Good morning!
I said to myself that I would not bother with politics on this blog, first because I don't know anything about it really, and second because it is a frustrating subject. But I must mention that I do read James Howard Kunstler's blog every Monday when he puts it out, and he is concerned about what's going on in Egypt. (Not to mention Yemen, etc.) His big point today: possible closure of the Suez Canal, whence all our oil passes on its way to the neighborhood gas pump.
"We lose ten percent of our oil and that's all she wrote around here," says he, and he is referring to our "kingdom of freeways" entire, not just the Saratoga, NY region.
I hope I am not breaking any laws by quoting that out of today's blog. Think about it, folks. We are living in a precarious state, that is for certain, when our whole American way of life depends so closely on the behavior in some countries far around the world.
And now, on a related topic, the Governor of California has sadly said that he is probably going to have to close the State Parks of California. Padlock the gates. I only hope they don't get sold off for resorts for the very wealthy. They could be; it happens, doesn't it? California is broke, and it is essential that great cuts are made in our expenditures....Well, I would rather that the mentally ill receive the care that they need, I guess. But guess what, their care will be cut too.
Yesterday at church, the Forum was about unexpected change in our lives. The I Ching would say, I told you so. We split into little groups, which I always hate, though the little groups are always so valuable that I am never sorry I was in on one. The changes we heard about were all just common life situations: separation, loneliness, sudden severe illness. All touching, all involving suffering humanity. There were five of us in our little group, and we went around the circle. Guess who didn't have to say anything, because time ran out? Right. Good.
I was zonked at church yesterday because we went out on Saturday night to a movie. I am not used to the night life any more. The movie we saw was The Way Back, which title reminds me, sadly, of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. This movie is a National Geographic Movie, they told us, but they did not have to tell us that. That's what it is. It's about some men who escape from a gulag in Siberia during WW II, and walk over Siberia, Manchuria, China, and India...along the way being joined by a very young woman who is also an escapee from the Soviets. I loved the scenery. I hated it at the beginning when the hero realizes he has been ratted out by his wife (as she was tortured), and I shut my eyes and ears and missed that part. I hated it when some of them had to die. I liked the Russian crook best of all, and also loved Ed Harris who has grown remarkably old in a short time. I did not like how healthy they all looked in the Gulag as they played cards at night. Not the way they would have been, with loose bloody teeth, sores, and shedding hair. On the trek, I liked the walking, as they did a lot of it and you had a good sense of how many actual steps men had to take before we had cars. (Back to Kunstler.) Would I recommend you go see it? Yes. Nothing to fear. YAZZYBEL
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
¡ Arroz !
Good morning...I am still writing about rice today because I realized yesterday after I posted that I had more to say. This time under the category of words.
That upside down exclamation point up there is made with Alt 173, in case you want to make one. It is essential in Spanish orthography.
"Arroz" is rice in Spanish, and it is a word connected with one of my earliest memories. In my memory, it is noon time, and I am alone with my baby sister in an upstairs room in a large house. Rare that we would ever be left alone for long enough for me to note it. I am standing in an airy shadowy room, and my baby sister is jumping up and down in her baby bed, crying out, "¡ Arroz, arroz!"
That wonderful Mexican rice smell I mentioned yesterday is coming up the stairs and filling the house. Someone comes and we are taken to lunch, I guess. I must have been two and a half years old in this memory, as my nameless sister was probably a year old. We all began to talk early in our family, and talk we did. I am grateful to my sister for this expression of anticipation, as it set this moment in my memory forever. We moved a lot as kids after this, and had more sisters, but at this time we lived in a large graceful house in Brownsville, Texas. My mother was pretty happy. She had two maids, and two maids are better than one, if thay can get along.
The maids were named Lila (pronounced in the Spanish pronunciation) and Ambrosia....what beautiful names for two short dumpy women. Lila was bright and peppery as to temperament as became an excellent cook. And Ambrosia was well named, a very sweet docile person who got along well with my mother and with Lila, a miracle in both cases. We loved Ambrosia and enjoyed Lila, who was not ever entrusted with our care...but we saw her around. I remember both these ladies very well, as they both came to work on and off later on in our childhoods when we were not so well off as to live in a large cool house nor have two maids..
Why maids, you ask? Everyone had one if they were anyone at all. In Brownsville I have even known maids who had maids, probably more of them than you'd think. Someone had to watch her kids while she was working. A well-run household needs a maid. In American culture, the wife is ideally the maid, which explains a lot of the unhappiness in our country. I was never a maid, and am not one to this day, which probably explains much of my precarious relationship with marriage.
When my father and mother married, he told her that she would always have a maid. The priorities in our household were these: 1) food and shelter, 2) a maid for my mother, 3) everything else. My parents stuck to this model all their married life except for some years in my early childhood when the Depression struck South Texas with its bitter force and my mother and somebody and I went to live with our American grandparents in San Benito, while my father lived and worked in Mexico.
