Of Comfort, Cookies, and Casseroles

The most frightening phone calls tend to come in the dead of night, ripping you out of the cradle of sleep and dropping you on the floor.

The effect is only slightly less jarring when the phone call comes in early evening, because at least you're awake, but there is still the same sensation of life-as-you-know-it falling overboard.

Never mind that, in the end, everything turned out to be fine, and nobody is sick or in hospital, and life went on pretty much as before. For that moment, when you see an unfamiliar number on your phone and answer it and it's your husband and he starts by saying "I'm fine, there is nothing to worry about, but..." and reveals that he went into the emergency room a few hours earlier with chest pains and has to stay overnight for observation, your vision suddenly narrows to a pinpoint and sounds are muffled and the world seems to be contained within a bubble made of the thinnest glass, ready to shatter at the slightest motion.

Most likely the cause of this event was stress ("only" stress), of which there has been an abundance this year. Everybody gets a serving of this time and again in the feast of life.

And that's where the comfort, cookies, and casseroles come in, brought by friends and family who assemble like firefighters in an old movie with a big tarp stretched out between them, ready to catch you when you jump out of the top story of a blazing building.

When my family was gathered at the hospital for several days a few years ago, existing in that strange timeless place one inhabits when a loved one is in the ICU on the threshold of death, friends stepped in, unbidden, to relieve us of all responsibilities for everyday tasks. A friend with a key to our house made sure the dog got let out, walked, and fed. The child was picked up from school, fed, and cared for. The refrigerator seemed to fill up magically with food, with casseroles and other dishes that needed only to be reheated. Mail was collected and milk taken in.

Coming home after each exhausting marathon of anxiety and despair in that time was like starring in a production of "The Tailor of Gloucester," in which the desperately poor and worried tailor, sick and feverish, takes to his bed knowing that he will never be able to finish making a wedding coat for the mayor by morning and will therefore be ruined, only to wake up and find the coat exquisitely completed thanks to the hard work of an army of grateful mice who toiled all night, unseen.

Though this most recent event was short-lived (and hopefully just a wake-up call and not a general alarm), the firefighters that are friends and family immediately began to stir. Siblings called to let me know they were on hand for anything. Two friends appeared in the ER with homemade meals and treats to take home with us so we wouldn't have to worry about a thing. Other friends weighed in on social media and via email with advice, shared experiences, and concern.

The custom of showing up with a casserole may seem sort of quaint and funny to people who are still in the immortal stage of life, but when the going gets rough, it's immensely reassuring to have someone show up with one, even if it's just tuna wiggle. "Food has the power to heal, to comfort, and to convey care and affection," writes chef Joyce Goldstein in her introduction to the cookbook From Our House to Yours, which was published to benefit San Francisco's Meals on Wheels program.

I certainly don't mean to infer that the bringing of food is appreciated only in dark times. Having meals show up when you're taking care of a brand-new baby is a lifesaver, too. (And anybody who wants to bring me food when absolutely nothing of any importance is going on is quite welcome to do so.)

One of my favorite casserole scenes appears in  Lars and the Real Girl. Lars sits in the living room, tensely waiting for news about his beloved Bianca. Women show up with knitting and sewing projects to sit quietly with him. "We brought casseroles," says one. Lars thanks her and wonders aloud if he should be doing something. He's told, "No, dear. You eat." Another chimes in, "We came over to sit." A third woman adds, "That's what people do when tragedy strikes."

Tragedy, however, didn't get us this time, and we went on to have a perfectly lovely weekend, complete with a lazy morning cup of coffee and a sunny-afternoon walk on the Tolt Pipeline trail. With plenty of warm minestrone soup and garlic bread to come home too, and a pot of lentil sausage soup to look forward to (the chocolate chip cookies are already pretty much history).

We've done our share of providing comfort food, too, and life being what it is, will no doubt be on both the giving and receiving end of this tradition many times in the future. As Garrison Keillor says regarding living a good life, "do your part, and bring a hot dish when it's your turn."

