Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Cookies You Need In An Emergency



These cookies have a track record, and it’s glorious.

I found a version of these cookies on the Weight Watchers site,
but the recipe didn’t have the berries in it,  so  I adjusted.

Julie was in chemo with her late stage breast cancer diagnosis.  
We needed something sweet.  We needed foods with high, high
nutritional values.  We needed a bite of joy.

So I started making these for her.  No flour.  Small amount of
sugar.  Real butter—no transfats, which people with cancers do not
need.  A gazillion pecans.  Even more cranberries.  The answer to
an antioxidant angel’s prayer. 

The cookies were so good we made them for Julie’s oncologist and her
chemo nurses, our new heroes.  Now we are closing in on Julie’s
5th Anniversary, post-diagnosis.

Then there was Jon.  His heart valves had turned to mush
and he went to New York for a rare, more than difficult, two-day surgery
with world-class, miracle-working, fearless surgeons, tracked by
Sherry who held it all together until her man could get home.

The first day the docs cleaned out the scar tissue. They literally zipped him up. The second day they focused on the repairs to the heart. It was a tough, tough time.

But we’d sent them a package of these cookies, just before they went
to New York, and they were  there when Jon needed them.  Now he’s living
proof of the surgeon’s capabilities, Sherry’s love, and the power of true
love and collective prayer.  He got another box of cookies when he got home.

A young singer threw a clot at a Gospel music conference, wound up
in the ICU of a local hospital.  She was very ill.  Her parents came to stay with her
at the hospital, were staying in a room on another floor.  A note came round from church, the family was in need of food and comfort.  I could help with that.  So I made a batch
of these cookies, found some giant, ultra-sweet oranges to go with, and left
the box with the cookies and  oranges at their hospital door. Another family had taken them out to dinner. 

But money was tight, so they weren’t eating regular meals, only those snacks the hospital provided.  A few days later, the mom called me, asking for the recipe.  They were an Hawaiian family from another state, and they’d head down to the cafeteria for cups of tea, and they would share cookies and divvy up the oranges.  They lived on these cookies
for a week, and they’d shared them with their stricken daughter.  Everybody made
it.  Mom and Dad, the beautiful singer.  Everybody got to go home. 

I can’t tell you what that story did for me. There was something blessed going on.
And something as simple as cookies were part of it.  

Here’s the recipe.  Please make your own additions, your own course
corrections.  The recipe can stand it.  Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.  Line
your cookie sheet with parchment.

Cookies You Need In An Emergency

1 ¼ cup of Old Fashioned Oats  (they are thicker and don’t turn to mush)
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp sea salt (the bigger granular salts add a surprising pop of flavor)

Mix those together.

Add these and stir them up well.
½ cup brown sugar (You can substitute palm sugar if you want a lower glycemic food)
1 cup pecans (bit and pieces)
1 cup dried cranberries
1/3 cup butter, melted (I’m sorry, but nothing tastes like butter)
1 beaten egg
1 tsp really good vanilla, for reals.  Maybe 1 ½ tsp, if you wish.  Mexican vanilla rocks!

Roll the cookies into walnut shaped pieces.  Put them on the parchment/baking sheet.
Flatten and shape the cookies.  They do spread some.   Bake for about five minutes.
Switch the baking sheet side to side in the oven.  Finish baking for 3 more minutes.
More if you want them a little crunchier.

Pull them out of the oven.  Let them cool about 10 minutes before you take them
from the sheet.  Makes about 2 dozen mid-sized, thin cookies.

Share the blessings.  

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Car Guy

You've met Scott-Guy before.  My nephew.  Of course, I am completely biased when I tell you how beautiful and brilliant he is.  Nice to boot.

Here's what you might not know:  When he was a toddler, just getting his pegs in working order, he became enamored with walking.  You know the drill—the foward tilt, the head down,  the feets pounding the pavement.  My brother and I were taking him for a walk through the parking lot of my apartment complex, about two blocks.  We just let him go; we were a step or two behind.  The story of our lives.