So you can see that rice encompasses a lot more of life than just being a comestible. Who cooks it, how it's cooked and appreciated, just opens a window to a life you might never have known. When I decided yesterday to write this part of the rice story, I wondered for the first time, Say, how did rice come to Spain anyway? Of course, it came via North Africa and those resourceful Moors who so plague our imaginations today. But how did it get to North Africa? It has to grow in paddies, doesn't it? Actually, it does not have to grow underwater, though that was the culture developed for it in the East. The answer is, our ancestors were a lot more peripatetic than we realize. They went all over the place and they traded. They loved rice wherever it arrived. The Moors' word for it was al-ruzz.
Good word. I love it already. And the Spaniards took away the awkward "l-r" sound and elided it into arroz. Que viva el "¡Arroz, arroz, arroz!" YAZZYBEL
That upside down exclamation point up there is made with Alt 173, in case you want to make one. It is essential in Spanish orthography.
"Arroz" is rice in Spanish, and it is a word connected with one of my earliest memories. In my memory, it is noon time, and I am alone with my baby sister in an upstairs room in a large house. Rare that we would ever be left alone for long enough for me to note it. I am standing in an airy shadowy room, and my baby sister is jumping up and down in her baby bed, crying out, "¡ Arroz, arroz!"
That wonderful Mexican rice smell I mentioned yesterday is coming up the stairs and filling the house. Someone comes and we are taken to lunch, I guess. I must have been two and a half years old in this memory, as my nameless sister was probably a year old. We all began to talk early in our family, and talk we did. I am grateful to my sister for this expression of anticipation, as it set this moment in my memory forever. We moved a lot as kids after this, and had more sisters, but at this time we lived in a large graceful house in Brownsville, Texas. My mother was pretty happy. She had two maids, and two maids are better than one, if thay can get along.
The maids were named Lila (pronounced in the Spanish pronunciation) and Ambrosia....what beautiful names for two short dumpy women. Lila was bright and peppery as to temperament as became an excellent cook. And Ambrosia was well named, a very sweet docile person who got along well with my mother and with Lila, a miracle in both cases. We loved Ambrosia and enjoyed Lila, who was not ever entrusted with our care...but we saw her around. I remember both these ladies very well, as they both came to work on and off later on in our childhoods when we were not so well off as to live in a large cool house nor have two maids..
Why maids, you ask? Everyone had one if they were anyone at all. In Brownsville I have even known maids who had maids, probably more of them than you'd think. Someone had to watch her kids while she was working. A well-run household needs a maid. In American culture, the wife is ideally the maid, which explains a lot of the unhappiness in our country. I was never a maid, and am not one to this day, which probably explains much of my precarious relationship with marriage.
When my father and mother married, he told her that she would always have a maid. The priorities in our household were these: 1) food and shelter, 2) a maid for my mother, 3) everything else. My parents stuck to this model all their married life except for some years in my early childhood when the Depression struck South Texas with its bitter force and my mother and somebody and I went to live with our American grandparents in San Benito, while my father lived and worked in Mexico.
So you can see that rice encompasses a lot more of life than just being a comestible. Who cooks it, how it's cooked and appreciated, just opens a window to a life you might never have known. When I decided yesterday to write this part of the rice story, I wondered for the first time, Say, how did rice come to Spain anyway? Of course, it came via North Africa and those resourceful Moors who so plague our imaginations today. But how did it get to North Africa? It has to grow in paddies, doesn't it? Actually, it does not have to grow underwater, though that was the culture developed for it in the East. The answer is, our ancestors were a lot more peripatetic than we realize. They went all over the place and they traded. They loved rice wherever it arrived. The Moors' word for it was al-ruzz.
Good word. I love it already. And the Spaniards took away the awkward "l-r" sound and elided it into arroz. Que viva el "¡Arroz, arroz, arroz!" YAZZYBEL
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Mexican Rice
Good morning!
Here we are at last with Mexican Rice, another of the crowning glories of border cuisine.
My mother made wonderful Mexican Rice, even though my father wouldn't eat onions and she had to leave them out of everything. I don't recall her ever using canned broth in it either, though now I regard it as a good idea. When I grew up and asked her how she made it, she referred me to my father's sister, my aunt Maria Longoria, because "Maria makes perfect Mexican rice."
So I went to Maria's and asked for a demonstration, and that sweetest of ladies obliged. In her fusty and dark little kitchen, somewhat like most of the places where I have ever done my cooking, she showed me exactly how to make it.
Here's how to make it.