Stupid Turnips

"I'm a GOOD turnip farmer."

There's a famous scene in Gone With the Wind in which Scarlett O'Hara gnaws on a turnip ripped from the soil, gets sick, then rails at the heavens, "As God is my witness, I'll never go hungry again!" Turnips proceed to sustain Scarlett and her family during those first tough years bringing Tara back to life.

Well. Scarlett would have gone very, very hungry indeed if she'd been relying on our turnip crop.
Turnips are supposed to be fairly easy to grow. So trouble-free that they're used for feeding pigs and cattle.

According to one farm's website (whose testimony I don't doubt, as they actually successfully grow crops), "Turnips require very little care, tolerate a wide range of soils and positively thrive in cold temperatures. "  

What turnips SHOULD look like.

The Seattle Times gardening column lists it as a standard winter crop. "Turnips are frost-hardy and like cool weather!" warbles Sunset Vegetable Gardening. "Where winters are mild, plant in fall for a winter crop," assures the Western Garden Book, adding that the plants need "ample space for root to reach full weight of 3-5 lbs."

I don't think our entire turnip crop registered 3 to 5 pounds in weight, though possibly it would've achieved this heady status if I'd weighed it before cutting off the greens, wiping off the slugs, and washing off the dirt.

In fact, it looked as if all the turnips had taken a vote and decided that just one of them would grow to anything like normal-turnip size, while the rest of them would remain little.

"I'll do the growin' around here, and don't you forget it."

Not only were most of them just cruciferous Ping-Pong balls, they were also riddled with tunnels. And a pillbug was cozily residing in one of them. Could the culprits be root maggots?

According to a gardening advice column in The Seattle Times, "Root maggots overwinter in the soil as larvae and pupate near the surface of the soil in the spring, using root crops like turnips for sustenance."

If they're pupating, they wouldn't be eating, and when they emerge from their pupae they'd be full-grown flies and wouldn't be gnawing roots, either, so they have to be talking about the larvae (which is what maggots are, after all).

Canadian Organic Growers notes cheerfully that "winter turnips or rutabagas are riddled by the maggots but only superficially at the bottom of the root which can be trimmed off at harvest," so I thought maybe the rotten little creatures were busy very early in the mild winter season.

Now I'm wondering if it was just our old familiar slugs rasping away at them. The University of Maryland Extension website chronicles the hollowing-out of turnips by young slugs here and notes "If your turnip crop yields stunted, hollow turnips...don’t overlook the possibility that slugs have found and adopted your turnip roots as near perfect places to live."

Though why the turnips stopped growing is a puzzler to me. Then again, I guess I wouldn't have much motivation, either, if I'd been gnawed by maggots or slugs.

Oh well. We'll get one pan of roasted turnips out of the lot, anyway (after having composted the heavily damaged ones). And the leeks did astonishingly well --the p-patch is a veritable old-growth forest of leeks. Too bad we haven't figured out a dish we like them in all that much...maybe we'll just use them as inspiration for writing and pen an ode to "Spring: A Leek."

Yes, That IS a String of Cheetos Hanging From the Eaves. It's SCIENCE.

Let it not be said that the residents of our household do not have Inquiring Minds. Science: It's what's for breakfast. And for sleepover snackses.

For the past three weeks we've had a rain-chain of Cheetos hanging from the front eave of the house. It was draped there by a gaggle of girls whom the Resident Teen had invited over for a sleepover (though to be precise it was more of a movie-over, or a feast-over, or something, with  lots of texting mixed in). 

It came to my attention when I wandered into the living room, which was momentarily the only quiet place in the house, and saw this weird apparition bobbing outside the window, backlit by the streetlights. 

Amazing, how quickly the brain works: "What is THAT? Oh, of course. It's Cheetos tied to a string. Suspended from the eave."

A request was made not to disturb the Cheeto-chain because the science squad wanted to see how long it would take for birds to eat the snacks. Sure, fine, whatever. 

