Grace and Gratin Dauphinois

Ascension Sunday: My Taller Half (MTH) and I had a lovely drive to church this morning. We were happy to be with our church family and to worship the King. Afterward, we did our Bigger City errands, including picking up storm supplies, then we headed back home. We still had a lot of daylight ahead of us. I had plants to tend to and Sunday dinner to make.

The day before yesterday, I found some pole beans ready for harvesting, so I picked enough for a dinner. MTH asked for some pot roast to go with the beans and potatoes. The menu was set.

Today, I made my second attempt at potatoes au gratin. This time, I took Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the shelf. Reading the recipe made me wonder if it could possibly be better than the last one. It was a simpler recipe, less rich, less cheesy. In fact, she said you don’t even need to use cheese! Inconceivable!

But au gratin doesn’t specifically mean covered with cheese. The origins are a little misty, but it seems to mean a dish that is golden brown on the top, usually from browning cheese or buttered bread crumbs or, in this case, milk. One source said that au gratin is also used to describe the “top people” in society in the same way the upper crust came to mean people of worth or high social standing.

The alleged story behind upper crust is that, in the Middle Ages, the most honored guests at a meal would be offered the top crust of the bread. If you can imagine baking in a very unreliable and potentially dirty stone oven, the bottom of the bread would be more likely to be gritty, overdone, and tough. The top would be tender. I write alleged because there apparently isn’t a lot of evidence to support this theory, though it sounds plausible. One potential bit of evidence is John Russell’s, The boke of nurture, folowyng Englondis gise, written in the mid-15th Century.

Kutt ye vpper crust for youre souerayne. (Cut youe upper crust [of bread] for your sovereign)

https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/upper-crust.html

The idea behind both phrases seems to be that the rich and powerful get the best food. I might argue that “peasant food” is some of the tastiest around, or even argue for the plausibility of the upper crust story, but I won’t argue French cooking with the Julia Child. Julia wouldn’t fail me, would she?

Julia’s recipe called for the dish of potatoes to be put on the burner to bring the milk up to a simmer before putting it in the oven. My Dutch oven would do that, but it was too big and deep for the potatoes. My pretty casserole dishes cannot be used on the stovetop. I was about to give up on the recipe when I realized that my largest cast iron skillet would be perfect. It can go from stovetop to oven, and the dimensions are just right. We fry bacon in it and make great pizza in it, so why not? Is there anything cast iron can’t do? Okay, it can’t go in the dishwasher, but we don’t own a dishwasher, so that is fine!

The kitchen was getting pretty hot by the time dinner was ready, and I was getting tired. MTH said the blessing, then we became quiet as we tested the results.

MTH smiled. Too good for anyone but us. MTH’s Auntie N— use to say that a lot.

Julia did not let us down. The potatoes were wonderfully creamy. They weren’t as rich as the first recipe, not as cheesy, but that wasn’t a negative. It was simply delicious. MTH said everything was perfect. He may have been buttering me up to encourage me to make it again, but I will take the compliment.

As I enjoyed the pleasure of a simple meal with my husband, I looked out the window at the gathering dusk. I love the play of light and dark between the last rays of the sun, the leaves of the trees, and the clouds in the sky. I silently thanked the Father for His grace, for this moment of contentment with my husband, and for Julia Child and her Gratin Dauphinois. Life is good.

Scalloped Potatoes

With a wealth of potatoes at our disposalor at least as much wealth as you can get from two 4×4′ raised garden beds—I asked My Taller Half (MTH) what kind of potatoes he would like. I listed a few types, then he smiled. Let’s have those ones … you know … the ones (he mimicked a slicing motion) … in the sauce. I knew exactly what he meant, but like him, I could not remember the name of these potatoes. Rather than ruin the evening in frustration for our dual momentary lapses, I assured him I would make them before we ran out of potatoes.

The next morning, I woke early, and the word was there, clear and shining if twelve hours too late. Triumphant, I loudly shared my epiphany with MTH. Scalloped potatoes!

MTH was asleep. He fought his way through the fog and glared at me. Okay, it would have been a glare if he could have opened his eyes. “Scalloped potatoes?” He pried his eyes open enough to read his bedside clock. “You’ve cheated me out of twenty minutes of sleep. I am claiming these twenty minutes!”

Satisfied, I started my day. I fully intended to make scalloped potatoes when they reminded me of one of my favoritesau gratin. I mentioned these to MTH, who seemed pleased with the idea. Cheese makes everything better. I had another idea. “From now on, when we can’t think of a word, we should just say Scalloped Potatoes.” He grinned.

