Book Review - Baking Cakes in Kigali

I just read a wonderful book called Baking Cakes in Kigali. It was written by Gaile Parkin, published in 2009. Ms. Parkin was born in Zambia and has lived and worked in many different African countries. She has written textbooks and children’s books but this is her first novel for adults.


Baking Cakes in Kigali is set in present-day Rwanda. The main character is Angel Tungaraza, a native of Tanzania, who has moved to Kigali with her husband, Pius, and their five grandchildren. Angel runs her own business, baking and decorating cakes for all occasions. She is a “professional somebody” who puts a lot of thought and love into each cake she bakes. As she meets with potential customers, she always serves tea because the choosing of a cake is very important business and mustn’t be rushed. Angel has a way of inspiring confidences. She is a keeper of secrets. Through her encounters with others, we learn about some of the horrible things that haunt this African nation, including genocide and AIDS. Angel is able to help many of her friends with their problems, and by doing so, she is finally able to face up to her own family’s disturbing history.

How can a book be so charmingly written, yet deal with such devastating topics? I think it's a great way to learn a little about another culture. It reminded me a lot of The Number One Ladies’ Detective Agency series. If Precious and Angel ever met, I’m sure they would become very good friends.



What Was He Thinking???

One day when my son, Kurt, was about three and a half years old, I took him to a salon in the mall to get his hair cut. One of the girls took him across the room, seated him on a booster, fastened a drape around his neck and began to cut his hair. I sat in the waiting area with six-year-old Carolyn and Baby Jeff. Kurt was quite a gregarious little guy (this was before I scarred him for life - see July 2010 post "Scarred For Life") and although I couldn't hear what he was telling her above the noise of the hair dryers and the voices of the other patrons and stylists, I could see that he was chatting away to this young woman as she clipped. Then there was one of those natural lulls in the conversations around the room that occur every so often (and everyone thinks about Abraham Lincoln), and just then, Kurt turned around in his little booster seat and yelled across the room to me,

"Hey, Mom! Remember the time you cut my ear off?"

Really, I can't remember what my reaction was. Besides the surprise, of course. But I can remember every head in the salon turning to look at me. I have no idea what posessed him to make this claim. I have never cut off any of my children's ears. Or any other body parts. I did cut his hair once or twice when he was really little, but I swear I never even nicked him! Who knows what he was filling this girl's head with up to that point. I wonder if she's still telling this story? And who knows what else!

Baby of the Family or The Case of the Missing Dress Socks

Kent and I are down to one child. The other three are technically adults and live away from home. Carolyn is twenty-four, a college graduate, soon to be married. Kurt is home from an L.D.S. mission to Brazil (see January 19, 2010 post The Foreign Language House), lives in an apartment with a bunch of guys, and attends B.Y.U. Jeff is currently serving a mission for the church in Germany.

That leaves Joel, our sixteen-year-old. And he has dreaded this.

"Joel!" I tell him. "It's going to be great! Just the three of us! We'll spoil you!"

"Oh yeah? How?" He knows we've never been indulgent parents. Nobody could ever accuse us of spoiling any of our children in the past.

"Well, we'll go out to eat more often now that there are only three of us, " I tell him.

He'd rather have his brothers in-house to wrestle with. They're at it constantly when they're together. A couple of weeks ago, Kurt came over to the house for a visit. I was working in the kitchen. I opened the pantry door and Joel was in there. He quickly put his finger to his lips before I could scream. I shut the door. He was carrying out a plan to attack Kurt. I don't know how long he was willing to wait in there. I guess he knows that one of  the first things Kurt will do upon arrival at the house is look for something to eat.

"And we'll maybe go to a movie once in a while before it gets to the dollar theater!" I tell him.

He'd rather have a live-in ping pong partner. He and Jeff drove us crazy. Sometimes we had to tell them they couldn't play. Did you know ping pong is a violent sport? Jeff is the worst. He's a terrible winner and a terrible loser. He chased Joel and beat him with the paddles after every game.

And Joel misses that.

"Think about Christmas," I tell him. "The grown-up kids won't get as much."

It's no good. He misses his siblings. Even though he now occupies three bedrooms, he misses them. Three bedrooms. Really. This is the way he is being spoiled now that he's the only one left. Forget the dinners out and the movies. Three bedrooms. And not one of them is clean. He basically has a clothing bedroom, a sleeping bedroom and a school books bedroom. Although lately he's been sleeping in the clothing bedroom.

One day last week, Kent was looking for a pair of socks to wear.

"I don't have a single pair of dark socks clean," he told me.

"Well, I just did a dark load the other day." I was quick to defend my homemaking skills.

Then I had a thought. Joel, because he's generally not spoiled, does his own laundry. But he only washes what he needs. The rest stays on the floor in his clothing bedroom. I went in there. I found twenty-four of his father's dark socks around the room. You see, every Sunday morning when he gets dressed for church, Joel goes into our room for a pair of dress socks out of Kent's drawer. Then, when he takes them off, he throws them on the floor of his clothing bedroom. He doesn't wash them because he doesn't need them.One Sunday in a week. Twenty-four socks. That's three months of church socks on the floor of his clothing bedroom. Now when the other boys were living here and each taking a pair of dress socks out of Dad's drawer every Sunday, he never could have gotten away with it for three months.

The other night, while Joel was at basketball practice, Kent and I did a service project for him. We cleaned one of his rooms.

Has this kid got it made or what?

How To Feed A Crowd - cheap and easy

My husband and I are affiliated with an L.D.S. congregation of college students. (See October 2009 post A Pediatrician's Advice or February 2010 post Now Go Sit Down.) They all live in an apartment complex in Provo, near Brigham Young University. Twenty-six apartments with up to six kids living in each one. We like to have groups of them over for dinner on Sundays. We usually invite two or three apartments at a time. It's a fun way to get to know them better, and many of them like the chance to be in a house now and then. If I had a dollar for every time one of them said "Real carpet!" upon hitting our family room, I'd probably have enough money to pay for a fair amount of the food I serve them. Feeding all these students as well as our own kids (and usually some of their friends) could get expensive. But I've figured out how to feed a crowd, cheap and easy. I've got it down. I make the same meal every week. They seem to love it, and, believe it or not,  my family doesn't even get sick of it.

I make a big pot of Lasagna Soup and two pans of homemade foccacia bread. I put out ingredients for make-your-own-salad, including torn up hearts of Romaine, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, and green onions. If I happen to have anything else that would be good in a salad, I put it out as well. They can also use the Parmesan cheese that I put out for the soup in their salad if they want. Then I make an easy dessert. Sometimes apple crisp in the Dutch oven, or Texas sheet cake. Maybe cupcakes and let them frost their own. I usually have vanilla ice cream to go along with any of these.

I got the soup recipe from my friend and neighbor, Cherie Peterson. She's an excellent cook. Her family actually calls it Freakin' Good Lasagna Soup. And it is.

Here's the recipe:


1 lb. ground beef

1 small onion, chopped

1 large clove garlic, minced (I actually use garlic-in-a-jar)

1 (15 oz.) can tomato sauce

1 (28 oz.) can Italian style petite diced tomatoes

1 tsp. beef bouillon (1 cube - I like the granules because you don’t have to unwrap them.)