(Never mind that I can cause my offspring terrible embarrassment merely by being seen at school, or by breathing too loudly, or by blinking too rapidly. Apparently decorating one's house with snack foods is perfectly acceptable.)

I assumed the crows would make off with the cheese puffs in no time. I've seen them wolfing down Cheetos in parks and playgrounds, after all, and here they were getting them served up virtually on a silver platter. Barring that, the little orange squiggles would surely grow moldy and disintegrate. (Talk about shabby-chic decor for your home!)

Well, that was the hypothesis. Much to our surprise, the crows did not gobble up the experiment. Nor did the snacks grow moldy. They lost volume as they dried out (the Resident Teen noted that they'd gotten pretty tough), and didn't regain any size even when they grew spongy with rain. 

Get thee behind me, Doodles!

Otherwise, I think they may have persisted in the environment for a very, very long time (except that the teenage scientist finally and unceremoniously yanked the Cheeto-chain off the house and threw it away). The secret to eternal life probably lies in the preservatives used to ensure a long shelf life for cheese puffs. 

OK, I know full well that snack foods like this are the opposite of kale chips. I have come a long way from craving the Cheez Doodles I loved so much as a kid. 

And I know that one should be suspicious of foods that come in bags that warn you to keep them out of the light. (I can't recall what brand of cheesy snacks required darkness--or should I say "cheezy snax," as weird spelling seems to be required when describing cheese-flavored cornmeal puffs).

But don't let a bag of them anywhere near me because I can still hear their siren song....

Curious to find out more about the latest in cheese-puff science, I went a-Googlin', and was newly amazed by the creative capacity of my fellow human beings (and in some cases astonished by just how much time can be wasted, and--to go for a trifecta of adjectives beginning with A--appalled by  just how bad bad taste can be, and we're not talking about the taste of the cheese puffs).

This is a cheetah, not a Cheeto. Couresty Wikipedia.

There is a blog that covers an entire summer's worth of Cheeto science experimentation. You can find out just what's in a Cheeto here. There are people who make artworks out of Cheetos: one woman made an entire Cheeto room complete with furniture and people, and another artist uses that neon orange dust that collects at the bottom of a Cheetos bag to make portraits, such as a cheesy one of Elvis on black velvet. There are teachers who have little children eat Cheetos in order to teach them about pollination. (I kid you not. I suppose the next unit in their science classes is Nutrition.)

There are also lots of chickens, corn snakes, orange-tabby cats, hamsters, and other animals named Cheeto. (I have even personally met one of these animals, and  he is said to be a good rat-catcher.) 

Other fun cheese-puff facts for those seeking to snack on junk-food trivia: 

Cheese puffs were apparently discovered by accident in the 1930s as a worker making flaked corn for cattle feed noticed that damp cornmeal heated by a flaking machine's motor caused the cornmeal to be extruded in long threads. Add flavoring to extruded, damp, warm cattle feed, and voila! A snack sensation is born!

Cheetos were the first American snack food to be produced and distributed in China (in 1994). According to Wikipedia, taste tests were performed first, with "ranch dressing, North Sea crab, smoked octopus and caramel being passed up for two flavors: Savory American Cream and Zesty Japanese Steak."

Django watched the Cheeto-chain for HOURS.

Wise snack-food company makes cheese puffs that look like crocodiles.

There are apparently people who will pay $35.18 to purchase Cheetos on ebay that purport to resemble Michael Jackson  moonwalking.

Wotsits are the UK's version of cheese puffs, and you can get them in prawn-cocktail flavor. They also once made a product called "Mealtime Potato Shapes," which shows that they really desperately needed a marketing department.

Right, that's quite enough of that. Onward. What science projects do you have hanging around your house, literally or figuratively (not counting the ones we all have lurking in the back of the refrigerator in mysterious food-storage containers)?

Chocolate chocolate chocolate chocolate chocolate...

"All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt." --Lucy van Pelt, Peanuts by Charles Schulz

I'm taking that suggestion to heart this Valentine's Day, having just consumed a Hershey's kiss before writing about the happy chocolate discovery we made very recently.