It was my first time making au gratin potatoes, so I grabbed a highly-rated recipe off the internet. The recipe I chose said it was a variation of Julia Child’s, which was good enough for me and saved me a trip to the bookshelf where Mastering the Art of French Cooking – The 40th Anniversary Edition has rested undisturbed since I moved to Pixley. I should have gone to the bookshelf. Julia’s recipe for Gratin Dauphinois (Scalloped Potatoes with Milk, Cheese, and a Pinch of Garlic) would have saved me with its higher temperature and warning not to use a deep pan. I used my pretty round Polish stoneware dish instead of the more utilitarian Pyrex. Not the best choice. Don’t get me wrongthe potatoes were tasty. MTH was very enthusiastic in this regard. Buoyed by the promises of creaminess, the first bite he tried was less than pliant. He said the rest were fine. I couldn’t say the same. They were tasty, but they weren’t perfect. Next time, my pommes de terre will be amazing.

The name Gratin Dauphinois captured my imagination. Was this because the Dauphin (the title for the eldest son of the king when France had a king) really loved this recipe? No. A little research found that The Dauphiné is a former province of France near the southeastern border, a part of which includes a portion of the southern Alps. Potatoes will grow at these altitudes. One thing I enjoy about cooking is that it ties people together across time, space, and cultures. Nearly everyone enjoys a good meal—and those who don’t are suspect.

Sharing the bounty of our little garden is as gratifying as partaking of it ourselves. We have enjoyed several potato dishes so far, shared some potatoes with neighbors and friends, and have several pounds remaining for other dishes. Red Pontiacs have earned a space in future gardens, and as good as they are, we need to enlarge our garden so that we can enjoy and share even more. And in the interest of sharing, the next time you can’t think of the word that is just on the tip of your tongue, feel free to say, Scalloped Potatoes! You’re welcome.




Red Pontiac potatoes

PO-TAY-TOES

PO-TAY-TOES. Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew.

Samwise Gamgee

I planned my garden long before I moved to Pixley. I spent hours reading up on the seasons here, the best things to plant and when, the best varieties of each type of plant for the area. I looked at seed catalogs the way some women look at clothing or jewelry catalogs.

I feel closer to God in a garden. It is where we all began.

The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.

Genesis 2:15 (ESV)

I was anxious to have a garden again. I did not anticipate The Big Storm, or a wedding, or illness, or the pandemic, or that the prices of everything including lumber and cinder blocks would skyrocket.

Early in 2021, I planted fruit trees and bushes. In the fall of 2021, My Taller Half and I built three 4 x 4 boxes for raised beds. We planted our first crops — collards, broccoli, cabbages, carrots, and lettuce. I wanted to double the size of our garden space this spring, but the costs for constructing the raised beds were too high. I almost missed the spring planting.

I decided to plant Red Pontiac potatoes, sweet onions, shallots, Southern peas, and pole beans. I’ve grown beans in the past, but everything else was new to me. The rule here, I was told, is “plant potatoes on Valentine’s Day, eat potatoes on Mother’s Day.” I was a few days late, but I planted them. For months, I watered and weeded. I prayed in our garden. I prayed over our garden. And today, a few days after Mother’s Day, I harvested our first potatoes.

I am ridiculously happy. Isn’t it amazing? You stick little cuttings of seed potatoes in the dirt, and in three months, you have potatoes. We have several plants to harvest, and then, if it is not too late, I can plant okra, sweet potatoes, and asparagus.

We are not in a position to survive on the food we grow, but what we do grow is fresher and tastier. When we thank the Lord for the food we have grown and ask Him to bless it, we know all that went into getting it from seed to table. Growing food helps us better appreciate the hard work that others do to feed hungry people.

There was a season when I grew a garden with my kids so that they would learn. There was a season when I was too busy caring for my growing family to garden. There was a long season in the apartment when I could only grow a few herbs on the front walkway. Now, we are in a season when MTH and I can garden together.

I look forward to many more spring and fall gardens to come, God willing. I hope that one day, grandchildren will come to visit and pluck fruit off of our trees and play and learn in the garden. I know a season will come when we will no longer be able to work in the garden. I am not anxious for that season to arrive, but I believe there is a season that will follow that will never end, a new life in a new creation where we will see Him face to face. And while some imagine streets of gold, I imagine magnificent forests, crystal rivers, towering mountains, and lush gardens all filled with praise.

I don’t imagine there will be potatoes in heaven, but we can enjoy them here—mashed, roasted, hash browns, in a stew, or in Colcannon. Sam Gamgee would approve. And when you enjoy the fruits of a garden, remember to thank the One who gives us our food in due season, the One who created the color green, and potatoes.




A Little Romance

Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.

C. S. Lewis

Our third-anniversary approaches, so I guess it is time to share the story of how My Taller Half and I came to be.

