Memory Catchers

Light-Brite, paper dolls, fashion plates, play-doh, Major Morgan, finger paints, and a wooden doll family that my father made me—these are childhood toys that I remember with fondness. I’m certain there are many that I’m leaving out, some that I’ve forgotten.

On Saturday we went to a toy show. We’re not toy collectors and we were originally going to go with my significant other’s friend who is a collector. He couldn’t make it, so we decided to explore for ourselves. We waited in a long line to enter and once we did, it was fun entering the fairground space. Inside, rows and rows of vendors were selling a variety of toys, vintage and new. There were also comic books and miscellaneous odds and ends—something for everyone. It’s hard to believe we were walking and stopping for about three hours. We became lost in memory; time wound back, stopped, and moved forward. Kids became tired, asleep in their strollers, while parents still looked and searched for toys. It seemed no one left the toy show without a bag in hand.

In my treasure chest of childhood toys, Mr. Potato Head was nowhere to be found. I’m not sure how that happened. Several months back I read a short summary on the history of Mr. Potato Head, and it reminded me that I might like to buy one for the novelty of it and for never having one. When I stopped at one of the vendors, I saw a strange looking Mr. Potato Head. It was a Star Wars version: “Darth Tater.” I couldn’t resist, so Mr. Potato Head came home with me. I also bought a few packs of “Garbage Pail Kids” stickers with gum; a small snoopy in an ice cream truck; and a TV Guide from the 80s. I must say, I don’t think I liked “Garbage Pail Kids” but they remind me of a similar type of oddball sticker and gum combo that I remember before GPK. I don’t remember the name and I’ve never seen them since. It’s as close as I could get. I almost bought a pair of roller skates—Darn, they were too big.

It was a good day filled with sunshine, toys, and memories. It seems everyday is filled with memory. I find great joy in jumping in—catching, finding, collecting—connecting with memories—I am a memory amongst memory and memory catchers.

Morning light

The jazz of Stan Getz plays into the morning light

above the rim of the teacup,

steam swirls,

saxophone notes glide and tease,

before lifting upward.

Living in the Moment of Gumbo

The workday yesterday was long, one continuous loop. It was a fine day and I lived in the moment—the moment of making gumbo! Ever since my trip to New Orleans I’ve wanted to make gumbo. All day yesterday, I thought of the items on my list. I knew it would be a late workday. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to come home and cook gumbo, to enjoy the aroma of lard and flour slowly cooking, stirring and stirring, forming the roux.

I mentioned before that I watched the movie, Julia and Julia over the weekend; I feel that this movie has had a profound affect on reigniting my passion for cooking. I still enjoy watching cooking shows and looking through cookbooks, though this time, there was a new pizzazz in me after watching this movie.

So there I was at moments throughout the day dreaming of making gumbo. I let any trace of stress blend into the aromas and rich brown of the roux—all the while thinking to myself about what the chef at the New Orleans School of Cooking reminded us about in the demonstration: You have to use lard or it will not be the same. I believed her. I grew up on lard (manteca in Spanish) and the aroma once it hits the pan is like no other and my taste buds watered, so while I was there at the demonstration, I was also transported to my grandmother’s kitchen. It was a heavenly intersection of cooking memories of the past with new memories of the present and future.

After the workday was done—later than usual—I headed to Safeway for the gumbo fixings. I realize too there are many variations of what you can put into a gumbo. I chose andouille sausage, small shrimp, okra; garlic, onion, celery—the holy trinity—as the chef deemed these three lovely ingredients; and bell pepper. The last item I needed was lard. I didn’t see it in the section with all the other oils and shortenings. I asked someone. “No, we don’t carry it anymore. We used to,” he said.

Well, I had all the items in my basket, and it was already late and I wasn’t near a Mexican style store and I just wanted to go home by this time.

Part of the joy of cooking is that it reminds us that often we’ve got to improvise in cooking, as in life. Things change, we adjust, we improvise, work with what we have. I had all the other items in my basket and, though I wouldn’t be going home to make a roux or a true gumbo, I would still set out to make a modified gumbo stew with the ingredients I had. This wasn’t going to be dinner, but for our lunches and any leftovers for the following dinner or another lunch. When I got home, I didn’t even feel the need or want to rest after a long day at work, I simply wanted to be in the kitchen—after greeting and kissing my significant other and chit chatting about our days.