That chocolate discovery may be the answer to the question that's haunted me for nearly 30 years--to wit: Just how did my grandmother make that incredible chocolate frosting (not to mention the yellow cake it frosted)?

I've written before about my Irish grandmother, Mamo, and the wonderful baked goods she produced in a tiny, cramped basement kitchen in Elmhurst, Queens, New York. Most of her recipes, sad to say, went with her to the grave. She rarely wrote them down, and nobody thought to ask her for them while she was still healthy and baking.

I can remember her bringing a cake each time she visited us--it was always a double layer cake, always square, and always transported in a sturdy Jacob's Irish biscuits tin (which, unlike her recipes, I have on my kitchen shelf). I know that the yellow cake was pale and dense, more like a pound cake than a traditional American layer cake.

I figured I could someday reproduce a semblance of the cake if I tried out enough pound cake recipes. But the frosting? I've frosted many cakes over the years using a variety of recipes, but none came close to the chocolate confection that rippled across the top and along the sides of Mamo's cakes.

That frosting was rich, deep, chocolaty, and sweet, but it also had a sour tang that made it more complex than sugary. Its texture was special, too. It wasn't frothy like buttercream, or perpetually soft and spreadable like frosting from a can.

Once on the cake, it hardened just enough to have a crackly feel to it. It wasn't as stiff as fondant, but it was solid enough that Mamo could peck it all over with a knife to stir up tiny peaks that froze in place, solid enough that you could peel a sheet of icing off the cake and eat it like a piece of toast (I speak from sneaky childhood experience on that last point).

I'd pretty much given up on unearthing some secret treasure trove of Mamo's recipes by now; my mom had a small stash that Mamo had given her when she got married, but no pound cake or frosting recipes were among them. I assumed that Mamo, who had worked as a waitress in a cafe associated with the Dublin store Arnott's as a young woman and learned to make pastry there, was simply able to make that frosting from memory.

Over the holidays, however, I happened upon a small booklet Mom had given me many years ago. It came from the Elmhurst house, she noted. It was a promotional cookbook published by Walter Baker & Company, Inc., the producers of Baker's baking chocolate squares.

You can see where this is going, but it could've taken a long time to get there, as there are more than 20 frosting recipes in the little book. Much as I would be glad to bake 20+ cakes and frost them with chocolate and taste-test them, there isn't time--nor would I ever be able to walk off the calories. (And though my daughter would surely help with the tasting, my husband would be of no use: he is known to cut frosting off cake to eat it plain because he finds frosting too sweet.)

I knew Mamo wasn't above using printed recipes--though she cooked from scratch most of the time, she was happy to use products such as Bird's custard, so I can't imagine her sniffing disdainfully at a promotional cookbook. Flipping through the pages, I quickly discovered several that were dog-eared, one of which contained frosting recipes--and one of those had a cook's thumbprint right beside it.

Fortunately, we had a birthday to celebrate in January, so I baked a yellow cake using a recipe from Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook (it wasn't just like Mamo's, but it was dense and very good) and whipped up the newly found chocolate frosting recipe. Right after it was slathered on the cake, it became brittle, and though the peaks I stirred up were nothing like the choppy ocean Mamo created, it was still a satisfying seascape.

It hit all the right notes with me, a la Proust's madeleines, so I'm pretty sure this is the recipe she used. I'm happy to conclude that it is. Now if only I knew why her lemon tea cookies were tender and crumbly and mine, using the same recipe, turn into road turtles, my baking life would be complete.

Cocoa Frosting
(a forgiving recipe; I accidentally used 1/3 cup butter instead of 3 tablespoons, but it still came out fine and not too buttery)

2 cups sifted confectioner's sugar
1/8 tsp salt
3 Tb cocoa
3 Tb butter
3 Tb hot milk
1/2 tsp vanilla

1. Sift sugar, salt, and cocoa together.
2. Cream butter until soft; add part of sugar mixture gradually, beating thoroughly.
3. Add remaining sugar mixture alternately with hot milk, beating well after each addition.
4. Add vanilla.