3 tsp. chicken bouillon (3 cubes)

4 cups water

1 tablespoon dried oregano

1 tsp. dried thyme

1 tablespoon dried basil

crushed red pepper flakes

about 5 lasagna noodles, cooked and cut into bite-sized pieces (a pizza cutter works well)

mozzarella cheese, grated

Parmesan cheese, grated

Ricotta cheese

Heat a little olive oil in a good sized pot. Add onion and garlic and sauté until golden. Add the ground beef and brown it. Drain fat and return ground beef mixture to pot. Add tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, bouillon, water and seasonings. (Adjust seasoning amounts to your taste. I never really measure.) Heat to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer. Add cooked lasagna noodles. To serve, ladle soup into bowls and top with ricotta, mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses.

When I make this for a crowd (maybe twenty people), I triple it and use a whole box of lasagna noodles. Be careful with the crushed red pepper flakes!

So, on to the foccacia bread. It's really easy to make. Really! And so good.

Foccacia Bread


6 cups flour

2 cups warm water

¼ cup oil

1/4 cup sugar

2 tsp salt

1 ½ Tbsp yeast (2 single use packets)

6 oz. grated Parmesan cheese

2 Tbsp Italian seasonings

2 Tbsp olive oil

1/2 tsp salt

Combine 3 cups of the flour, water, oil, 2 tsp. salt, sugar, and yeast in a large mixing bowl. Mix with beaters or dough hook for 5 minutes. Add remaining 3 cups of flour and knead for 5 minutes (by hand or in mixer). In a separate bowl, combine cheese and seasonings. Add ½ of the mixture to the dough and knead it in for 2 more minutes. (Sometimes, I make it to this point the night before, spray the inside of a plastic grocery bag with non-stick spray, toss the ball of dough into the bag, tie the top up and put it in the fridge. The next day I take it out, let it warm up a little and proceed.) Lightly cover the dough with oil place in a bowl, and let rise for 20 minutes. (If you had it in the fridge overnight, skip that. Just start here after the dough has warmed up a little.) Roll the dough out a little bigger than a baker’s half sheet (large cookie sheet with sides---11 x 17). Spray the pan and place the dough in it. The dough will retract a little; make it fit the pan. Spread the olive oil on the dough. Add the last 1/2 tsp. of salt to the cheese mixture. Sprinkle the mixture over the dough. Let rise for 15 – 20 minutes. In the meantime, preheat oven to 425 degrees. Poke the dough gently but firmly enough to leave depressions over the dough’s surface. (If you forget to do this, don’t worry about it! I usually forget.) Bake for 15 minutes, placing aluminum foil lightly over the top for the last five minutes to avoid over-browning. You might need to add a few more minutes of baking time, depending on your oven.

 (This bread is really good for sandwiches. Cut in squares and split in half lengthwise.)

I serve this cheap and easy meal most Sundays from September through December. (In January I change it up by making Pasta Alfredo instead of the Lasagna Soup. Maybe in January I'll post that recipe.) If you're in the neighborhood, drop in and join us. What's one more mouth when you're already feeding a crowd?

October 24th update: There is a pasta shaped like little lasagna noodles. It's called campanelle. Target sells it. It's a little cheaper than a box of lasagna noodles, and a lot more convenient to use. Also, I've been making the bread with four cups whole grain wheat flour and two of regular white flour. It's really good and I feel a lot better about eating it. For the students, I make a pan of white and a pan of wheat.

Growing Up

I just came across this piece I wrote up years ago. I had been asked to speak to a group of young girls from church on the importance of getting an education and preparing for the future or something like that.

I can remember being a very little girl and thinking that growing up was all a big hoax. I'm not kidding! I really didn't believe that my parents had once been children. That they had been born as babies into this world and grown to adulthood was inconceivable to me. Nobody could live that long. The days I knew moved altogether too slowly to make that possible. I truly believed that these two people, my parents, had been put in place on the earth as fully-formed adults, with manufactured histories, for the sole purpose of being my parents. They could tell me all the stories of their childhoods they wanted; I inwardly shook my head and doubted their actuality.

It's no surprise then that I lived my childhood day to day, thinking it would never end. I didn't seriously consider "what I wanted to be when I grew up." I didn't even consider it non-seriously. I thought I'd be a child forever. Well, in spite of what I wanted or believed, the years went by, a few changes occurred, and I found myself a teenager. This was okay though. It was a lot of fun. I had fun friends and good times. I was also a good student and I enjoyed learning and I loved to read. But it never crossed my mind that I should be planning ahead. I thought I'd be a teenager forever. College never crossed my mind until my sister, who is just nineteen months older than I am, was filling out college applications. Two years later, I found myself at Brigham Young University.

Boy, was it fun! And the classes were okay, too. But guess what? Two years went by and I still hadn't given much consideration to what I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought I'd be a college student forever. And then all of a sudden, I knew without a doubt, that growing up was no hoax. I had to choose a major and choose one fast. For the first time in my life, I was forced to look ahead. I considered different subjects I could study, and decided I'd like to be a teacher. I went ahead and majored in Elementary Education, thinking it would be fun to work with children. Maybe I would be able to convince some of them that, yes, they would grow up someday. About the same time I decided on a major, I met my future husband. Naturally, the thought of marriage had never entered my mind at any time prior to this. Let alone the thought of someday being a parent. As I continued with my studies, however, I could see how my education would not only prepare me to have a career as a teacher, but the things I was learning I could put to use in raising my own children someday.

Well, I got married and finished my education and eventually we had our first child. The most important thing to me was being a mother. I worked as a substitute teacher until our baby was born, and then I put all my energy and education into raising my children. And the education didn't stop there. I'm a firm believer in continuing education, even in an informal way. I have continued to educate myself through reading, keeping up on what's going on in the world, and taking occasional classes. I am a teacher every day. I pass on my knowledge to my children. I encourage them to learn all they can and to look ahead!

Recently I have started substitute teaching again. My youngest child is in school all day and the schools are short on substitutes. I thought I'd try it out and see how it goes. If it doesn't interfere with my most important job of being a mother, I'll keep it up. I have found that I really enjoy teaching. I feel a sense of satisfaction when I can explain an idea to the kids (either at school or at home) and they get it! It's very rewarding.

I wasn't able to be a child forever. I wasn't able to be a teenager forever. I wasn't able to be a college student forever. But guess what? A mother and a teacher I can be forever.

Chicken on the Bones - with Skin!

Remember when we used to eat chicken on the bones? With the skin? If for some reason we wanted chicken without bones and skin, we boned and skinned it ourselves. It wasn't the most pleasant task in the kitchen, so we usually just cooked it as was. Then along came conveniently boned and skinned chicken breast halves, individually flash frozen and available for purchase in giant bags at places like Costco, and for a pretty good price. Is it just me or is there something spineless about boneless-skinless? (I really just wanted to say that. I actually love the convenience of boneless-skinless chicken breasts.)
Here's a recipe for the world's best chicken. It has to been made with bones and skin intact. I've tried it without. Don't even bother. Really - chicken with bones and skin. Try it. I promise that everyone you serve it to will love it. Young people might want to know what kind of animal it is that comes to the table with bones and skin. Just make something up.