One of my favorite cooking shows is Chopped, where the contestants are presented with three mystery baskets. They begin with an appetizer, the winners moves onto the entree course, and finally, the two contestants left standing, battle it out in the dessert round. The mystery baskets are revealed at the start of each round, each containing oddly paired ingredients, where the chefs then have access to the pantry and their own experience and creativity. This is a show demonstrating the true art of cooking improvisation. 

Into the kitchen I went—wash, wash, rinse, dry; chop, chop; chop, chop. The ingredients sizzled away, wonderful aromas wafted. I tasted in intervals of simmering. Mmmm. The okra was emitting is sappy juices, mingling with the others. It felt done and I let it cool. This morning I cooked some white rice and last night I cooked more corn muffins, so that will be lunch for both of us today. Now, what will I cook next?

Night Walk

I don’t usually take night walks alone.

Inclined to join the crisp night air,
I turn off the stove. Dinner will stay warm.
Flashlight in hand, bright stars,
movement in the shrubs sends a shutter, then
the familiar sound of startled deer—two of them,
as they look up to see who’s there, only their dark outlines visible in the darkness.

Usually a scardy cat at night, but this night: determination in each step,
vigilance tucked in my pocket.
I walk and walk down dark, house lined streets. At moments
when I don’t need the flashlight because there are no cars, I
feel as though with each step, I can slip at any moment into an abyss.
And then I wonder, what would it feel like to step into the darkness—disappear and reappear?

With each step,
darkness—the lack of shadows, only dark outlines and moonlight—almost full.

As I amble from the dark and quiet street, I meet the main road, well lit.
Two stars—like eyes—the moon a far removed mouth of surprise, a disconnected face and then the scene changes and the moon is just a moon gliding along the tops of trees—It peeks through, the wind grows stronger and I hear the ocean, only it’s not the ocean, but the palms and other leafy trees mimicking the sound of waves crashing.

I steal one last look at the moon, listen to the waves, and feel the night air on my face, knowing the special connection to the moon—its, his, hers—many shades of emotion.

Monday

Sunday, will you stay a little longer?
Molasses inches out thick and
slow like a snail 
nibbling on a leaf.

Purple Pot Roast

I wasn’t sure what Saturday would bring. The day unfolded, another change from winter weather back to spring. A late start to the day; uncertain of our plans and then learning that we had the day to ourselves, yet we seemed in different moods, so we went our separate ways for the day.

I thought of a few things: A walk, a drive, a solo adventure? Decisions. I had the day to myself, and it was too nice of a day outside to stay inside and read the day away. I went to my recipe box and looked through “My Great Recipes” recipe cards. Each card, a color image with many possibilities. A few that stood out: beef and cheese turnovers, sesame peanut butter cookies, pineapple muffins, pumpkin-pecan pie. I’ve had these recipe cards—those that I salvaged from the set—since childhood. I wish that I had kept the entire set, but at least I have a small batch of cards left. I’ve looked at the beef and cheese turnovers card and the others several times over the years, pulling and putting back. Of these particular cards that caught my attention yesterday, I have only made the sesame peanut butter cookies, which were delightful—the added flavor, crunch, and texture of the sesame seeds make all the difference.

After looking through recipes and finding nothing that I was certain about, a spark lighted: I would make a Pot Roast. Not a typical day for a hearty winter meal, though, a fine excuse to finally buy the cast iron Dutch oven that I saw at World Market; and at last I would make a pot roast, a craving I’ve had for some time now, and only my second time making one. I followed the recipe in The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook.

Once I knew I was going to prepare a beef pot roast, I wrote a grocery list and off I went. My first stop was World Market and while I picked up the Dutch oven, I also bought a new cutting board for veggies, since I had used the other one for meats and have been breaking the rules of keeping the meats and veggie cutting separate.

Next I took the scenic route to Safeway— always the scenic route. I went to a different Safeway this time for a change of pace and I’m glad I did. After winding through narrow hilly roads, admiring homes; taking it slow; smiling at trees flirting with spring, and ending up on the long stretch of road that would take me to my destination, I arrived.