My youngest child graduated high school a couple of months before I moved to Pixley. I had planned to leave the city I had lived in for fourteen years for a place that was quieter and more affordable. Unfortunately, the friend who was planning to drive the moving truck for me had conflicts, and I was without a driver only six weeks from the move.

I am nothing if not resourceful. I had noticed that a friend from a social media site mentioned on his profile that he drives a truck. We grew up in the same approximate area but several years apart. We both frequented state history pages and political pages. We had messaged a few times, very platonic chats, but that was the extent of our relationship. I needed help, so I decided to take a leap. “Can you really drive a truck?”

“Yes, why?”

“Would you be willing to do me a favor?”

Understand that, at the time, MTH lived in a larger city a couple of hours away. We had never met in person or even had an in-depth conversation. But he agreed to drive the truck. Problem solved.

I enjoyed a few moments of relief before the anxiety set in. I didn’t really know this guy, yet I was inviting him to come to our apartment to help with the move, to be around my stuff, my adult children, and me. So for the next six weeks, along with work, packing, and a trip to Pixley to work on the house, I pestered him daily. I wanted to know all I could about him. He wasn’t used to long messages or online conversations. He usually ended our chats with, “Go away, child.”

I learned a lot about his life. We talked about music. We reminisced about life in the area in the 30, 40, 50 years earlier. He told me about the long battle with illness that nearly took his life. We talked about the faith we shared in Christ. I knew I annoyed him with my constant questions, but you can never be too careful. I may have worked into the conversation how I have a concealed weapons permit and was a practiced shot.

The move was a bit of a disaster. I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been. Things didn’t fit on the truck the way I believed they would. My kids and I worked hard to get things together, and MTH helped put some order in the chaos. I felt awful. He hadn’t signed on for anything but driving, but he seemed to enjoy himself. My daughter and her friend were convinced he was sweet on me. They “shipped us.” I was pretty certain he wanted to throttle me.

A mixup with the appliance delivery had me abandoning them for the house. My youngest and MTH headed up later with the truck. We unloaded and then headed out to deliver the truck to the rental office. After a very long drive back to MTH’s place, I headed back to Pixley. I had to work the next day.

A day or so later, a planter with flowers arrived at my door, a housewarming gift from my friend. We had gotten in the habit of daily chats, and these didn’t stop after the move. A few weeks later, I drove my youngest to college in the same town where MTH lived. We met for lunch before I headed back to Pixley.

A couple of months after moving to Pixley, The Big Storm hit. I was alone, so MTH stayed on the phone with me, chatting with me, teasing me, distracting me, and praying with me while huge trees outside my window rocked. Then the phone went out, and he had no idea what had happened. The storm deserves its own story, so I will just say that I was without a car for three days, without a phone for four days, without power for six days, and without internet for a month. I telecommute. After about a week of working from Panera in another state, I accepted the offer of some good friends of mine to come to stay with them and use their internet. So I began working there during the week, heading back home for the weekends. My friends live about 30 minutes from MTH’s old place. We all got together for meals occasionally. It was during these little visits that the ritual of the flashlights began.

Not long after the internet was restored, I was scheduled for surgery. My kids were all busy, and I had no one to help me after the surgery. MTH rode over two hours on a bus to meet me for the surgery and to tend to me afterward. Then there were the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners that we shared with my family at a restaurant in the city where he lived because two of my kids were living there. He also invited me to a big family gathering in honor of his niece’s birthday. These weren’t dates. We never actually dated. We were friends whose time together involved meals and errands.

After the holidays, there was a bit of a lull. I didn’t see my son again until Spring Break. Not long before I was scheduled to pick my son up, I was chatting with MTH online, when he wrote, “So, do you think Pastor X should do our pre-marital counseling?”

I had to read and re-read that a few times.

“Did you just propose?

“Well, I think he would be a good choice.”

“It isn’t a proposal until you ask me to marry you in person.”

When I picked up my son for Spring Break, we met MTH for lunch. No proposal. Maybe he was kidding?

When I took my son back to school after Spring Break, we all met for lunch. Unbeknownst to me, he asked my youngest son for my hand while I was distracted by a call. I had to drive MTH back to his house before heading back to Pixley, but he needed to stop to get cat food. In the pet food aisle of my favorite grocery store, which also happened to be a convenient, air-conditioned spot, MTH pretended to find a ring box on the shelf and asked me to marry him.

Reader, I married him. Three months later, and about a year from the time I asked him if he would help drive that moving truck, we married in his church using the liturgy from my church, in the company of our families and dear friends, some of whom we also met online. Over the next few weeks, My Taller Half, along with his rescue cats, settled into our little home.