First, you put some fat in a pan, just a small amount. And put in, say, 1 1/2 cups rice, more or less. We always used long-grain Texas white rice. The fire must not be too hot, for the rice must not brown. You are going for uniformly white, tinged with gold. Take it off the fire.
Comino is important to Mexican rice. Cumin seeds. My mom would add a knife-tip of ground comino toward the last of her cooking years, but when I was young she used the seeds. Put the comino seeds in the skillet at this point, and continue to stir the rice over a low fire. DO NOT BURN THEM. They are toasted when that great smell begins to arise. At this point you add a small tomato which you have thoughtfully cubed ahead of time, ditto some small amount of onion and or garlic, or green pepper, as you like. Continue to stir and do not brown the rice. You are cooking the rich tomato-comino-onion-garlic scents into the rice. At this point, add boiling water and some salt and let the mixture boil up.
You may now cover the pan and leave the heat on low, or leave the lid off and let it boil down. No mystique here, either way will do. When it is about done, cover and let steam to its wonderful end. Some ladies have told me about lifting the lid to add three dashes of cold water at the end, and covering again. I haven't found that necessary. You will have a wonderful dish of rice. Remember, not too much tomato (my Aunt Maria emphasized that) and don't burn anything.
When I was in Paris I was in my room at lunchtime, and that wonderful aroma rose up from the buildings outside my room. Unmistakeable. I later realized that I was in the Algerian neighborhood, and of course! That delicious dish has been prepared every day, just that way, in North Africa and all around the Mediterranean and Spain---and to the New World. Thanks, my ancestors!!
The best part is that you should make too much, for it reheats wonderfully. My mother reheated it in an aluminum pie pan in the oven. The outside edges get a little charred and crispy and the whole thing is more delicious than ever.
You can also, the day you first make it, add chicken, shrimp or any meat to cook into it. Brown the chicken first. I would. More glorified, it's called Paella in
Spain. In Texas it was Arroz con--Pollo, Camaron, or whatever else you put into it. Lots of Mexican housewives add cubes of peas, carrots, or peas-and-carrots from a little can. Delicious.
My son Alexander, who is a good cook, received that recipe from me when he was a young man living in Seattle, and he made it my way for years. Later, however, he became corrupted by low class Mexican restaurants who ignored all those strictures above, and simply added a lot of tomato sauce and water to the seasonings (no comino either that I could taste) and boiled 'er down. At the last they topped it with a lot of cheese for they have discovered that Americans will eat anything. It tastes good, but it's not Mexican Rice.
If I were skinny and hungry, I'd use some cheese, assuming I needed the calories. I might also top frijoles with cheese. IF I needed food. I am against topping everything with cheese willy-nilly. And I really hate the American custom ot topping everything with melted cheese, especially meat--even hamburgers. I have seen plates of Mexican food served at restaurants that were invisible under a huge cloak of melted cheese. Awful. I think the food should be distinguishable from the garnish, don't you? YAZZYBEL
Here we are at last with Mexican Rice, another of the crowning glories of border cuisine.
My mother made wonderful Mexican Rice, even though my father wouldn't eat onions and she had to leave them out of everything. I don't recall her ever using canned broth in it either, though now I regard it as a good idea. When I grew up and asked her how she made it, she referred me to my father's sister, my aunt Maria Longoria, because "Maria makes perfect Mexican rice."
So I went to Maria's and asked for a demonstration, and that sweetest of ladies obliged. In her fusty and dark little kitchen, somewhat like most of the places where I have ever done my cooking, she showed me exactly how to make it.
Here's how to make it.
First, you put some fat in a pan, just a small amount. And put in, say, 1 1/2 cups rice, more or less. We always used long-grain Texas white rice. The fire must not be too hot, for the rice must not brown. You are going for uniformly white, tinged with gold. Take it off the fire.
Comino is important to Mexican rice. Cumin seeds. My mom would add a knife-tip of ground comino toward the last of her cooking years, but when I was young she used the seeds. Put the comino seeds in the skillet at this point, and continue to stir the rice over a low fire. DO NOT BURN THEM. They are toasted when that great smell begins to arise. At this point you add a small tomato which you have thoughtfully cubed ahead of time, ditto some small amount of onion and or garlic, or green pepper, as you like. Continue to stir and do not brown the rice. You are cooking the rich tomato-comino-onion-garlic scents into the rice. At this point, add boiling water and some salt and let the mixture boil up.
You may now cover the pan and leave the heat on low, or leave the lid off and let it boil down. No mystique here, either way will do. When it is about done, cover and let steam to its wonderful end. Some ladies have told me about lifting the lid to add three dashes of cold water at the end, and covering again. I haven't found that necessary. You will have a wonderful dish of rice. Remember, not too much tomato (my Aunt Maria emphasized that) and don't burn anything.