About half way back, Scottie looked up enough that a red Corvette caught his eye and stopped him cold.  He took a deep breath and shook from head to toe. Deep, meaningful sigh.  The kind of sign that tells you somebody has found exactly the thing that gives life meaning and context.   It took him awhile to get his eyes back in his head again.  I think it was an "imprint" moment. It might have been prophetic. He was not yet two years old.

Fast forward to about a year ago, when he bought an aging sports car on E-Bay—without his parent's knowledge or permission.  They were somewhat less than enthusiastic.  "But there's so much to do. . ."  True enough.  But what we didn't know was this:  fixing up the old car was his joy.  The  "to do"  was the very thing.

Next up, a year of engineering studies.  Now he is a certifiable car guy and in need of a hands-on program.  He found one.  In a far away state, there is a program that allows young engineering students to build a new car every year, then drive it, and perhaps race it.  The cars have to be an improvement over the previous cars.  Scott and my brother visited the program a week ago.  Dr. Bob was their gracious host, helping them navigate the campus and the program.  And the car? An itty, bitty sports car.  Scott-Guy is a gonner.  

I told Scott they were lucky to get him.    

When kids tell you who they are, believe them.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Prat Falls and Pot Holes

Gardening is a way of life in my rural state.  When I was a kid, Mrs. Cline had the best garden: acres of flowers that she just popped into the ground and they grew.  All of it.  There were little white flowers hidden under big red flowers, shrubs that had never been trimmed, trees a hundred years old, a riot of pink, royal purple, flax blue, and lavender.  It took over the yard, and then there was the acre of veggie garden.  She canned every bite.  And it was good.  All of that was perched on a little hill, under locust trees, and the patch work of fields of corn, alfalfa, and potatoes fell at our feet, like a hand-made quilt.

It's hard to explain to people who've never lived close to the land, the sweetness and peace that places like Mrs. Cline's foster. A summer morning.  The blackbird chirp.  The scent of hay.  Of dirt.

So I went home a lot while my dad was still alive.  One lovely summer night, we ate radishes out of the garden and shared a beer.  I joked about not needing the car to get home.

He lived in a little town on the edge of nowhere.  The next town south—of any size—was Reno,  And there was the great American dessert in between.  In my home town, there were four cross streets and two main streets than ran through town.  One of those had a single parking meter.  More of a joke, than a revenue source.

But there was big trouble brewing.  A pot hole.  It was huge and growing by the day.
Driving into town, I swerved to miss it.   But when I left, I had no trouble spotting it.  Somebody had  planted a 12-foot tree,  bagged roots and all in the hole.  It was a magnificient feat, 12 feet of elm tree growing straight from concrete, smack in the middle of town.

Gardening.  With. An. Attitude.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Some Kinda Wonderful


A few years ago, I met Larry and Cheryl.  They are lovely folk, avid sports fans, hard-working people, doting parents and grandparents, and something was terribly, terribly wrong.  There were things Larry just wouldn’t talk about.

Cheryl is a stoic, a straight-talkin’ woman of strength and dignity, who is whip smart and willing to take the less well-equipped to task, given the need.  I knew for her a year before she spoke up at dinner, Wednesday night dinners at church, about the fact that she had Hepatitis C, had contracted it in about 1982 from a blood transfusion.  It was diagnosed in 2008. 

I had to look this up, but the symptoms include fatigue, achy joints, and generalized yuckiness. It is hell on your liver.  It’s the liver damage that puts people at risk.  Hep C can wipe out your liver, a leading cause of liver transplants.  Cheryl was looking at a year in Chicago, without Larry, to take part in research protocols.  The outcomes were iffy, but it was a chance.  This is what Larry wouldn’t talk about.

