Month: December 2020

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Never Mind, Pass the Pie

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My mom, a genteel Southern lady — who never uttered a single curse word (that I ever heard) until I  was well into my 30s, and even then, it was a pretty weak profanity — had an annoying habit of dropping family secret bombshells in the midst of a casual family dinner and then walking away while my brothers and sisters and I sat open-mouthed in stunned silence.

Our family dinners are not small, intimate events. This is People Room #1 of 4.

Mom: “Would anyone like more scalloped potatoes or ham?”

Bob: “Are those the potatoes from my garden?”

Margaret: “Did I give everyone copies of the kids’ school pictures?”

Janet: “Is that my kid eating the mashed potatoes out of the pan with a spatula?”

Darrell: “No, pretty sure it’s mine. Jesse! Leave some for the rest of us!”

Paul: “Why don’t you have cable TV, mom? You need cable. You get four channels, Mom. Four.”

Me: “What’s that smell? Smells kinda like dirty feet.”

John: “I think that’s your organic, gluten-free, vegan casserole, Viv.”

Mom: “You know (we certainly did not), your grandfather ordered a mail-order bride after your grandma died in 1946 when I was 14. She was from St. Louis (implying city whore), wore seamed stockings (definitely a city whore) and we (she and her four siblings) sent her packing.”

Us, in unison: “What?! Grandpa ordered a bride?! What did she look like? Did Grandpa just bring her home or did she show up on the doorstep?! What the …?! How come you never … Mom! What was her name? Did you ever see her again? What did you do to send her packing? Light her on fire? Was she an evil stepmother? Do any cousins know? Tell us more!”

Every time she did this — yes, she did it more than once and more frequently as she grew older — she would then wave her hand dismissively, change the subject and say, “Never mind, it’s not important, pass the pie. Yes Bob, those potatoes are from your garden.”

To this day, we all continue to use this phrase as a mantra for ignoring important news that we’d rather avoid altogether.

“I know I’m 40, but I’m pregnant, again. Pass the pie.”

“It was only two nights in jail and a $1,200 bond. Could you pass the pie?”

“By the way, I filed for divorce yesterday. Is that pumpkin pie? Pass it, please.”

“OK, I’m not exactly sure how old I’ll be when I finish paying off the $189,000 in student loans. Look, just pass the pie, OK?”

Cooking, Coronavirus, Vintage chicks lol

ButterNutting My Way to Pandemic Cuisine

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How bored and anxiety-ridden am I? Enough to turn French.

 le freak; le maniaque; le sot.

My attempt at growing butternut squash is shown in the middle. My baby is flanked by the giant, mutant GMO squash on either side.

My son gave me the last of his fall harvest — two mutantly large (oh yes, those GMOs) butternut squash — and I decided to make butternut squash soup, for the first time in my looooong life (aged 20 years in 2020 alone).

It was simple, I guess, but peeling two butternut squash the size of Volkswagens is akin to finding head lice on Rapunzel.

However, once I had that out of the way, I was full throttle to the Ultimate French Cuisine Snobby Pandemic Chef From Hell.

I decided to make crème fraîche (pronounced kram fresh-ha) and toasted pepitas as a decadent topping for the decadent full-fat creamy butternut soup. That extra COVID+19 around my waistline was not attained by munching celery and sipping lemon water.

Those two mutant squashes yielded SIX(!) freezer bags of future French cuisine — or freezer frost, depending on my mood.

Since I couldn’t find crème fraîche in the store (“Cream, right? Dairy aisle. Fresh ah, veggies? Produce aisle.”) , I decided to make it. Turns out adding 2 tablespoons of buttermilk to 2 cups of heavy whipping cream and letting it set for 8-24 hours renders a delightfully thick luscious type of French cream. Je suis très impressionné!

I cooked the cubed squash with chopped onion, apple, celery, carrots, garlic, veggie broth and salt and pepper until soft, blended it all in the blender (one small batch at a time) and poured it into bowls. Topped with a dollop of salted, roasted pepitas (come on — regular ole’ pumpkin seeds! Aldis —under $2 a bag!), fresh, chopped parsley and crème fraîche — and voila! A masterpiece!

For no one.

Bon appétit!

Just me. Always me. I have NEVER been so sick of me.

Well. there’s also my husband, who is also sick of me and whom I run into once in a while in the hallway on weekends. Alas, he could not see the splendor of a perfectly blended and exquistitely-plated butternut bisque and magnificently executed crème fraîche when all he really wanted was a dozen smoky BBQ wings with steak fries.

I ate it all. Thus, I upgraded the COVID+19 to COVID+24.

Would I do it again? Geesh, it was a lot of work. But, during the pandemic when there’s a lot of me, me, me time, I might foray into that French cooking arena once again.

When this is all over, though? Pretty sure I’ll forget the soup and enjoy a mixing bowl of the crème fraîche and toasted pepitas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. grossir pendant la quarantaine.

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On the 12th Month of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me …

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So, I’ve put up the Christmas decorations and here’s the deal. I am not taking them down until the pandemic is over or has substantially ebbed. That’s when I’m hosting a big Christmas get-together for my family of 50-plus.

If that’s in July or August, so be it. Snow balls or sweaty balls, I’m celebrating Christmas with my family.

I’ve geared up and armed myself with treetop angels and balls of gold in the U.S. vs COVID war.