When I was in Paris I was in my room at lunchtime, and that wonderful aroma rose up from the buildings outside my room. Unmistakeable. I later realized that I was in the Algerian neighborhood, and of course! That delicious dish has been prepared every day, just that way, in North Africa and all around the Mediterranean and Spain---and to the New World. Thanks, my ancestors!!
The best part is that you should make too much, for it reheats wonderfully. My mother reheated it in an aluminum pie pan in the oven. The outside edges get a little charred and crispy and the whole thing is more delicious than ever.
You can also, the day you first make it, add chicken, shrimp or any meat to cook into it. Brown the chicken first. I would. More glorified, it's called Paella in
Spain. In Texas it was Arroz con--Pollo, Camaron, or whatever else you put into it. Lots of Mexican housewives add cubes of peas, carrots, or peas-and-carrots from a little can. Delicious.
My son Alexander, who is a good cook, received that recipe from me when he was a young man living in Seattle, and he made it my way for years. Later, however, he became corrupted by low class Mexican restaurants who ignored all those strictures above, and simply added a lot of tomato sauce and water to the seasonings (no comino either that I could taste) and boiled 'er down. At the last they topped it with a lot of cheese for they have discovered that Americans will eat anything. It tastes good, but it's not Mexican Rice.
If I were skinny and hungry, I'd use some cheese, assuming I needed the calories. I might also top frijoles with cheese. IF I needed food. I am against topping everything with cheese willy-nilly. And I really hate the American custom ot topping everything with melted cheese, especially meat--even hamburgers. I have seen plates of Mexican food served at restaurants that were invisible under a huge cloak of melted cheese. Awful. I think the food should be distinguishable from the garnish, don't you? YAZZYBEL
Friday, January 28, 2011
Cornbread
Good morning!
Yes, cornbread deserves a day all to itself. I will give you the best cornbread recipe I've found in the great wide world. I give it to you with qualifications, that is, my own amendments and cautions.
You really need an iron skillet to bake it in, but little corncob pans, muffin tins, and plain old Mirro baking pans will turn out a fine panful.
Here is the caution. I do not use yellow cornmeal, yet we must use it. ALL American yellow cornmeal is now genetically modified , I have been reading. NO American white cornmeal is now genetically modified. So it makes sense to me to use the white. European cornmeals, which are not made from genetically modified corn, are pretty available too if you look. I shall use white cornmeal in place of yellow now, mostly.
Recipe:
1 c. cornmeal
1/2 c. flour
1 t. salt
Put the above into mixing bowl, unmixed.
Then add 1 c. buttermilk, sour milk, sour cream...or as I often do: milk with 1 T. apple cider vinegar stirred into it.
1/2 c. milk or even water
1 egg
1 T. baking powder
1/2 t. soda
1/4 c. melted shortening, cooled down
Just add that in on top of the dry mixture.
PUT YOUR PAN, well greased, into the oven for a few minutes. Or, as I do, melt the butter or shortening in the iron skillet then pour out and cool before adding to the dry ingredients. Warm up your skillet, stir up all the above quickly and thoroughly, and pour into the pan. Put it into an oven that you have already heated to 450 degrees. That's hot. Cook it until it is done. It will be brown on the bottom and delicious all the way through.
My mother made great cornbread, but never gave me a recipe for it. She had just learned how to do it and did it. Her one stricture was, never never to put sugar into it. "The Yankees put sugar in their cornbread, but we never do." Yes, the Yankees still existed in our household in my childhood...Mainly the way not to do things. We always peeled tomatoes before serving them. The Yankees did not. And we never put sugar into whipped cream, and the Yankees did that too. In Texas you can still buy areosol real whipped cream that is not sweetened (though I can't ever find it in CA) so I know that those Yankees were not a figment of our imagination.
Before I blow this communique away altogether (as I did a couple of days ago and had to start from scratch)...I'll go to my very favorite cornbread. I asked my mother how to make it when I was young, and she said, "Put some white cornmeal into a mixing bowl, and add salt." How much? You should be able to figure it out. In the meanwhile you are boiling up a great deal of water. Mix the cornmeal and salt and pour on a lot of boiling water. Stir it up. Pour on more. Stir. Pour on more. It's astounding how much water a couple of cups of white cornmeal can absorb, gently cooking itself in the process. When it's just right, you take out a little of it and make a small oval patty. Repeat.
In the black iron skillet, she'd melted an inch or so of Crisco, which in those days was made of hydrogenated cottonseed oil. She would put those little patties into the oil and fry them, first on one side and then on the other. They were golden, crisp, and perfect for nibbling. I am trying to remember whether or not she dipped them into flour before putting them into the frying pan. Maybe she did. I have not tried to make them for years, of course, since fat has been discovered to be a devil in disguise. Thank goodness some of that opinion seems to be changing. But I'll not be making those wonderful little cornbreads any time soon, sadly. YAZZYBEL
Yes, cornbread deserves a day all to itself. I will give you the best cornbread recipe I've found in the great wide world. I give it to you with qualifications, that is, my own amendments and cautions.