Parmesan Chicken Breasts

6 chicken breast halves with bones and skin
1 cup bread crumbs

2/3 cup Parmesan cheese (just the dried powdered kind in the can)
2 Tablespoons dried parsley
1 Tablespoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons black pepper
1/2 cup melted butter
2 cloves garlic, minced (I use garlic-in-a-jar)
4 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice (don't even think about bottled lemon juice - for anything!)
paprika

Combine bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, parsley, salt and pepper. Set aside. Combine melted butter, garlic and lemon juice. Rinse chicken breast halves under cold water and pat dry with paper towels. Dip chicken pieces in butter mixture and then in bread crumb mixture. Place in 9 x 13 pan. Pour extra butter mixture over chicken and sprinkle with paprika. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes.

Let Them Eat Cake

Actually, I’ve never been a huge fan of cake. I have always preferred gooier desserts. Give me pie or bread pudding or trifle over a piece of cake any day. Unless it’s a particularly gooey piece of cake – maybe it has lots of filling between the layers. Then I’d be happy to indulge.


But recently I’ve had two experiences with cake, one literal and one literary, which are forcing me to reconsider my dessert options. And my breakfast options, too, I’m afraid. And my middle-of-the-afternoon-how-to-fulfill-the-craving options. Late at night…

A friend of mine e-mailed me a recipe for 5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake this summer. It was one of those “I’ll send it to five people, then you send it to five people…” pass alongs that we usually take one look at and that’s the end of it. Oh, if only I had deleted it. Instead, I’ve had chocolate cake every day for the past week. It’s ironic because I’m pretty sure one of the selling points of 5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake is that you’re only making a small amount and therefore won’t have a whole cake to work your way through. You know how we hate to waste things. We’d rather get fat. But now, I’m never more than a few minutes away from hot, gooey chocolate dessert. It’s really gooey. It’s the chocolate chips that make it so. In the recipe I received, the chocolate chips were listed as optional, but they really are a must. The first time I made it I left them out because I didn’t have any. Chocolate chips don’t last long in our house, especially if the bag’s open. The final product was no big deal.

Oh, why didn’t I leave it at that?

I bought some on my next trip to the store. Semi-sweet. Came right home and tried the recipe again.

Oh my goodness.

Don’t do it.

I’m going to print the recipe here just so you’ll know what not to do.

5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake

4 Tablespoons flour

4 Tablespoons sugar

2 Tablespoons cocoa

1 egg

3 Tablespoons milk

3 Tablespoons oil

3 Tablespoons chocolate chips

a small splash of vanilla

1 large microwave safe mug

Add dry ingredients to mug and mix well. Add the egg and mix thoroughly. Pour in the milk and oil and mix well. Stir in chocolate chips and vanilla. Microwave on high for 2 minutes. Cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don’t be alarmed! Tip cake out onto a plate or eat out of the mug.

I will redeem myself a little by telling you that every time I’ve made it, I’ve shared it with one or sometimes two other people.

And I’ve hidden the chocolate chips in a place they’ll never find them.

I just polished off my second cake experience this summer – Jeanne Ray’s Eat Cake, a delightful novel about a woman who bakes cakes and feeds them to her family in order to alleviate stress. Her husband ends up losing his job and seems to be on the brink of a mid-life crisis, but she steps up her cake baking and saves the day. The book includes recipes for several cakes.

Fortunately they all take longer than five minutes to make.

Bodily Remains

We were at a family gathering one day a number of years ago. One of our nephews, who shall remain nameless, had recently lost a tooth.


“Did you put it under your pillow for the Tooth Fairy?” I asked him.

“Nah,” he replied. “I keep my baby teeth and string ‘em on a necklace.”

Whoa! Visions of voodoo and restless natives. But hey – I appreciate creative thinking. And it might be worth forgoing the dollar each time in order to create a piece of personal history – an heirloom that future generations would be sure to fight over: Time to divvy up the worldly possessions. Whoever gets the grand piano must also take the baby tooth necklace. And wear it.

I got a lot of mileage out of it. Whenever the subject of the Tooth Fairy came up, I’d tell about my nephew and his add-a-tooth necklace. I’m a substitute teacher. This always went over really well with the elementary school crowd.

But then one day a couple of years later I asked Mark (Whoops! Sorry, Mark.) how his baby tooth necklace was coming along and he looked at me like I was crazy! He claimed to have no idea what I was talking about.

Had I dreamed the whole thing? What a let down. I’m hoping I at least managed to convince a few grade schoolers to take up the craft.

I’ve read enough old-time novels to know that people used to will their relatives (usually poor, distant relatives who could have used a lot more) a ring made from their hair. Their deceased hair. To remember them by. Makes my ring finger itch just thinking about it.

Recently one of my Facebook friends posted a link to the website of Psyche Cremation Jewelry. Obviously I’m interested in this kind of thing, so I immediately clicked on the link. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. The page was quite intriguing. “Memorialize your loved one in hand blown cremation jewelry.” I especially liked where they asked “What makes Psyche Cremation Jewelry unique?” Does anyone really need to ask this? The small business owner will take the cremated remains of your loved one, be they human or pet, and craft them into a one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry. Picture in your mind a pendant, the design of which incorporates the letters in “Uncle Ed.”

“Oh, how sentimentally thoughtful,” a friend remarks to you. “A necklace to remind you of your Uncle Ed.”

“Actually,” you respond, “this necklace is my Uncle Ed.”

Years ago, my grandmother’s husband died. I think he had been both her second and fourth husbands. She had him (them) cremated. His ashes were placed in a receptacle of some kind and given back to her. Somewhere along the timeline of death and funeral arrangements, my aunt and uncle ended up in possession of the remains for a few days. Aunt Norma refused to be left home alone with Ruel’s remains so Uncle Larry put them in the trunk of his car. One evening he had to attend a leadership meeting at the church. It started to go a little long. After a while he excused himself.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got my father-in-law out in the car.”

They all felt terrible that Ruel had been out in the car so long. They plied Uncle Larry with extra refreshments and insisted he leave right away.

Pretty handy, huh?

A few days ago, in the hopes of engaging me in a political discussion, my husband asked me if I thought it should be legal for people to use the art of taxidermy to preserve their dearly departed kin. A taxidermist actually lives in the house behind ours (and it’s only a little bit creepy). I told Kent that even though he might get a good deal on me from the neighbor, I didn’t recommend it. I’ve seen Mrs. Bates in her fruit cellar. She’s not a pretty sight.

Better to go with the jewelry.

"Please Pass the Worcestershire Sauce" - A Guide to Pronunciation

Last Sunday, one of my neighbors called me up.

"I found this recipe I want to try, but I don't have a couple of the ingredients. Do you have any Worcestershire sauce?"

Only she actually said "Wor-ses...Wor-ches...Wor-ses-cher-shy-er sauce."

"Worcestershire sauce?" I flawlessly responded. "Sure. Come on over and get it."

I've been listening to people trip over this word for nearly thirty years - as long as I've lived in the West. In Massachusetts, where I grew up, there is a city called Worcester, named after a place in England. Because we New Englanders grew up knowing how to pronounce this place-name, it's been a lot easier for us. We've always been able to just roll it off our tongues.

And you can, too, after completing this brief tutorial. It's time for everyone to learn how to pronounce the name of this common condiment.

The biggest mistake people make occurs in their division of the word into syllables, a natural technique we use when sounding out words. With this word, you have to think about it a little differently. It seems natural to divide it up like this: Wor-ces-ter-shire. But instead, you need to divide it like this: Worce-ster-shire.