And upon arrival, my whole body felt like the mountain looking back at me, beginning to show its verdant vibrancy through the sleepy browns; tree stumps all around were like happy people; other trees blossoming yellow puffs of brilliance. I sat in my car and soaked it in—life all around me—tingly with the beauty that surrounded me; when I heard the crow caw, I said hello softly. I let him know I hear him and I always look to find where he is, and I see another and they are conversing from the small distance between them.

Slowly, coming out of my reverie…I pull myself along and I walk into Safeway with a light step. I made it through my list and the last item I needed was a dry red wine for the roast. I’ve come to the conclusion that though I’ve enjoyed the few wine tastings I’ve been to, and enjoy a glass of wine here and there, I’m truly not a wine drinker. I tend to prefer beer, but only certain beers—a very small pool of beers.

In search for a dry red for the pot roast, and having no idea and forgetting to look this up before I left home, I asked the person working in the beer and wine area. He was stumped. He was still helpful and went to ask someone else, but came up empty. I thanked him anyway and said I’d have a look and hope for the best.

The wine isle was too crowded for the cart. I swung around and entered the isle from the other side, parking my cart out of the way. I was still puzzled when I saw a gentleman with white hair, a handsome man of 65 or 70, a sparkle in his eyes and friendliness in his face. I asked him if he happened to know of a good dry red for a pot roast—for cooking and drinking. He thought about it a moment and then said that he and his wife had actually enjoyed a Bogle Petit Sirah recently with a pot roast. I remembered having had a Sirah once and I liked it. I thanked him and went in search amongst the many reds. He was edging back that way to meet his wife and he pointed it out.  “Ah, there it is. Thank you,” I said. He saw his wife and told her what I was looking for and she smiled in a way that made me feel he made a good recommendation. I said thank you again and was so pleased at how helpful the man was.

Safeway is known for their customer service. This particular store had the friendliest group thus far and they seemed genuine: The young man who gave me a cart on my way into the store; the woman in produce who went out of her way to help me find the type of apples I couldn’t find; and the older gentleman bagging my groceries who asked my name before then thanking me by name and bidding me a good day in a truly blissful way. How could one have a bad day when so many others are filling it with their good nature and joy?

Back at home, I unloaded, and set to work. The second thing I did after getting the meat in the refrigerator was to open the wine and have a glass while I prepared the meal. I must say I was pleasantly surprised at how easy the wine went down, but on weekends I still prefer a cold beer during dinner preparation. I took the meat out and began browning each side in my new cast iron Dutch oven. Once that was done, I poured the mixture of heated red wine, Worchestire sauce, beef bullion, and crushed basil over the top as instructed. The aroma was heavenly.

Between cooking, I finished watching the movie, Julia and Julia, a compliment to the pairing to the day’s meal and mood.

For the most part, I was pleased with how the pot roast turned out, though the color of the juices, which became the gravy, looked a deep blackish purple. It wasn’t a bright gravy as I’m used to seeing and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gravy look like this. This is a case where it tasted much better than it looked and I found that it didn’t look as bad when poured over the top of the roast and vegetables. I do wonder if the deep wine color and the cast iron together caused this odd color?

I kept the meal simple and served the roast and added vegetables of potato, carrot, and celery, with “Jiffy” corn muffins. I cheated a bit on the muffins. “Jiffy” makes it easy and tasty.

I was pleased and felt much better about the meal when my significant other raved about the flavors and said the meal was delicious. Because this wasn’t a roast cooked all day, it didn’t become fall apart tender, as I would have preferred, but he assured me that it was tender enough. He wanted seconds and enjoyed it a lot more that I expected. That made my night.

I simply cannot choose

Red Room Hero Blog

For me this question is difficult: Who is my Red Room Hero? There are Red Room members and authors that immediately come to the forefront of my mind, but then to select only one or even two excludes all the others, excludes all those whose rooms I have not entered.

I simply cannot choose.
We are all heroes in our own right.
Some are in clear view,
while others follow a quieter drum beat.

For to choose one, would be to exclude another.
We are all heroes in our own right,
quiet heroes and loud heroes.
I simply cannot choose.