You really need an iron skillet to bake it in, but little corncob pans, muffin tins, and plain old Mirro baking pans will turn out a fine panful.
Here is the caution. I do not use yellow cornmeal, yet we must use it. ALL American yellow cornmeal is now genetically modified , I have been reading. NO American white cornmeal is now genetically modified. So it makes sense to me to use the white. European cornmeals, which are not made from genetically modified corn, are pretty available too if you look. I shall use white cornmeal in place of yellow now, mostly.
Recipe:
1 c. cornmeal
1/2 c. flour
1 t. salt
Put the above into mixing bowl, unmixed.
Then add 1 c. buttermilk, sour milk, sour cream...or as I often do: milk with 1 T. apple cider vinegar stirred into it.
1/2 c. milk or even water
1 egg
1 T. baking powder
1/2 t. soda
1/4 c. melted shortening, cooled down
Just add that in on top of the dry mixture.
PUT YOUR PAN, well greased, into the oven for a few minutes. Or, as I do, melt the butter or shortening in the iron skillet then pour out and cool before adding to the dry ingredients. Warm up your skillet, stir up all the above quickly and thoroughly, and pour into the pan. Put it into an oven that you have already heated to 450 degrees. That's hot. Cook it until it is done. It will be brown on the bottom and delicious all the way through.
My mother made great cornbread, but never gave me a recipe for it. She had just learned how to do it and did it. Her one stricture was, never never to put sugar into it. "The Yankees put sugar in their cornbread, but we never do." Yes, the Yankees still existed in our household in my childhood...Mainly the way not to do things. We always peeled tomatoes before serving them. The Yankees did not. And we never put sugar into whipped cream, and the Yankees did that too. In Texas you can still buy areosol real whipped cream that is not sweetened (though I can't ever find it in CA) so I know that those Yankees were not a figment of our imagination.
Before I blow this communique away altogether (as I did a couple of days ago and had to start from scratch)...I'll go to my very favorite cornbread. I asked my mother how to make it when I was young, and she said, "Put some white cornmeal into a mixing bowl, and add salt." How much? You should be able to figure it out. In the meanwhile you are boiling up a great deal of water. Mix the cornmeal and salt and pour on a lot of boiling water. Stir it up. Pour on more. Stir. Pour on more. It's astounding how much water a couple of cups of white cornmeal can absorb, gently cooking itself in the process. When it's just right, you take out a little of it and make a small oval patty. Repeat.
In the black iron skillet, she'd melted an inch or so of Crisco, which in those days was made of hydrogenated cottonseed oil. She would put those little patties into the oil and fry them, first on one side and then on the other. They were golden, crisp, and perfect for nibbling. I am trying to remember whether or not she dipped them into flour before putting them into the frying pan. Maybe she did. I have not tried to make them for years, of course, since fat has been discovered to be a devil in disguise. Thank goodness some of that opinion seems to be changing. But I'll not be making those wonderful little cornbreads any time soon, sadly. YAZZYBEL
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wonderful Pinto Bean
Today I write in praise of the pinto bean. Every kid in South Texas, whether they had a Mexican heritage or not, grew up eating this delicious bean every day. My sisters and I decided long ago that if we had to choose a very limited diet, we'd choose to have this for every dinner of our life:
Beans, rice, corn tortillas. Now I 'd have to add, "salsa.".
The pinto is a bean of wonderful silken texture and delicious flavor. If you look on the web, you can see that there are "May" beans, and "June" beans, and who knows how many others.
The important thing is that you buy your beans from a bin, where your grocer has put a large order of beans that he bought from a grower. Beans in plastic packages can be old. Five year old frijoles can be cooked, but let's not if we don't have to. Beans, being a natural crop, tend to be harvested over the summer, so the sooner after June that you get them, the fresher and newer they are.
I have a small family now (Taterton and me) so I would not cook more than three cups of dried pinto beans at a time. Take your two or three cups of beans and carefully wash them under the tap. My mother used to do hers in a colander and I quite remember the specific musical rattle as the beans were washed before she went to bed. In those days, frijoles were often very dusty and had lots of foreign objects among them, like rocks. Clink, clink, she would pick out a little stone and throw it away. Wash, wash, and then they were poured into a cooking vessel, covered with water, to soak overnight. She often had eight or more people to feed, so she cooked quite a few at a time.
On the next morning, she'd turn up a gentle flame on the stove and the beans would cook. Contrary to modern prescriptions, she did not throw out the soaking water and start with fresh. Makes sense to me; vitamins went into that soaking water. She thought it made the beans more flavorful. We were not allowed to have gas, so that issue was not a consideration.