Let's begin with the first syllable: Worce. The first thing you need to do in pronouncing this syllable is to drop the letter r. (Again, we New Englanders have had a leg up. We drop all kinds of r's. We also add them to the ends of words where they don't belong.)  Go ahead and try it. It should come out something like this: woos. (oo as in look) Try it again. Woos. There! Very good.

Next syllable. Pretty straight forward: ster. Just like it looks. Actually, in New England, we would drop off the r and say "stah." This won't be necessary.

Now try stringing the two syllables together: woos-ster. You'll notice that when you do, you have two s sounds in a row. Combine them into one. Wooster. It does not rhyme with rooster. Remember, oo as in look. Try it again. Wooster. Very good!

Final syllable: shire. We are not hobbits. We don't live in the Shire. Let's pronounce it like this: sheer. Good!

Now, try it all together: woostersheer. Excellent! Add the sauce and you've got it.

Worcestershire sauce.

I feel so much better. Now, call me up and ask to borrow some. I've got a whole bottle in my pantry.

Scarred For Life

My son, Kurt, claims that I scarred him for life. As he was growing up , it was nearly impossible to get him to make necessary phone calls, speak to adults he didn't know well, or answer the door if he knew it was a solicitor. It all stems back, he claims, to a bad experience he had as a little boy. Maybe around age eight. And it was all my fault. He claims.

I belonged to a neighborhood book group and it was my turn to choose the book. I chose Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton. As the hostess and presenter, it was my responsibility to find out how many copies of the book were available at the public libraries, price the book, and take orders from anyone in the group who wanted to buy their own. I did this, and then ordered the appropriate number of books from a local bookstore. When they came in, I distributed the copies and collected the money from those women who had ordered them. Except for one. I had trouble catching one woman at home. The book sat on my kitchen counter for a couple of weeks. The date for book group was approaching. I needed to get the book to Laura Hughes so she'd have time to read it before our meeting. And besides, the woman owed me money!

I had just returned home from somewhere, and as I had driven past the Hughes's house, I had seen signs of life. I hurried into the house and picked up the book off the counter.

"Kurt!" I called to my son. "I need you to do me a favor, Bud. Take this book over to the Hughes's and tell Sister Hughes* she owes me $7.35." (or however much)

Off he went.

A few minutes later, he returned, still in posession of the book. And he looked a bit upset.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Weren't they home?"

"Yeah, but they didn't want it."

"What do you mean 'they didn't want it?' Did you talk to Sister Hughes?"

"No, Brother Hughes came to the door."

"Did you tell him his wife owes me $7.35?"

"No."

"Well, what did you say?"

"I said, 'My mom's selling these books and they're $7.35. Do you wanna buy one?' and he said 'Aahhh, it looks like a really good book, but I don't think we'd be interested.'"

I could see his ears burning and he was about to cry. He felt humiliated.

Somehow I guess he thought I was trying to bring in a little extra money for the household budget.

"Kurt!" I exploded. "I'm not selling books! She ordered this book and I'm just trying to deliver it!"

I guess I should have taken the time to explain to him what it was all about before I sent him off on my errand. And now I was feeling a little humiliated as well; Jim Hughes was under the impression that I was sending my kids around the neighborhood peddling books!

I took Ethan Frome from Kurt and headed over to the Hughes's. Jim Hughes answered the door. He looked surprised.

I immediately spoke up.

"I'm not selling books door-to-door," I assured him. "Laura ordered this for book group. Would you please give it to her and tell her she owes me $7.35? She can get it to me whenever."

Poor Kurt. We still argue about it.

"It's not my fault!" I tell him. "If you had just said what I told you to say, it never would have happened."

"Mom," he insists, "How could I have known? It sounded to me like you were selling books. I felt so stupid."

Scarred for life.

I don't know. Maybe I should offer to pay for therapy.

*In our church, we call each other Brother or Sister So-And-So. In Utah, since almost everyone is L.D.S., this is what the kids call everyone instead of Mr. or Mrs. Except at school. At school, they say Mr. or Mrs. When I substitute teach for neighbor kids, sometimes they slip up and call me Sister Gassman and then they say "Whoops! I mean Mrs. Gassman!"

Raspberry Chipotle Pork Tenderloin

This recipe for pork tenderloin is fabulous. They sell Fischer and Wieser Roasted Raspberry Chipotle Sauce at Costco and I found the  recipe in a small booklet attached to the neck of the bottle. I also buy the pork tenderloins at Costco. They come in a two-pack, with two tenderloins in each pack. I have made this in the oven several times, but yesterday I grilled it. Inside or outside, you will need a meat thermometer.

1/2 cup olive oil
2 tsp. minced fresh rosemary
1 T. minced garlic
1 tsp. sea salt
1 1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
2 (about 1 lb. each) pork tenderloins
1 3/4 cups Fischer and Wieser Roasted Raspberry Chipotle Sauce

Heat a gas or charcoal grill to medium heat (350 degrees). Combine the olive oil, rosemary, garlic, sea salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Whisk to blend well. Place the tenderloins on a baking sheet and rub generously all over with the seasoned oil. Place tenderloins on grill and immediately turn down to between medium and low. Shut the lid. Grill until meat reaches a temperature of 145 degrees, turning often as it cooks. While meat is grilling, heat the sauce in a small saucepan on the stove. When meat is done, place it on a platter and cover with aluminum foil. Let sit for ten minutes. Slice meat in 1/2 " to 1 " thick slices and arrange on platter. Pour sauce over meat and serve.

Enter Mrs. Belchamber... by Elizabeth Cadell

I love to read and I’m always asking family members and friends for book suggestions. They always have titles to recommend. The problem is that I don’t write them down. I repeat them very deliberately a couple of times and think my brain will be able to just call them up when I get to the library. Never happens that way. Once in a while I write them down, but do I ever have the paper with me when I get to the library? I almost always end up wandering the aisles, scanning the shelves, picking up and reading the inside cover or the blurb on the back. (However, the blurb on the back almost always has a large sticker over it that prevents you from reading it. Why do the library people do this? It’s maddening.) Actually, wandering the aisles of a bookstore or library is one of my favorite ways to spend time. I’ve discovered some of my favorite books this way, as a child and as an adult.


Several years ago, I came across a book in the large print section of the public library. This was before I even needed large print. I’m so glad I looked. It was called Enter Mrs. Belchamber… by Elizabeth Cadell. It looked kind of fun, so I checked it out. It was a fast and easy read and absolutely delightful. It had the feel of one of those great old-time movies (the book was first published in 1951) and as I read, I was picturing it on the big screen of back-in-the-day. Mrs. Belchamber is an unforgettable character. I won’t even try to describe her. This is a story about a young twenty-something-year-old Englishman who finds himself the legal guardian of three orphaned French children. As they are traveling by train from France to England, the young man and these children encounter the elderly Mrs. Belchamber. She attaches herself to their party, and, for reasons of her own, refuses to budge. It’s a sweet, simple story. It’s humorous and romantic, and maybe a little cheesy in some of the dialogue between a couple of the characters. But it’s a lot of fun. It's nothing literary, and you're not going to learn a thing from reading it. It's purely for entertainment. And the entertainment is refreshingly pure.

Elizabeth Cadell (aka Harriet Ainsworth) lived from 1903 to 1989. She was British, born in India. She wrote 52 light-hearted, humorous novels with a romantic bent. This is the only one I’ve read.

Elizabeth Cadell

I now own a copy of Enter Mrs. Belchamber... If you feel like something simple, light, and pleasant,  come over and borrow it.

