Month: May 2010

  • Rice Pudding Reflections

    It's a jolly good laugh when the opposites of deprivation and bounty take you to the same dish. 

    When we were feeding, clothing and educating our sons on a shoestring budget, peasant food was the menu du jour. I liked calling it peasant food: it gave it a romantic, bohemian flair. Peasant has a nicer ring than poor.  I bought potatoes in fifty pound bags, sacks of beans, sacks of rice, sacks of wheat, sacks of oats.  One son recalls us eating a lot of rice pudding.

    Lately I've had the dilemma of abundance.  A local farmer delivers milk weekly and we've had too many gallons of milk spoil for lack of consumption.  Reluctant to reduce our order (and support of our farmer friend), we felt rotten throwing away good food.  Yogurt and cheese were options; I wasn't consistent in making them and the demand for them was low.

    I tried to think of foods that use milk.  "Remember when I used to make rice pudding?"  I combed through my cookbooks for a recipe which required the most milk.  One took a quart of milk; I doubled it.  It uses so much milk because you cook the rice in the milk instead of water.  My high-metabolism husband loved it.  He's always looking for sweets to eat.

    I doubled that recipe, tinkered with how to prepare it and now I make a gallon of rice pudding every week.  One man, my husband, eats a gallon of rice pudding every week! It's become a game. 

    Me:  You're gonna get sick of rice pudding.
    Him:  I will outlast you.  You will get tired of making rice pudding before I get tired of eating it.
    Me:  I'll keep making it! 
    Him: I'll keep eating it!

    Enough Rice Pudding

    1 gallon whole milk
    4 cups rice
    3 cups sugar
    1 teaspoon salt

    Mix ingredients and simmer on low heat until thick, 2-3 hours.
    Stir when you can. 

    In another bowl beat 6 large eggs together.
    Add the hot mixture gradually to eggs to warm them up.
    Add egg mixture to pudding and cook 5 minutes.

    Remove from heat.
    Add a few glops of vanilla (2T?).

    Serve warm or cool in refrigerator.
    Optional: sprinkle with cinnamon

  • So Far, SO GOOD

     

    When my new doctor entered the exam room, she caught me in the act of writing in my journal.  In her lovely Southern drawl, she peppered me with questions, one of which was "Have you published?"

    "No...um...but I blog?" was my lame answer.

    "Really?" with the inflection going down, she made it sound like she really! was interested.  "What do you blog about?" 

    The answer, my friend, was most definitely not....appliances. 

    A stove is a banal topic, I grant you.  Ho. Hum.  But, when 1982 was the last time one has purchased a new major appliance it's a big deal!  And I'm happy to tell you I love my new gas stove.  I love the crackling sound when you first turn a burner on, I love the flame that bursts forth, I love the control of fine-tuning the size of the flame, I love to sauté, I love to braise, I love to bake, I love to cook. 

    Instead of four elements, I now have five burners.  Instead of three rack placements in the oven, I now have five.  I. have. a. warming. oven. (Never mind that I don't know what to do with it yet.)  Color me happy!

    And the best thing about this exchange?  Since our friend came and took the old (non-self cleaning) stove for scrap metal, I didn't have to clean it!  Booyah!

  • Close to Home

        

    An evening picnic at Ladd Marsh.
    (Hey Danny: Curt saw a bittern)
    A pair of Sandhill Cranes with a little one.
    Turkey, pheasant, geese, ducks, blackbirds, elk, deer.
    Gyros sandwich for him; gyros salad for me.
    Lovely.

  • Fine Art Friday - Woman at the Window


    The Woman at the Window, 1822, Caspar David Friedrich

    Subdued interior...light exterior
    vertical orientation
    Ship's mast
    Cruciform intersection of window panes

    What are your thoughts about her thoughts?
    Is she catching a breath of fresh air?
    Does she want to get away?
    Is she watching the kids play?


  • In Which I Give a Lukewarm Review

     

    I don't know what I think about this book. 

    It helps, I think, to explain what it is not.  Not a collection of metrical psalms, made for singing.  Not a direct correlation, verse by verse.  Laurance Wieder writes a poem for every psalm (150), shapes them into poems designed to make you see/hear them through different eyes/ears. 

    The psalms are the best companions one can have in life.  They run the gambit of praise, grief, guilt, complaint; the psalmist articulates the responses of the heart to all of life.  There are many translations.  There are paraphrases.  Metrical psalms stick as close to the text as possible with meter and rhyme.   

    I had arguments with myself.   One me told the other me the whole concept was wrong. / The other me retorted that Wieder did nothing illegal, immoral or indecent.  Give the man a chance. / He missed it!  / But look at this phrase. 
         
    I tried reading the psalm [Bible] and then the poem.  Bad plan.  We had friends over; after dinner I read various poems that corresponded with our guests' favorite psalms.  Their enthusiasm for his poems was dim.  Very dim.

    But some of the poems surprised me and drove me back to the psalms to see where Wieder got that angle. His economy of words is admirable.  He paints with words.

    Here's an [inadequate] analogy.  I love Jane Austen.  She is the master.  One page of her writing is a feast.  But I don't care for modern knock-offs, updated versions.  I can understand why writers would want to imitate Austen;  I don't have a clue why any publisher would print them.

