream cheese, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg
2 1/4 cups all-purpose or unbleached flour
1 (3 3/4-ounce) package instant pistachio-flavored pudding and pie filling mix
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 ounces (3 squares) semi-sweet chocolate or 1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 teaspoon shortening

In large bowl, beat sugar, margarine and cream cheese until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and egg; beat well. Lightly spoon flour into measuring cup; level off. In medium bowl, combine flour, pudding mix, baking powder and salt. Add flour mixture to cream cheese mixture; mix well. Cover with plastic wrap; refrigerate at least 1 hour for easier handling.

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease cookie sheets. Shape teaspoonfuls of dough into 1 1/2-inch fingers. (You may want to wet your hands to prevent the dough from sticking to you.) Place on prepared cookie sheets. Bake at 350 degrees for 9 to 12 minutes or until set. Cool completely. In small saucepan, melt chocolate and shortening, stirring constantly until well blended. Drizzle a small amount of chocolate over each cookie. Allow chocolate to set before storing. Yield: 8 1/2 dozen cookies.