Homemade Ice Cream

A lot of people make homemade ice cream in the summertime. When I was growing up, we always made it on the Fourth of July. We had an old fashioned hand-crank ice cream freezer. Sometimes we'd fuss about having to crank, and our mother always told us that hand-cranked was so much better than what you got from the electric kind. My mother would prepare the base and pour it into the metal canister. She'd get the freezer all set up on the driveway or in the garage and layer the ice and the rock salt between the wooden bucket and the canister, and attach the crank mechanism across the top. Then she'd call to all of us kids.

"If you don't crank, you don't eat!"

That was the rule. There were always cousins and friends around. The smallest of us would crank first, when the work was easiest. Easy but tedious. As the mixture began to freeze, the dasher had a harder time moving through it, and the cranking became more difficult. By the end, the adults would take over and finish it up. We never ate it until night time, after the fireworks. We'd all walk down to the beach just before dark and claim a spot either on the sand or on the footbridge. The fireworks were set off out over Lewis Bay. It seems like as many years as not it was too foggy to see them. But we still oohed and aahed as we listened to the cracks and booms. Then we'd walk back up to the house and have ice cream. Maybe the fireworks were sometimes disappointing, but the ice cream was always fabulous.

As soon as we'd all grown up and moved away, my mother bought herself not one, but two electric ice cream freezers. Electric? We all thought she'd sold out. But we didn't mind that she had two of them. Married kids, grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and friends continued to show up for fireworks and ice cream for many years. My mother would start making batches of ice cream a couple of weeks ahead of the holiday, pack it in containers and keep it in the freezer. Her specialities were lemon and raspberry.

Lemon ice cream, you ask? Yes. It's my favorite.

Okay, so some people will have a problem with these recipes because they contain uncooked eggs. Here are my feelings about it. How many of us eat cookie dough before we bake it? I do. And I love to lick the beaters when making a cake. Raw eggs don't make us sick. In order to get sick from raw eggs, three things  have to happen. First of all, the chickens have to be sick. Secondly, the eggs that the sick chickens lay have to be contaminated by chicken manure. And then the bacteria has to get from the shell into whatever you're making when you crack the egg. The chances of this happening are very slim. It's a risk I've always been willing to take. Maybe because I grew up occasionally eating things containing raw egg and I never got sick. My boys make smoothies and throw in an egg or two for the protein. Never been sick. I imagine I'll change my mind once it happens, but for now, I'm living on the edge.

If you are worried, you could still use these recipes and before freezing them, heat the mixture on the stove until it's hot enough to kill anything. Stir constantly. Then you'd probably want to strain it before freezing to remove any little pieces of egg that might have cooked. You would also need to chill the mixture really well before freezing it. Your final product would probably taste a little custardy, but i'm sure it would still be yummy.

Or, you could live on the edge.

My Mom's Lemon Ice Cream (makes one gallon)

1 1/2 cups freshly squeezed lemon juice
4 eggs, lightly beaten
2 cups sugar
2 cups light Karo syrup (corn syrup)
5 cups whole milk
1 quart heavy cream
4 tsp. vanilla
1/2 tsp. salt

Whisk together eggs, sugar,and Karo syrup in a large bowl. Whisk in lemon juice. Then stir in milk, cream, vanilla, and salt. Freeze in ice cream freezer according to manufacturer's directions.

My Mom's Raspberry Ice Cream (makes 5 quarts)

6 cups fresh raspberries

2 cups sugar

2 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice

3 eggs, lightly beaten

2 1/4 cups sugar

3 3/4 cups whole milk

3 cups heavy cream

3 1/2 tsp. vanilla

1/3 tsp. salt ( I don't have one either - more than 1/4 and less than 1/2)

Puree raspberries, 2 cups sugar, and lemon juice in blender. Strain through a fine sieve or layers of cheese cloth to remove seeds. Whisk together eggs and 2 1/4 cups sugar in a large bowl. Whisk in raspberry puree. Stir in milk, cream, vanilla, and salt. Freeze in ice cream freezer according to manufacturer's directions.

Peach or Strawberry Ice Cream (makes about 6 quarts - maybe a little more)

8 eggs, lightly beaten
2 2/3 cups sugar
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
8 cups cream*
fresh strawberries or fresh peaches
1 more cup sugar, or maybe two

This is my recipe, so naturally I have no idea how much sugar or fruit I actually use in it. Taste the mixture before you freeze it. If you need more, add more.The amount of fruit doesn't really matter too much. The more you put in, the fruitier it will taste and the more it will make. Cut up the fruit and toss it in a bowl with the cup of sugar (or more - probably more). Then mash it up with a potato masher. Mashed fruit is better than whole chunks. Whole chunks of fruit tend to be icy in the final product. Whisk together eggs and 2 2/3 cups sugar. Add mashed fruit. Stir in cream and vanilla. Freeze in ice cream freezer according to manufacturer's directions.

*If you wanted to, you could use whole milk for part of the cream.

Fast Sunday: part of the "Every Weird Thing..." series*

In our church, the first Sunday of every month is known as “Fast Sunday.” Many people, especially my kids, ironically consider it to be the slowest Sunday of the month. During this twenty-four hour period, we go without food or drink for two consecutive meals. We then donate the money we would have spent on those meals (and usually more) to the Fast Offering fund of the church. The church uses that money to aid the needy, locally and around the world. While fasting, we pray for the poor, that their needs might be met. We also use this time to pray for help with specific problems that we or our family members or friends may be facing, the idea being that fasting aids in bringing us closer to the Spirit of the Lord. When we fast, we show our Heavenly Father that we are willing to sacrifice in order to receive His divine assistance in our lives and in the lives of others.

Our main Sunday meeting is called Sacrament Meeting (See February 26, 2010 post “now go sit down”), however on Fast Sunday, we refer to it as Fast and Testimony Meeting. Rather than have assigned speakers for this meeting, members of the congregation are given the opportunity to come forward and share their testimonies of the Gospel with everyone present. Many of the women who do this get quite emotional. And my kids can tell you exactly which ones they are. When they see certain women stand and walk up the aisle to get to the podium during Fast and Testimony Meeting, they’ll lean toward the family member seated next to them and make a bet about how soon the woman will cry:

“Two sentences.”

Or

"Six words.”

Or

“Before she even starts.”

Hey, women get emotional. And maybe we feel the Spirit more strongly than guys do. We’re definitely more sensitive, as a rule, than men are. So there.

Another common occurrence on Fast Sunday is the naming and blessing of new babies, known in other churches as Christening. In other churches, this ordinance is performed by the priest or minister, and sometimes includes a baptism. In our church, all worthy men are ordained to the Priesthood, and therefore, are able to name and bless their own children. This is generally done at the beginning of Fast and Testimony Meeting, before the Sacrament is passed to the congregation and before the time is turned to the congregation for the bearing of testimonies. The father (or another worthy Priesthood holder) carries the baby to the front of the chapel. He is accompanied by male relatives and friends (also worthy Priesthood holders) who have been invited to participate in the ordinance. They stand in a circle. The father holds the baby out on his two hands in the center of the circle. Each of the men places a hand under the infant for added support. The father then offers a special prayer during which he names the child and pronounces a blessing upon the child that will help him or her throughout this life. During the blessing, an odd thing almost always occurs. It has nothing to do with the ordinance, and is not an official part of Mormon doctrine. The men invariably start rhythmically bouncing the baby up and down on their outstretched hands. This may have started out as a way to calm an upset infant, because naturally some babies cry during the procedure. But I’ve always wondered if sometimes it’s why the baby cries. Sometimes I get this silly picture in my head of a circle of men, each holding onto the edge of a receiving blanket, tossing the baby repeatedly high into the air of a big top.

