Thanksgiving

It is popular to tear down traditions. People do it with glee. There isn’t a holiday on the calendar that hasn’t been derided by some group or another. Thanksgiving is a popular target. From PETA to groups that decry the cruelty of colonialism to atheists who claim there is no One to thank, people love to tear it down. They even love to tear down the family. “A real family is made of the people you love.”

The family is God’s creation. God commands us to honor our parents. He doesn’t say to honor our parents if they deserve it. God says children are a blessing. Yes, even the ones that drive us crazy! God gifts us with our family. Sometimes He gifts us with new people, friends and neighbors, giving those who have no one a place where they are appreciated and belong. That’s a good thing. But that does not mean we can abandon father and mother, sister and brother. Yes, every family has a member or two who are difficult, perhaps even more than difficult. Some of them may be (and I am beginning to hate this catch word) toxic, and in some cases, distance can be helpful for a time. Perhaps that difficult person is you. Or me.

But God created the family. He created it for our good. He created it to be a place where people look out for each other, where the unlovely are still loved, where the unkind are shown kindness, where charity and mercy are practiced daily. Everyone loves people who are nice to them, who agree with them, who are easy and fun and supportive. Family is the training ground where we learn to love the unloveable, to forgive what seems unforgivable, and to spread God’s grace and mercy and peace to flawed humanity.

Thanksgiving is a time of gathering. We gather as friends and family. As neighbors and congregations. Thanksgiving is a time of working out differences. Of good-natured arguments over food or football. Of sharing with and caring for those in need. But mostly, Thanksgiving is a time to count our blessings and to be grateful to God for all His good gifts. And while we should be thankful every day, the food and the customs of this day connect us as a nation, connect us to past generations and to the future.

So yes, we can talk about conspicuous consumption or the value of the turkey as a main dish or pumpkin as a dessert. We can argue about politics or climate change. We can bluster about Commanders or Cowboys. But then we can bow our heads and spend a few moments thanking God for all that He as given us, to ask His blessing on those in need, on our nation, on friends and neighbors, and on the flawed people He has gathered together called our family. We can thank Him for His faithfulness when we were unfaithful, for being a Father to the fatherless, for loving us and forgiving us when we were unlovely. We can thank Him for sending His son Jesus to atone for our sins and for adopting us into His family by grace through faith.

My Taller Half and I wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving from Pixley. May the Lord bless you today and always.

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.




The End of an Era

Our county just passed a referendum allowing the sale of alcohol by the glass in restaurants that do 51% of their business in food sales. You will also be able to purchase liquor by the bottle. Bars will still be prohibited. The intent of those who sponsored the referendum is to open the county up for development. I’ve heard that Cracker Barrel is one business that has expressed interest. We were one of the last mostly dry counties in the state.

I was a bit ambivalent about the vote. I am not opposed to drinking alcohol, only drunkenness. My Taller Half hasn’t had a drink of alcohol in decades. We have several bottles of good liquor in the cabinet, but I’m on so many medications, I haven’t had a drink in years. No one wants to encourage drunk driving or drunkenness, but anyone who really wants liquor can just cross the county line to find it. Besides, you couldn’t buy liquor here, but the police reports show you can still buy meth.

My problem is that we like the quiet here, and development is not something that thrills us. Our house is a short block from the county highway that runs through town. Before The Big Storm, we never heard the traffic noise. With so many trees gone, we can now. You can still see stars here at night, hear the birds and the crickets. That may change.

Development means more traffic, more light pollution. If it gets too developed, maybe a developer will want to buy our house and 3/4 acre, and we can take the money to relocate to a more rural part of the state … though few more rural places exist. And since we only have about 3,500 people here now, it will take a lot of development to make Pixley anywhere near as big as anywhere else I’ve ever lived … although MTH lived in a much smaller hamlet in Western New York in the 1970s. At least when friends come to visit, we’ll have more options for where to take them out to eat. Right now, we have two Mexican restaurants, a barbecue place, and a Waffle House, the one that actually closed for a day or two after The Big Storm.

Change is hard, and its size is part of what attracted me to Pixley. But more businesses means more jobs and less poverty, and that’s hard to oppose. Slàinte mhath!

Collards and Cornbread

For three months now, I’ve been babying my fall garden, including two collard green plants that survived my initial incompetence. Can you believe that while My Taller Half and I were out shopping, my neighbor harvested my greens and cooked them?