Mother did not add anything to the beans until they were quite soft, perfectly cooked, with their jackets intact. They were pale pinkish-brown, and even unsalted they were good. She added salt when she was through boiling them, and sometimes she added some of the bacon grease that always resided in a container near the stove. I have often added a small piece of butter at the last, la creme de la creme of beans. I also take a "masher" from the kitchen drawer and mash a few of the beans to thicken the water. With a nice hot piece of buttered cornbread that is all they need.
When you make "frijoles al pastor," shepherd-style, you add chopped cilantro, epazote if you have it, salt, pepper, chiles, onion and tomato at the last of the simmering to get a rich, delicious bean soup. I usually wait for the next day, heat-up day, to add those elements, as I love the flavor of the plain beans. Those beans are good with tortillas, or, again, the cornbread. I store my beans in a glass container in the refrigerator, as soon as they are cool enough.
A friend of mine told about growing up on his grandparents' ranch in Mexico, where every morning his grandmother went out to a cooking fire, to a vast iron cauldron filled with beans and water, and boiled them up. Everyone who came by partook of those beans: family, workers, guests, sojourners. Last thing she did every night was to scrub out the empty pot and prepare for the same thing next day...wonderful riches. Largesse.
I now use an electric pot, an old Sunbeam fryer, with perfect heat control after seventy years, to cook my beans. I put in the soaked beans and water, and set the control to "300." When they begin to boil, I put them to the R of "Simmer." Sometimes a little lower, like the E. They simmer away for some time. It takes less time to cook beans now, as I think they are not old dried beans, but new dried beans that we're getting. THIS IS IMPORTANT: a maid taught me a great tip. Turn the lid of the cooking vessel upside down on the pot and fill it with water..The water will evaporate out of the lid first; you can see it and keep it filled up. Your beans will never burn, unless you are really unobservant and let the water boil away out of the lid. Then they will burn. You might as well tip them out, they won't be worth eating then.
Refried beans, to be really good, have to literally be fried in a large skillet with some bacon grease or other real fat, and mashed and stirred until they thicken up and have a very rich taste. They used to be served as a dessert in Mexico when I was a kid. The pallid mock-ups you get out of a can now are kind of sad by comparison.
Don't get me started on black beans. I do not like them. I heard such raves about then when I was a young cook. We'd never eaten them at home, so I was moving into unknown territory. I was excited at making something exotic and delicious. Bah. Black beans have no flavor of their own that I can detect. They have deceived the American people by pretending that their gorgeous black beauty is a substitute for taste. Black beans, yellow corn, and red peppers are a feast for the eye. Sometimes I think that if I have another offering of them, I 'll run screaming from the table. Anazasi beans are another such. I was excited about eating those too; an offering from the native Americans in our history. Nope. Give me the humble pinto every time. Tomorrow: Cornbread. YAZZYBEL
Beans, rice, corn tortillas. Now I 'd have to add, "salsa.".
The pinto is a bean of wonderful silken texture and delicious flavor. If you look on the web, you can see that there are "May" beans, and "June" beans, and who knows how many others.
The important thing is that you buy your beans from a bin, where your grocer has put a large order of beans that he bought from a grower. Beans in plastic packages can be old. Five year old frijoles can be cooked, but let's not if we don't have to. Beans, being a natural crop, tend to be harvested over the summer, so the sooner after June that you get them, the fresher and newer they are.
I have a small family now (Taterton and me) so I would not cook more than three cups of dried pinto beans at a time. Take your two or three cups of beans and carefully wash them under the tap. My mother used to do hers in a colander and I quite remember the specific musical rattle as the beans were washed before she went to bed. In those days, frijoles were often very dusty and had lots of foreign objects among them, like rocks. Clink, clink, she would pick out a little stone and throw it away. Wash, wash, and then they were poured into a cooking vessel, covered with water, to soak overnight. She often had eight or more people to feed, so she cooked quite a few at a time.
On the next morning, she'd turn up a gentle flame on the stove and the beans would cook. Contrary to modern prescriptions, she did not throw out the soaking water and start with fresh. Makes sense to me; vitamins went into that soaking water. She thought it made the beans more flavorful. We were not allowed to have gas, so that issue was not a consideration.
Mother did not add anything to the beans until they were quite soft, perfectly cooked, with their jackets intact. They were pale pinkish-brown, and even unsalted they were good. She added salt when she was through boiling them, and sometimes she added some of the bacon grease that always resided in a container near the stove. I have often added a small piece of butter at the last, la creme de la creme of beans. I also take a "masher" from the kitchen drawer and mash a few of the beans to thicken the water. With a nice hot piece of buttered cornbread that is all they need.