I don’t really know how it happened. MTH and I are an unlikely pair. He rescues cats. I’m a dog person. When I was 17, I was a nerd on the Brain Bowl team at my high school. When he was 17, he had been living on his own for years, traveling all over the country, doing any number of jobs, and spending an inordinate amount of time at rock and roll shows, giving very short girls a better view of the stage from his shoulders. It helps to be 4’31” tall, but he professes that he thought he was bulletproof at the time and wishes he had taken better care of his spine. (He has drawn up plans in his mind that will allow anyone to give the vertically-challenged a fair chance to see the stage without injuring a backbone. Look for the Kickstarter some time in the next 1-30 years!)

As I grew to know him, I grew to love my gruff, tender-hearted friend who rescues animals, gives me flashlights and pocket knives, calls to check on me while I make long drives so that I don’t get lost, and who prayed with me during The Big Storm. He will pray with me through all life’s storms until death do us part. I still irritate him, and he still occasionally says “Hush, child,” but we are happy. Life together is an adventure .. even in Pixley.

Love and Spiders

My father was an entomology technician with the USDA. On a few precious days during the summer, I went with him to the lab. I examined spiders and snakes in specimen jars, watched the angelfish in the office aquarium, and listened to the men talk. Not being sexist here, but the lab was populated by men. I think there was a secretary somewhere, but she didn’t work in the lab. It was probably the spiders and snakes that kept her at a distance.

I listened while Dad’s boss and co-worker chatted during downtime. Dad was always off doing something – prepping for the next experiment, observing, cleaning up. He wasn’t good at being still or idle. Neither am I, but I listened and watched and scribbled on a yellow pad, trying hard to be still and quiet. The reward would be lunch at the A&W Drive-In.

I loved being in the lab. Those visits fostered my love of both science and of creepy crawlies. There are exceptions — cockroaches, fleas, ticks, mosquitoes, and fire ants, to name a few. Spiders are not one of the exceptions.

I did not get my admiration of spiders from my mother. She once worked for the state department of agriculture. She picked random samples of leaves for examination. She was good at it, she said, because she was afraid of spiders. Rather than cherry-picking the leaves, she would reach in and grab without looking, all while hoping to avoid any spider that might be hiding in the tree.

My Taller Half (MTH) discovered an interesting spider outside last night. The web was anchored on one side to an overgrown ligustrum. The other side was anchored on a tree about 10 feet up and about 15-20 feet away from the ligustrum. He took photos, but when I looked for the web during the day, I didn’t see it.

We went out together tonight, and the spider was busily rebuilding. While I’m sure the bright flashlight was disturbing, she didn’t stop building … except when a flying bug attracted by the light hit the web. She took a break to wind him up then returned to her building. I believe she is an Eriophora ravilla, a tropical orb weaver. From the photos I found, she might be a juvenile. I found this on the IFAS site:

Orb webs of adult female E. ravilla have a widely spaced spiral and may be over 1 m across (see photograph in Levi 1977). The bridge thread supporting the web may be 6 m long (M. Stowe in Levi 1977). The web is constructed after dark, and the orb is taken down before dawn. The bridge and frame threads are probably left in place (Levi 1977). The web probably catches many moths and other night flying insects; these spiders may be particularly beneficial along woodland borders of field agroecosystems and within orchards. It is known to occur in citrus groves in Florida (Mansour et al. 1982). All stages apparently occur throughout the year, but little else is known of its life cycle.

https://edis.ifas.ufl.edu/publication/IN568

That explains why I couldn’t find the web. Very cool. We named her Enola. Enola is alone backwards, as we were told by the title character of Enola Holmes. Orb weavers seem to live solitary lives.

Before The Big Storm hit, I had a beautiful golden silk orb-weaver in residence. I enjoyed visiting him, seeing his web each day, telling him how beautiful he was. The night before the storm, he had fortified his web impressively, and as the winds began to pick up, he stood defiantly on his new web. I told him it would not help, that he needed to go into the eaves or find someplace safe. He didn’t listen to me. Stubborn. After the storm, I looked for him, but I never saw him again. He probably had quite a ride.

One of the things I loved most about Dad was that he never expected less from my sister or me than he did of our brothers. He believed we could be or do anything we wanted. He talked to me about bugs and plants. He brought home baby ducks and puppies. He warned me about the dangers of a possum bite while he hand-fed a possum jellybeans. I miss him.

One of the things I love most about MTH is that he sees the world a lot like I do. He will stop to marvel at a spider building a web. He’ll send me photos of that spider at night while I’m sleeping because he knows I wouldn’t want to miss it. He will tromp through the weeds and sit on a fallen tree trunk to watch the cardinals with me. He’ll turn the car around to take another look at a magnolia in full bloom. He comprehends the wonder of God’s creation.

One of the things I love most about Enola is that she weaves these memories together as skillfully as she weaves her web. Tonight, I thank God for the men He put in my life. For Mom. For love and spiders.