Last Christmas I attended one of Cheryl’s support groups.  You know how you walk into a room where people are gathered, and there is real suffering present—you feel it?  I felt it.  People with every variety of Hepatitis were there.  Some had given up.  They hadn’t seen their doctors in a year.  Others, of course, were courage on the hoof. Still learning, still participating, still hopeful, still strong.  Cheryl is one of those. And one of the very, very lucky ones.  Not all Hepatitis treatments and research are on an even pathway; some are further along than others.  Cheryl had a real chance.

That chance was a new Hep C drug, INCEVIK, that had passed the research phase and was at the marketing phase.  It cost over $10,000 a month, the costs covered by insurance and by the pharmaceutical company.  There were hoops to just get through, and Cheryl did that, step by wary step.  This spring and summer, Cheryl took the multiple drugs which made her sick on some days, low energy on others, needing foods that were fairly bland. No appetite.

Larry gave her the shots and took care of her, when she couldn’t do it herself; he learned how and did it. It worked. She is Hepatitis C free.  She also has a future worth planning on, one with her kids and her grandbabies, and Larry, who is talking again.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Fried Chicken

It’s a dying art form, I’m thinking.  Chicken is healthy, but the grease might not be. 

But I have to say I miss it.  What I think I really miss is my mom’s and my grandma’s fried chicken, which was a celestial experience.  I can get close, but I can’t quite get there. 

I realized why a summer or two ago.  Grandma Belle used to fry a thigh or two and keep them in her refrigerator, as if they were leftovers.  But I caught on.  She fried them just for my brother and I, in case we stopped by, in case we raided her fridge, in case we were hungry.  Is it any wonder I get food and love all mixed up at times?  That’s because it is all mixed up at times. 

I also realized why my chicken will never taste the way theirs tasted.  For starters, there’s that 40-years-of-skill-and-care thing.  And secondly, they used a little bit of bacon grease.  That’s the over the top ingredient, and even I can’t go there.  Wishful thinking, though.

But this is the season for fried chicken: Memorial Day, The Fourth, and Labor Day.  I allow myself two small pieces at the family picnic.  That carries me through the summer and honors the memories of my matriarchs.  And those small servings are not going to sink me.

Here’s the best I can do:

To start:

            8-10 medium sized chicken pieces.  You can use all legs and thighs if you wish. If you want chicken breasts, you can buy the chicken breasts that have been halved (left and right sides of a whole breast).  I half them again.  Feel along the meaty side of the breast,
you’ll feel a line of demarcation.  Cut down that line.  You’ll have to work through a little bit of bone. But that is easy enough.

            Soak the chicken for at least an hour to over night in buttermilk.  A pint should do it.  I actually prefer the shorter soaking time; I like the flavor and the texture better.

            You’ll need white Crisco for this.  Veggie oil just doesn’t do it. You won’t get the crispness.  Heat enough shortening to fill a cast iron skillet to about half an inch. When you put a little bit of flour or water in the oil and it sizzles, it’s ready.

            Make a flour concoction.  White flour, salt and pepper are the basics.  You can add things like Rosemary or Oregano, hot pepper flakes, garlic, whatever you like.
Run a fork through the flour, mixing all of the ingredients.  Pull the chicken out of the buttermilk and dredge them in the flour a piece at a time.  You’ll get a great crust on the chicken if you do this one.  You get a glorious crust if you do it twice.  Buttermilk then flour; buttermilk then flour. 

Slide the pieces into the oil, being careful not to crowd the pieces.  Watch the chicken carefully.  Oil + absence = disaster.  When it starts to brown, turn it over.  I turn the chicken 3-4 times in about 40 minutes.  Pull the chicken out of the oil when it is BG & D.
Golden brown and delicious, the chefs say. Let it drain and cool on cake racks.  Although you might not be able wait, it’s best if it’s cooled for about 2 hours.  The crust magically develops as the chicken cools.  If you want it warm, you can do that in the oven for a few minutes. 