Of course, this was an act of kindness, not thievery. MTH loves collard greens. I’m a decent cook, but I didn’t even know how they should taste. How would I know if I was making them right or tell a good recipe from a bad one? Our next-door neighbor, a lifelong resident of this part of the country, said that’s one thing she knows how to make. In truth, this fine lady can cook and makes many good things.

While we were out, I called to ask if I needed to bring home anything to make the collards. She told me they were already done. She said to be sure to get the fixin’s for cornbread.

When we arrived home, she brought us a big pot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep some? It looks like there’s plenty.” She said no, but her grandson came in, smelled them, and had a big spoonful before she could tell him those weren’t for them. She promised to make him another pot later.

The greens smelled heavenly. I started to put them in containers in the refrigerator so that I could wash and return her pot. MTH said he couldn’t wait for cornbread and ate a little bowlful, confirming that the collards were excellent. He texted her the same, and she replied, “I know that’s right!”

Next fall, I need to plant a lot more collards and maybe some mustard greens, too. We still have broccoli, cabbages, and carrots to harvest later. Those I know how to handle. For now, I need to make some cornbread and ask God’s blessings on our sweet neighbor.

First Breakfast

My Taller Half and I are both under the weather. No, it’s not COVID. It’s just aging or genetics or paying the price for past carelessness. Normally, we’d be in the Bigger City to the south, listening to our pastor preach a great sermon. After church, we’d do our regular Bigger City stock up run to all our favorites stores, grab some lunch, then head home for a nice nap. But we haven’t made that trip for a few weeks, and while we still have The Pig and Wally World nearby, it’s just not the same.

MTH fixes breakfast most mornings, so I decided it was my turn this morning. He likes his eggs on the softer side, while I’m the kid Ron Popeil envisioned when he invented his In-the-Egg Scrambler. One compromise we both enjoy is a scrambled egg concoction in my cast iron skillet. It’s a bit like a crustless quiche. Into the skillet go the vegetables, chopped meats, whatever I have or need to use, which I usually sauté, then I pour in the egg mixture and top with cheese. I pop that into the oven until it is firm and the cheese is melted.

But without shopping much lately, the cupboard is getting a little bare. We have mushrooms — always a good start — some shallots and some garlic. I could cook up some frozen broccoli, but my personal energy reserves were a bit low, so if there wasn’t any ready to go, it wasn’t going to happen. We have some sausage and maybe a few slices of bacon, but again, too tiring. We have an open jar of sun-dried tomatoes — into the pan they went. It would be good, but it really needs meat to be perfect. The sun-dried tomatoes had me thinking Mediterranean, those blue waters off the coasts of Greece or Italy I’ve seen in pictures. In the pantry, I found a can of sardines.

My dad used to eat sardines out of the can when I was a kid. It grossed me out. He also used to eat Vienna Sausages out of the can. Dad was in the Navy through two wars. It hardens a man … and his stomach. The only canned fish I ever buy is tuna and occasionally salmon. But one day, MTH came home with cans of smoked oysters and smoked fish.

“Here,” he said, shoving a fork bearing an unknown substance toward my mouth. I obeyed. We’re still practically newlyweds, so I give him a lot of leeway. It was some sort of fish, and it was good!

“What is it?”

“Smoked herring,” he told me, and I promptly forgot.

So the next time I was in the canned fish aisle, I tried to remember. What was it? It wasn’t anchovies, the little fishes that people put on pizza. Sardines? Yes, It must be sardines. So I brought MTH home a can of sardines, informing him that I bought more of the fish he enjoyed. “Those are sardines. We had smoked herring.” Sigh.

So this morning, with my head full of visions of fisherman on the Mediterranean, I spied the little can of sardines. How bad could it be? So into the pan, along with the sizzling mushrooms, shallots, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes, I added the sardines. They looked pretty good! I poured in the eggs scrambled with seasonings, topped it all with some shredded white cheddar, popped it into the oven, and started the coffee.

When I presented it to MTH, he looked a bit skeptical. He took a bite, then asked for a napkin.

“Are you going to spit it out?”

He mimicked gagging into his napkin then chuckled. “No, silly.”

I tried a bite. “I would definitely make this again. It’s good.” I looked at him, trying to read his opinion. He’s hard to read.

“It is good. Especially the sun-dried tomatoes.”

“I’ll add more next time.”

MTH humphed in agreement.

“I think it will keep well for lunch. I’ll eat the rest later.”

“I will, too.” It is a lot of food, and we’re not at our best. Second breakfast.

After breakfast, our phones started sending weather alerts. A tropical storm is heading our way. I am not too concerned. After our breakfast, we’re ready for anything.

Preferably a nap.