A few months ago, some neighbors of ours named and blessed their new baby in Fast and Testimony Meeting. The dad carried little baby Esther to the front of the chapel. The male relatives and friends also went forward to form the circle. I was too far back in the congregation to see how soon the bouncing began, but fairly soon, Esther started crying. Actually, crying is an understatement. Esther wailed. Wailed might be too mild a term to use in this instance as well, but I can’t think of another word right now. Screamed? Esther screamed through the whole thing. Toward the end of the blessing, the dad included something like, “And we hope that someday you’ll be able to look back on this day with fonder feelings than you’re having right now.” I thought it was great. Why shouldn’t she cry? I, of course, was picturing the big top.

Later in the morning, as we were waiting for Sunday School to begin, I was talking to Esther’s mother.

“That was a beautiful blessing,” I told her. "And I loved that she screamed through the whole thing,” I added sincerely. She looked at me kind of funny for just a second. Then we talked about other things, and she went to sit in another part of the room where she had set her belongings. After a minute, she got back up and came over to me.

“You know, while I was sitting in Sacrament Meeting,” she told me, “I caught a glimpse of you and I thought ‘Melinda probably thinks it’s great that Esther screamed the whole time. And that it didn’t matter or ruin it or anything.’”

How disturbing, I thought, that someone has figured out the inner-workings of my mind.

Esther’s fine. Like all those other women in Fast and Testimony Meeting, she was just feeling the Spirit.

* Every Weird Thing You Wanted To Know About Mormons But Were Afraid To Ask Because Then The Missionaries Might Show Up At Your Door

Bobwhite! Poor Bobwhite!

I’m descended from the Eastern Quail, nicknamed the bobwhite, after the conspicuous call it makes: bobwhite! poor bobwhite! My grandfather was Bob White. My father is Bob White. In our family, we all learned to whistle like a bobwhite before we could speak in full sentences. We were raised amid a huge covey of quail, ranging from small statuary to printed renditions on cocktail napkins. Quail where everywhere in our home as well as in my grandparents’ home. My grandfather had a sign made that spanned the space above his garage door. It read “Quail Haven.” It certainly was. My grandmother even had twelve place settings of fine quail china, along with every obscure serving piece the company manufactured.

My grandmother and mother were both really good sports about the whole quail thing. More than good sports, actually. They encouraged it. This was back in the day when, not only was it customary for a woman to take her husband’s last name upon marriage, but his first name as well. My mother and grandmother were both known as Mrs. Robert White for many years. They were bobwhites, too.

Naturally, when my parents produced the family heir, they named him Bob White, III. (Insert birdcall here.) Eventually, this littlest bobwhite grew up and found himself a mate. Julie is a modern woman. Although she consented to take his last name, I doubt very much she’s ever considered herself a quail. They have one child, our niece, Rachel. Not Roberta or Little Bobbi White. In fact, my brother insists that had she been a boy, she would not have been Robert White, IV.

I’m afraid our line of the Eastern Bobwhite Quail is dying out.

Out West, where I live, we don’t have bobwhites. People don’t even seem to know about them. One time when my mother was here for a visit, she and I were looking around in a boutique. My mother saw a little quail figurine on a shelf.

“Maybe I should buy this,” she said. Then, turning to the sales girl she proudly announced, “I’m married to Bob White.” It was like she’d said “I’m married to Brad Pitt,” only the girl had never heard of Brad Pitt.

“Mom,” I jumped in. “They don’t know about that here.” Then of course I felt like I had to fill the poor girl in on the whole bobwhite thing. I'm pretty sure I even whistled for her. She was very patient and acted like she got it.

No bobwhites here, but we do have their cousins, the California Quail. These are the ones that sport the little fishing lure on the tops of their heads. They moved into our neighborhood about a year ago. They run all over the place. They also have a very distinct call. Two of them, in fact. The first one sounds like they’re crying “Chicago! Chicago!” It also sounds just like my husband’s airless paint sprayer. The second one sounds like they’re calling “Kurt!” It drives my son, Kurt, crazy. He’s really spooked. He’s been out of the country for the past two years so this is the first time he’s heard them.

“I always think they’re calling me,” he says, looking around warily. “It’s creepy. And they want me to move to Chicago.”

My mother has the quail dishes now, and wonders what will become of them after she’s gone. Bob and Julie think they’re hideous, so they don’t want them. I think her only hope of keeping them in the family is if Kurt marries an old fashioned girl and they move to Chicago.

Welcome Wagon Meets Battle of the Barn Swallows

We live in a really friendly neighborhood. It was a really friendly neighborhood seventeen years ago when we moved in. Even before we moved in, when we drove on the neighborhood streets, people waved to us from their yards. They didn't even know us yet.

We're a very welcoming bunch. There's a new young family on the corner of our cul de sac.

"We love the neighborhood," said Jamey, the mom, to me one day shortly after they moved in. "Everybody's been so nice. People leave treats on the doorstep day and night. My parents can't believe it. Every time the doorbell rings, I call my mom and say 'Guess what we just got!'"

Another young family has recently moved into the house right next door to us. It was previously inhabited by a woman from Iran. She was a very nice neighbor. She used to bring me homemade hummus, candied orange peel, pistachio cookies flavored with rose water, and other Persian delights. But unfortunately Jamileh extended the neighborhood welcome mat a little too far. Apparently in Iran, it's considered lucky to have birds roosting on your house. Some local barn swallows caught wind of this and showed up a few years ago. With Jamileh's encouragement, they built their nest of mud and sticks on the brick face of her covered porch, just above the front door. They've returned and rebuilt each year and have raised several broods of young barn swallows.

I'm afraid barn swallows aren't a good fit in our neighborhood. They're not exactly friendly. If you tresspass on what they consider their domain, which very selfishly includes all the front yards in our cul de sac (our front yards -is it really possible to tresspass on your own property?), they dive at you. It's quite intimidating. Hitchcockian, in fact. Even teenagers are terrified of them. I think one of our neighbor boys is permanently traumatized. He's had some run-ins with Jamileh's barn swallows in past years. Literal run-ins. Last summer he was afraid to leave his house. And he's a big strong athlete. He's on the basketball team. If word gets over to the high school of Weston running through our front yards with his hands over his head shrieking like a girl, his senior year could be a wash.

The new owners of the house next door arrived this spring about the same time as the barn swallows. As the Davies Family was busy settling in, the barn swallows were busy spackling the brick above the front door with mud for their new nest.

Weston's mom, Beth, whose house is on the other side of this one, gave the new neighbors a quick lesson in Iranian culture.

"You're not superstitous, are you?" she asked. They weren't. Amie, the mom, had already been on the Internet, looking for ideas on how to humanely evict the would-be tennants. She'd come up with Saran-wrapping the brick and hanging a tangle of fishing line over the construction site. Word has it that barn swallows are freaked out by fishing line. Beth offered to help.