Serving suggestions: You need a backyard with old trees, 20-30 cousins, aunt and uncles, moms and dads, grandma and grandpas, red checkered table cloths, folding chairs, Aunt Bernice’s’ potato salad, watermelon, and cold beer.   

Sunday, June 3, 2012

The Tree of Justice

Summers.  I have deep green memories of spreading elms, irrigation ditches you could sit in when it just got too hot,  watermelons and hot dogs, and eleven little kids, the cousins.  We spent every summer together, so we grew up more as siblings rather than relatives. 

This was child-rearing for our parents in the 1950s and 1960s:  Send the kids outside to play approximately five minutes after breakfast.  Tell them not to come back inside the house until supper. 

It's a wonder we survived it. 

We were busy out there. We were jumping off of twenty-foot haystacks, chasing down chickens or calves, digging the radishes and the potatoes out of the  dirt and eating them raw, climbing all over combines and tractors, walking miles of fence (on top of the 2-inch wooden poles that made up the barnyard fences, three feet high), were chased by pigs and cows, practicing our gymnastics on flooded lawns and irrigation ditches,  climbing trees, and engaging in mud fights with each other. Our folks  hosed us down before we could come in for a bath.

You'd think that kids who played that hard together would get along. You'd be wrong.  We regularly locked each other in or out of sheds, barns, or basements. We pushed each other off of ditch banks into irrigation canals.  Every day one child or another was singled out and picked on.  You learned how to hold your own out there.

So, late one afternoon, my brother was up a tree, and the other boys were throwing mud at him.  He saw it as a game, dodging the mud as it flew through the air.  It was in my uncles back-yard, and a little irrigation ditch ran through it—lots of opportunity for big clumps of mud.  It was fairly easy to throw, but you couldn't aim it. It went where it wanted to go. So, my cousin, Mike, a handsome blond lad, had a whole handful of the stuff, reared back and let it fly. It hit a limb, and  immediately it pitched right back at Mike.  It hit him smack between the eye-brows.  A big, black blob of mud.

Twelve little kids were on the ground in the fits and starts of snorting laughter.  Never had justice been rendered so swiftly or so righteously before.  And never since.

The Tree of Justice

Summers.  I have deep green memories of spreading elms, irrigation ditches you could sit in when it just got too hot,  watermelons and hot dogs, and eleven little kids, the cousins.  We spent every summer together, so we grew up more as siblings rather than relatives. 

This was child-rearing for our parents in the 1950s and 1960s:  Send the kids outside to play approximately five minutes after breakfast.  Tell them not to come back inside the house until supper. 

It's a wonder we survived it. 

We were busy out there. We were jumping off of twenty-foot haystacks, chasing down chickens or calves, digging the radishes and the potatoes out of the  dirt and eating them raw, climbing all over combines and tractors, walking miles of fence (on top of the 2-inch wooden poles that made up the barnyard fences, three feet high), were chased by pigs and cows, practicing our gymnastics on flooded lawns and irrigation ditches,  climbing trees, and engaging in mud fights with each other. Our folks  hosed us down before we could come in for a bath.

You'd think that kids who played that hard together would get along. You'd be wrong.  We regularly locked each other in or out of sheds, barns, or basements. We pushed each other off of ditch banks into irrigation canals.  Every day one child or another was singled out and picked on.  You learned how to hold your own out there.

So, late one afternoon, my brother was up a tree, and the other boys were throwing mud at him.  He saw it as a game, dodging the mud as it flew through the air.  It was in my uncles back-yard, and a little irrigation ditch ran through it—lots of opportunity for big clumps of mud.  It was fairly easy to throw, but you couldn't aim it. It went where it wanted to go. So, my cousin, Mike, a handsome blond lad, had a whole handful of the stuff, reared back and let it fly. It hit a limb, and  immediately it pitched right back at Mike.  It hit him smack between the eye-brows.  A big, black blob of mud.

Twelve little kids were on the ground in the fits and starts of snorting laughter.  Never had justice been rendered so swiftly or so righteously before.  And never since.