When you make "frijoles al pastor," shepherd-style, you add chopped cilantro, epazote if you have it, salt, pepper, chiles, onion and tomato at the last of the simmering to get a rich, delicious bean soup. I usually wait for the next day, heat-up day, to add those elements, as I love the flavor of the plain beans. Those beans are good with tortillas, or, again, the cornbread. I store my beans in a glass container in the refrigerator, as soon as they are cool enough.
A friend of mine told about growing up on his grandparents' ranch in Mexico, where every morning his grandmother went out to a cooking fire, to a vast iron cauldron filled with beans and water, and boiled them up. Everyone who came by partook of those beans: family, workers, guests, sojourners. Last thing she did every night was to scrub out the empty pot and prepare for the same thing next day...wonderful riches. Largesse.
I now use an electric pot, an old Sunbeam fryer, with perfect heat control after seventy years, to cook my beans. I put in the soaked beans and water, and set the control to "300." When they begin to boil, I put them to the R of "Simmer." Sometimes a little lower, like the E. They simmer away for some time. It takes less time to cook beans now, as I think they are not old dried beans, but new dried beans that we're getting. THIS IS IMPORTANT: a maid taught me a great tip. Turn the lid of the cooking vessel upside down on the pot and fill it with water..The water will evaporate out of the lid first; you can see it and keep it filled up. Your beans will never burn, unless you are really unobservant and let the water boil away out of the lid. Then they will burn. You might as well tip them out, they won't be worth eating then.
Refried beans, to be really good, have to literally be fried in a large skillet with some bacon grease or other real fat, and mashed and stirred until they thicken up and have a very rich taste. They used to be served as a dessert in Mexico when I was a kid. The pallid mock-ups you get out of a can now are kind of sad by comparison.
Don't get me started on black beans. I do not like them. I heard such raves about then when I was a young cook. We'd never eaten them at home, so I was moving into unknown territory. I was excited at making something exotic and delicious. Bah. Black beans have no flavor of their own that I can detect. They have deceived the American people by pretending that their gorgeous black beauty is a substitute for taste. Black beans, yellow corn, and red peppers are a feast for the eye. Sometimes I think that if I have another offering of them, I 'll run screaming from the table. Anazasi beans are another such. I was excited about eating those too; an offering from the native Americans in our history. Nope. Give me the humble pinto every time. Tomorrow: Cornbread. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Music on Wednesday
On Wednesday mornings, Patricia comes to my house and we play the piano. We began playing forty two years ago, and it's a wonder that we are not better at it. But we are what we are, and we like it. After a world of interruptions while our lives went on here and there, we have continued our playing together and have expanded our repertoire as we've gone along.
Right now we are playing Ma Mere l'Oye by Debussy, Jeux d'enfants by Georges Bizet, a diabolically clever composer (only the few of those that I can play) , Valses Nobles et Sentimentales by Ravel, The Dolly Suite by Gabriel Faure, Reflets d'Allemagne by Florian Schmitt, The Petite Suite by Debussy, and others too numerous to mention. No, that is really about all--with tryouts once in a while with other things that we don't really keep working on. We used to do the Mozart duets long ago, and the Schumann one about views of the East--that is lovely. Perhaps we'll take them up again.
It's hard to find good duets. Good new ones. There's lots of music transcribed or written for two pianos. I am thankful to one of my nameless sisters, a really gifted pianist, for the names of some of those compositions above. She used to do two piano work until her partner passed away, and has lots of music for duet and two pianos. But she lives in Brownsville, TX, far far away from me.
After we play for a few hours, I usually make a lunch for Patricia. My menu rarely varies much from the homely stuff I'd make for a family lunch. I am fond of the French art of making soup out of leftovers. Any scrap of zucchini with its cooking water, string beans, tomato, onion, go into a jar in the refrigerator and they are all cooked up for a really good soup whenever I need one. Does anyone know about the minestra? Skillet, olive oil, chopped onion, garlic, tomato, simmered...that is where the word minestrone came from. That is what you add to the soup to really whomp up the flavor. Chicken broth in cans is a good thing. I used to make my own stock. It is lots better; it has backbone and flavor and can literally stand up on its own.
To go with the soup, there's often a salad. I like green salads that have lots of things in them, including rings of raw onion. And slices of hard boiled egg are not amiss. Start there, with a good olive oil (meaning to me, a fresh one) and your choice of vinegars, and you have a winner on your hands.
If a salad isn't enough, there is always the wonderful quesadilla. You spray a skillet with grapeseed oil or safflower oil, lay on a corn tortilla, add some cheese and whatever else you want, top with another tortilla, spray it, flip, and grill until the cheese is melted. Cut it into triangles with your pizza cutter or sharp knife and serve. Yummo!