They knocked down the most recent application of mud and covered the spot with plastic wrap. The birds, after much angry swooping and diving, simply moved their efforts over a little bit. Beth created an apparatus out of fishing line and paint stirrers, and helped Amie hang it. Eventually, they Saran-Wrapped the entire porch. After a few days of aggressive battling on both sides, the birds gave up.

 On Sunday morning, as I was leaving for church, I saw Beth and her daughter, Callie, on their own front porch. They were hanging fishing line and strings of beads in the vicinity of their front door. Ha!

We live in a very friendly neighborhood. We don't care what color your skin is. We don't care if you have an accent that is different than ours. We don't care what religion you are. Liberal? That's okay. We just won't discuss politics. And generally, we don't care if you have pointy beaks and feathers. But if you try to trap our teenagers in the house with us all summer, we're going to do our best to drive you out.

By the way, Beth succeeded in discouraging the barn swallows from taking up residency on her porch.

This morning as I stepped out on my own porch, a barn swallow swooped at my head. I immediately retalliated by knocking down the mud and getting out the plastic wrap. I'm sure Beth and Amie will help me if I need them to.

This is a great neighborhood.

Stay-At-Home Mom

This morning I had a nice long hot shower. I even took the time to shave both legs. I got dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and then “got ready” for the day. “Get ready” in female speak means put on make-up and do your hair. This morning as I was going through the make-up portion of my beauty regimen (which I’ve never been very good at), I wondered if I had put enough on.


Ha! I remembered. Doesn’t matter! I’m not going to work today.

Then it was time to do my hair. I didn’t even bother to use the hand mirror and view the back of my head.

Who cares? I thought.

When I do go to work, I’m a substitute teacher in elementary school. I love subbing. It’s like playing school and it’s always my turn to be the teacher. This year I took on a couple of long-term jobs. I covered the maternity leaves of two different third grade teachers. I just finished the second one a few days ago. I loved both jobs. The classes were small and the kids were wonderful. We had a lot of fun together and hopefully I managed to actually teach them a few things.

But I’ve missed my freedom. And I’ve really fallen behind at home. How do all you real working women do it? Kent and the boys have been pitching in more than usual while I’ve been on these full-time jobs. I’ve been really glad for the extra help. Someone even changed a roll of toilet paper last week. He put it on backwards (paper coming from the back) and I haven’t even switched it around. And when they don’t fold the bath towels the right way (first in fourths, then in thirds and stacked in the same direction so that they look nice on the shelves), I’m just glad someone else folded them. And when they unload the dishwasher and put things away in the wrong place (even though they’ve lived here as long as I have), I don’t even care. These things usually drive me nuts.

I’ve been really lucky to have been able to stay at home with my kids during the past twenty-four years. (Twenty-four years? I’m kidding, right?) Actually, it’s been part luck and part sacrifice. We don’t have a ton of money, but it’s been enough. We’ve always had what we needed and then some. We’re not “stuff” people. I don’t even like stuff. (See March 12, 2010 post “Just get Rid of It!”) And fortunately we’re not expensive car people. (See February 15, 2010 post “Dream Car.”) We’ve got everything we want.

Well, almost everything. I covet my friend Judy’s oven. It has a gas cook top and a double oven – one regular and one convection. My oven door doesn’t close all the way. But it works fine. If I’m roasting a turkey or something, I duct tape the door shut so we can eat at a decent hour. But other than that, I can’t complain.

Except about the washing machine. We have a front-loading washer. I don’t like it. I feel like we’ve been walking around in dirty clothes for the past five years, but hey, nobody seems to notice.

Sometimes I feel bad for my husband who drives his little old pick-up everywhere he goes. He says he doesn’t mind, but he is a man. He probably secretly dreams of driving something with a little more paint on the hood.

If I had a real job, I’ve often thought, Kent could drive a little bit nicer car. If I had a real job, we could go ahead and finish the basement. If I had a real job, we could take another trip to Europe this year.

But if I had a real job, I wouldn’t have had time to make Joel French toast for breakfast this morning. (Mom, how come you never make me French toast or pancakes anymore?)If I had a real job, I wouldn’t have been able to baby-sit my neighbor’s one-year-old while she helped out in the kindergarten class today. And if I had a real job, I wouldn’t have been able to go to Florida for two weeks last month when my father had open-heart surgery.

Yes, I admit it. As the kids have gotten older, there’s a lot more down time. But I can fill a lot of it with substitute teaching and still have my freedom. I can always say no. No, I have an appointment today. No, I’m way behind on laundry. No, I want to make my son French toast for breakfast and then have time to do the dishes.

And I like being my own boss. I decide what I’m going to do each day. Bathrooms or laundry? Mopping or yard work? Reorganize closets or wash the car? Or maybe spend the day reading a good book or hiking in the canyon and catch up on everything later. I get to do what I want, when I want.

Some people think stay-at-home moms are oppressed. I felt much more oppressed as I worked fulltime. At home once again, I feel liberated. Another salary in the family couldn’t buy this kind of freedom.

Rhubarb Season

It's rhubarb season. I love rhubarb. Raspberry rhubarb pie, rhubarb crisp, strawberry rhubarb jam. My mother makes a rhubarb sauce for ice cream. Yum. Rhubarb is expensive to buy in the grocery store, so for years I've been getting it from my father-in-law.  I finally planted some in the backyard last year but it died. Something ate it right out of the ground. It was a huge disappointment. I was really hoping to have my own supply. Did you know you can freeze it? (I shouldn't have told you because now you won't want to share your surplus with me.) Wash it and cut it up in 1/2 to 1 inch segments, toss it in a Ziplock freezer bag and put it in the freezer. I'm going to try again to grow my own. I'd love to be able to fill my freezer with it and make rhubarb desserts all year round. Just what I need...

Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp

(I never really measure when I make this. And you don't need to either. And if you don't have tapioca, you can use a tablespoon or so of cornstarch mixed into a little cold water for the thickener.)


4 cups rhubarb pieces (about ½ inch long)

4 cups sliced strawberries

1 cup sugar

Mix together in a large bowl and let stand for a little while.

3 tablespoons quick-cooking tapioca

¼ teaspoon salt

Add to fruit and mix well. Pour fruit mixture into a 9 x 13 pan.

1 cup flour

1 cup brown sugar

¼ teaspoon baking powder

½ cup butter

1 cup oatmeal

¼ teaspoon baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

Mix together above ingredients, cutting in butter until mixture is evenly crumbly. Put on top of the fruit. Bake at 350 degrees for about 40 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

I served this to a group of college students recently. Afterwards, one young man approached me.
"Okay, so what exactly is rhubarb?" he asked. "Because it looked like celery. I was a little nervous, but it was really good!"

 My father-in-law still talks about the rhubarb pie his grandmother used to make. Last summer I got the recipe from his sister and gave it a try. It was delicious. Since I never knew my husband's great-grandmother, I'm calling it after Aunt Marc.
 

Aunt Marc’s Rhubarb Pie


3 cups chopped rhubarb

1 cup sugar

2 egg yolks (save whites for meringue)

2 Tablespoons butter

2 Tablespoons flour

Mix egg yolks, butter, flour, and sugar. Add rhubarb and mix together. Put in a pie crust. (I like Marie Callender’s frozen pie crusts. I used to make my own. Not anymore.) Bake at 375 for 30 minutes. Reduce heat to 350. Bake for 30 more minutes.