    Here are two samples.  If you are curious how Wieder handles one of your favorite psalms you can read the book on Google Books.  I was completely floored to read the blurbs on the back.  Paul Auster and Tom Disch--both unfamiliar names--, Luci Shaw and R.L. Stine.  Luci Shaw, the poet, makes perfect sense.  But R.L. Stine? The author of Goosebumps?  Does that hit anyone else as...incongruous? <grin>

    86       Of State

    Listen, God, I need
    You, hear me.
           Cheer me.
    In this darkness.
    Give me back
    (My soul is ready
    Now to leave me)
    Any answer.
    I don't question
    You believe me.
    Teach me trust
    In the returning
    Promise, shame
    My enemies
    In public, enter
    My heart in your
    Book of splendors.

    96     Jingle

    New moon, new song:
    Day short, night long.
    Break sea, roar winds:
    One God, more minds.
    Stars blink. Suns cool.
    Tongues twist. Souls rule.
    Smoke's sweet. Song doubts.
    Times dance. Rain spouts.

    Lose hope. Sow seed.
    Cast bells. Ring true.
    Not want, just need.
    First frost. Late dew.

  • Singing Mom Who Sheds Cheerfulness

      

     

    I can still hear you being cheerful on the slightest provocation, or no provocation at all, singing as you work and shedding your cheerfulness on others.  So let us remember your life, such a life as many women of your generation shared to some extent, though not always with your special trials and rarely with your stoicism and grace.

    ~  Wallace Stegner writing about his mother in "Letter, Much Too Late" from Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs

  • Fine Art Friday for Moms

      

    Mary Cassatt.

    An American often associated with French artists.
    A single woman famous for depicting maternal love.
    From Altoona, Pennsylvania! ♥♥

    Today is a day of mingled grief and joy.
    When I look at this art
    my grief is not for what I lost
    but for those who haven't known
    the touch of a loving mother,
    the care of being bathed,
    the warmth of being read a story,
    the intimacy of touching mama's face,
    the security of being firmly held.

    Happy Mother's Day

  • Neener, Neener, Neener

       
    To the deer in my neighborhood
    who have mysteriously missed my tulips this year:
    Thanks chumps!

     

     

    ::          ::          ::          ::          ::

    Addendum, the next morning

    Pride goes before a (snow)fall

  • Real Scottish Fiction

    The crisp onions were making a great crackling,
    and on a cold night the smell was enough to
    draw water out of dead teeth.

    If you decided to write a romance, chances are you'd put your muscular man and breathless heroine in the highlands of Scotland.  Don't do it.  There's a flood of fake Scottish mumbo-jumbo on the market.  Ditto for historical fiction. 

    Here's a better idea.  Read some authentic Scottish fiction, written by a Scot.  You cannot improve on Robert Louis Stevenson's Kidnapped; I am especially fond of John Buchan and his sister Anna, who wrote under the pen name O. Douglas

    The mother passed the cups of tea.
    She had the natural air of
    dispensing life's mercies.
    If you are sweet on Stevenson, if you love Buchan, Neil Gunn (1891-1973)  is another Scottish author worth a look.  Rick Steves, the travel guru, mentioned him in a guidebook.  Gunn is called "the most important Scottish novelist of the 20th century."

    Morning Tide, a coming-of-age story set in an impoverished fishing village takes you to the shore of the sullen, relentless sea and into the cottage of the MacBeth family. 

    She could get up and lift a boiling kettle from the fire
    while her husband was saying grace
    without destroying the moment's harmony,
    as if wisdom dwelt also in her movements.

    Life is harsh, difficult, but not without comfort of onions and the pleasure of practical jokes.  Twelve-year-old Hugh MacBeth is always hungry, often running, impatient with school, and coming to grips with the reality of a harsh life. 

    He [the schoolmaster] was clever,
    there was no doubt of that.
    And he could speak seven languages.
    Seven.  Ay, ay.
    The old men nodded their heads.
    Learning was a great thing.
    They looked far beyond one another.
    A great thing, learning.
    A far and wonderful thing.
    There was no denying that.
    It was a strange thing, too.
    Its strangeness excited them a little,
    and its wonder.
    Love of learning was in their marrow.

    Gunn writes about the survival of the folk living in the fishing village.  The men leave in boats; the women wonder if they will make it back home.  Breakfast is always porridge; dinner is a question mark.  They stare death in the eye daily and yet clearly see the sweetness of life.  More Gunn here.  Particularly recommended to mothers (and fathers) of boys.

  • Why I Love My Sons' Father

    I've mentioned before my husband's excellence at note writing and his blessings.  Never sappy, never sentimental, sometimes funny, but always thoroughly wonderful.  While I was helping my son cook his own birthday dinner (Bolognese sauce, pasta, focaccia and green salad) Curt sat down and wrote a card.  With permission from both the giver and the recipient, here it is:

    Your birthday is always a good day to take some time
       and reflect back over the years.
    Remember the blunders and the blessings,
       the sins and obediences, the consequences and mercies.
    In all of it, I pray you will see God's gracious hand and relentless patience.
    May you learn to be always thankful and forever fearful.
    Actually, the order must go the other way.
    Fear God, for He does as He pleases with you.
    And thank Him, for He is pleased to do good to you.
    Master these two attitudes toward God, and no other idol will master you.
    I am privileged to be your father, and I am proud to have you as my son.

    Always,

    Dad