Makes enough frosting to cover tops of two 9-inch layers, or top and sides of 8 x 8 x 2 inch cake.

Doin' the Puyallup

After weeks of plotting and planning, my daughter and two friends were thrilled to be on their way at last to the Puyallup Fair.

Getting them there and then letting them go was our parental task. We watched our daughter stride off with her friends, tethered to us only by hourly texts to check in, feeling somewhat relieved as well as wistful; wasn't it just yesterday that we escorted her around the fair, bought her cotton candy, and took turns going on all the rides with her?

For several hours, then, it was just us two wandering around aimlessly, taking in all the sights you expect at a fair: booths offering neon-colored slush drinks, Krusty Pups, elephant ears, deep-fried Twinkies, and cotton candy; hawkers trying to sell you on the latest and greatest (they really do still say things like "You have to see this product to believe it!"); big kids staggering under the weight of huge plush monkeys and other prizes won in games; and best of all...

The Animals.

The beef and dairy cattle had already gone home, as it was the last day of the fair, and we somehow missed the poultry, rabbit, and pig barns, but we did get to see the sheep, all dressed up in their fleece-protecting coats that make them look like superheroes.

Most of the 4-H horses had gone home as well, but not the beautiful gentle giants, the draft horses.

Belgian



Percheron



A Clydesdale's spats and feathers

The slap and jingle of all the shining harness, together with the measured
thumping of all those hooves, is a glorious sound.

The fair boasted what it called "Animals of the World," which mostly consisted of rare breeds of livestock with a camel and a tame zebra thrown in. What's a fair without a little bit of hype?

The llama's technique.

Spot the mule.

A zeedonk--love the stripy ears!

Living Off the Land (or Not, As the Case May Be)

Ahh, this picture of the garden's gifts may make it appear that I am Demeter,
Goddess of Farming, herself, but pictures can be deceiving. If you shove
enough of what you harvest into the picture frame, you too can look like
you run a successful organic family farm.

We just finished a record-breaking streak of warm September weather here in Seattle (9 days that hit 80 degrees or more), but there's no denying that autumn's lurking (OK by me, as autumn is my favorite season--not that I have a choice about it arriving or not).

One of the autumnal signs is an email from the P-Patch people reminding us that it's time to think about winterizing plots--mulching, planting winter crops, and putting in cover crops.

Which means, of course, that one has presumably brought in the harvest, yes? And that once again I confront the evidence of just how hungry my family would be if we ever tried to survive on the bounty of our garden.

The scorecard:

Strawberries: 3 berries, total.
Black raspberries: Several sour, seedy, super-staining handfuls.
Peas: 1.5 cups, after shelling. Sufficed to round out one meal.
Chard: Bolted early in season. Several cups of chopped leaves flavored some meals.
Collards: Always a hit--a few pounds of leaves, blanched and reduced to a one-gallon freezer bag.
Zucchini: 3 or 4 pounds of mini-banana-sized fruits, after problem of squash-end blossom rot was resolved by steady watering and an application of epsom salts.
Red cabbage: So far, one large, rotund head and one tennis-ball-sized specimen; others still growing.
Green cabbage: Pretty much a crop of baseball-sized lumps stuffed with slugs--really just Escargot-in-the-Round.
Tomatoes: Damp, cloudy, chilly July meant late tomato production, yielding a few pounds of small but succulent fruits.
Rhubarb: First-year plants thriving, but can't pick any stems yet.
Potatoes: Haven't unearthed them yet. Cliffhanger--will they be marvelous or will they be mushy, rotten blobs?

So. I've planted some chard and Brussels sprouts in the faint hope that some winter crops will grow, and have two raspberry bushes ready to plant, one of which has already suffered badly in the heat wave, which of course is a really encouraging sign that we'll be able to grow, perhaps, two weeks' worth of food next year instead of just one week's.