Whip egg whites with ¼ cup sugar and ¼ tsp. cream of tartar until stiff. Spread on baked pie and bake for 6 to 8 more minutes, until meringue is golden.

My neighbor, Beth, recently discovered a rhubarb pie recipe that has the egg whites folded right into the filling. Somehow it forms a delicious meringue-like top crust. She gave me a piece. Actually, she gave me four pieces, thinking I'd share with my family. I did. But it was hard.

Band-aids

I've been doing a lot of substitute teaching this year. Lately I've been on a long-term assignment in a third grade classroom. These particular kids absolutely love Band-aids. They want one every time they get a bump or a sratch. I finally had to explain to them my mother's rule about Band-aids and then strictly enforce it. It reminded me of this essay I wrote many years ago.

When I was a little girl, I stubbed my toes a lot. And like most kids, I skinned my elbows and knees frequently. The first thing I'd do after one of these mishaps was check for blood. If it was bleeding, I'd run right into the house and claim my Band-aid. My mother had a hard fast rule about Band-aids. There had to be blood in order to qualify for one.

Our cousin, Joy, would sometimes come and stay with us in the summer for a week at a time. She was older than we were. She had two months on my sister, who had nineteen months on me. And she had a knowledge of the world that amazed us. We'd follow her around for days, listening intently to her stories. We were fascinated. The things she had done and the places she'd been. Sometimes I'd be skeptical of the doings she'd relate to us, but then I'd remember the Band-aids. This was a girl who truly had daring.

We'd be out playing and Joy would  hurt herself somehow. She'd gather herself up and head into the house where she'd confidently help herself to the Band-aids, even when there was no blood at all. My sister and I would exchange nervous glances, wondering what our mother would do if she walked in. Joy would just prattle on while applying the Band-aids (one was usually not enough), exploiting her thorough knowledge of first aid the whole time. We told her often of our mother's rule about Band-aids, and I noticed that her "hurts" were usually located under a sleeve or a pant leg. At the end of the week, she'd return to her home wearing a boxful of Band-aids of assorted shapes and sizes, artfully concealed under her clothing. In time, one of us would qualify for a Band-aid and our mother would discover a box stuffed with empty wrappers.
"Who's been wasting the Band-aids?" she'd holler.
"Joy did it!" we'd cry, tearfully defending ourselves.

I remember buying my first box of Band-aids as a mom when our first child was about a year old. I had plans to strictly regulate them as my mother had before me. Surprisingly, I found this wasn't necessary as all of our children were born with an unnatural fear of Band-aids.

One time when our two oldest children were small, we were attending a play group at a neighbor's house. My daughter fell and cut her knee. It bled. She came to me, crying. I took her into the kitchen where I proceded to wet a paper towel and apply it to the wound. Concerned mothers gathered to express their regrets to Carolyn.
"Poor little thing," they cooed as she bawled.
"She'll be all right," I assured them, "as long a nobody says..."
I had been about the spell the word Band-aid when suddenly our hostess appeared, waving the unmentionable item in the air before us.
"The poor little darling needs a Band-aid!" she exclaimed. I braced myself for what I knew was to come. Carolyn quickly upgraded her crying to hysterics. Her baby brother chose that moment to toddle into the room and, hearing me try to explain (over the shrill screams of his sister) about my children's strange aversion to Band-aids, and seeing for himself the aforementioned accursed article, he too began to shriek uncontrollably. Of course this triggered a chain reaction and soon more babies and toddlers were joining the chorus. Feeling embarrassed that we had caused such chaos, and fearing that somehow we had come across as ungrateful for the offer of a Band-aid (and just wanting to get my screaming kids out of there), I hurriedly scooped up both kids and our diaper bag and headed for the front door. The other mothers were busy trying to calm all the children we had upset. I tried to shout my thanks and an apology to our hostess over all the noise, although I'm not sure she heard me. As I glanced over my shoulder on the way out, she was still standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, holding the Band-aid between thumb and forefinger, gazing at it with a bewildered look on her face.

My sister and I still sometimes discuss resentfully how Joy used to waste our Band-aids. I've still got that first box I bought when our daughter was small. Maybe I'll send it to Joy.

Pasta with Cauliflower Ragu

So I got home late last night from a two-week trip to Florida. I spent the day in recovery-mode. I wasn’t personally recovering from anything; I was helping the house to recover. The guys did a pretty admirable job while I was gone this time. My son Joel called me a few days ago to tell me that he had just used Formula 409 on the countertops. I was impressed. Last month I left town for a week and they never once washed the kitchen table. This time I even came home to clean bathrooms. Wow! But as any mother out there knows, what the guys call clean isn’t always what we call clean. I put on my favorite Jack Johnson CD and got to work. Before I knew it, it was late afternoon and I hadn’t yet made it to the grocery store. The guys had started out heating up things like frozen Buffalo wings and chimichangas from Costco for dinner, but as the days passed, they either ran out or got sick of it. They’d been surviving on cold cereal for several days. I needed to cook up a nice, healthy meal for them. I looked in the fridge. Not much, but there was a head of cauliflower I had bought before I left that still actually looked good. And earlier in the day, as I had been polishing furniture, I had picked up the latest Reader’s Digest and flipped through it. I had seen a recipe for Pennette with Cauliflower Ragu. I had been intrigued because it calls for the entire head of cauliflower, including the leaves, the core, and the stalks. Who knew you could eat the whole thing? We always have pasta on hand, and I had grated Parmesan in the freezer. Hmm… With just a few changes, I could make this work.




I did make it work, and it was delicious. (I didn’t tell them about the leaves, the core and the stalks.) Now it’s time to tackle the laundry.

Pasta with Cauliflower Ragu

1 medium cauliflower

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium red onion, chopped small

1½ tsp chopped garlic

sea salt

1½ tsp crushed red pepper flakes

a little more olive oil

Kosher salt

1 lb. penne pasta*

¾ cup grated Parmesan cheese

½ cup coarse, fresh bread crumbs, sautéed in 1 T olive oil until golden**

1 tsp Italian seasoning***



Cut the cauliflower in half. Remove the leaves and cut out the core. Reserve the leaves and the core. Cut cauliflower into small florets, reserving the stalks. Chop up the core, the leaves and the stalks. Heat the ¼ cup olive oil in a large pan. Add the garlic, chopped onion, and the chopped core, leaves and stalks. Season with sea salt and cook over medium heat for about three minutes. Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring frequently, for about twenty minutes. Add florets, crushed red pepper flakes and 1 cup of water. Bring to a simmer over medium high heat, then turn down heat to a medium simmer and cover. Cook, stirring occasionally, for twenty to twenty-five minutes longer. In the meantime, heat water for pasta. Add Kosher salt to water. Cook pasta until al dente. Reserve some of the water as you drain the pasta. When the cauliflower ragu is done, add some extra olive oil and season to taste with sea salt. Remove from heat. Add pasta and about ½ cup of the reserved pasta water to the ragu. Stir (over low heat) to coat the pasta. Stir in the Parmesan cheese and Italian seasoning. Top with bread crumbs and serve.

*I cooked whole grain pasta for myself and white pasta for everybody else.

**I put a couple of slices of whole grain bread (don't tell) in the toaster and then crumbled them up. I heated 1 T olive oil in a skillet, added the bread crumbs and tossed them around until they were crispy.

***The original recipe called for minced fresh rosemary. I didn’t have any or I would have used it instead of the dried Italian seasoning.