I was going to write about frijoles today but did not want to encourage any untoward humor amongst you rowdies out there, so tomorrow will be frijole day, and Friday, cornbread. That's a promise....YAZZYBEL
Right now we are playing Ma Mere l'Oye by Debussy, Jeux d'enfants by Georges Bizet, a diabolically clever composer (only the few of those that I can play) , Valses Nobles et Sentimentales by Ravel, The Dolly Suite by Gabriel Faure, Reflets d'Allemagne by Florian Schmitt, The Petite Suite by Debussy, and others too numerous to mention. No, that is really about all--with tryouts once in a while with other things that we don't really keep working on. We used to do the Mozart duets long ago, and the Schumann one about views of the East--that is lovely. Perhaps we'll take them up again.
It's hard to find good duets. Good new ones. There's lots of music transcribed or written for two pianos. I am thankful to one of my nameless sisters, a really gifted pianist, for the names of some of those compositions above. She used to do two piano work until her partner passed away, and has lots of music for duet and two pianos. But she lives in Brownsville, TX, far far away from me.
After we play for a few hours, I usually make a lunch for Patricia. My menu rarely varies much from the homely stuff I'd make for a family lunch. I am fond of the French art of making soup out of leftovers. Any scrap of zucchini with its cooking water, string beans, tomato, onion, go into a jar in the refrigerator and they are all cooked up for a really good soup whenever I need one. Does anyone know about the minestra? Skillet, olive oil, chopped onion, garlic, tomato, simmered...that is where the word minestrone came from. That is what you add to the soup to really whomp up the flavor. Chicken broth in cans is a good thing. I used to make my own stock. It is lots better; it has backbone and flavor and can literally stand up on its own.
To go with the soup, there's often a salad. I like green salads that have lots of things in them, including rings of raw onion. And slices of hard boiled egg are not amiss. Start there, with a good olive oil (meaning to me, a fresh one) and your choice of vinegars, and you have a winner on your hands.
If a salad isn't enough, there is always the wonderful quesadilla. You spray a skillet with grapeseed oil or safflower oil, lay on a corn tortilla, add some cheese and whatever else you want, top with another tortilla, spray it, flip, and grill until the cheese is melted. Cut it into triangles with your pizza cutter or sharp knife and serve. Yummo!
I was going to write about frijoles today but did not want to encourage any untoward humor amongst you rowdies out there, so tomorrow will be frijole day, and Friday, cornbread. That's a promise....YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Theme is "Change"
A number of years ago, quite a number of years as I add them up, my church was the center of a large study of the ideas of CJ Jung. The times were right for it. I will never forget the first full presentation that I heard, a lecture called, "The Death of Metaphysics," by the Rev. John Sanford, who was our priest at that time.
It struck me as deeply right, as if someone finally had some answers for the workings of my chaotic soul.
Not to dwell untimely on that part of it, I'd like to mention a series of lectures I was fortunate enough to attend during the several years of these studies. Father Sanford got Dr. EE Anderson to come to give us a series of four lectures on the I Ching.
Dr Anderson was an Anglican priest who was a Professor of Religion at San Diego State College. He was an expert in studies of Eastern Religions. He was quiet, expressive, astute. All of us who attended the four lectures received an education that I can only describe as unique.
The I Ching is a Chinese (or Indian) book of divination. That does not sound quite right in these more rigid times, so let us say a book for meditation. Its main message is: Change. Everything is changing all the time. Change is the one unchanging thing in our universe. Dr Anderson taught us how to throw the yarrow sticks or the coins in order to form hexagrams. The I Ching book has the keys to the results of these lines. Proper study and daily use of these hexagrams can do a great deal to ward off anxiety, I found, and to stabilize a fractious nature such as mine. I will not go into detail as to the procedures and use of the book, because that info is available all over the web now.
I would use it daily and copy down in a notebook the results of each day's perusal. I soon learned to stop trying to understand it. I just took it literally. If it said it was going to rain, I expected rain. In a time of tumult in our marriage when my husband would be absent for months or finally years at a time, I 'd consult it daily. I got to the point finally where I felt that I didnt need it any more and a wise friend told me that that's the point of it. You are supposed to use it until you don't need it any more. How wise of the Chinese to think of that all those years ago. But its principles do not change. All is change.
This blog is going to change. Slowly and little by little I am going to lighten it up, put on more pictures, see what I can do with it (translation: what it can do with me) to make it better. We shall see. There will be change. YAZZYBEL
It struck me as deeply right, as if someone finally had some answers for the workings of my chaotic soul.
Not to dwell untimely on that part of it, I'd like to mention a series of lectures I was fortunate enough to attend during the several years of these studies. Father Sanford got Dr. EE Anderson to come to give us a series of four lectures on the I Ching.
Dr Anderson was an Anglican priest who was a Professor of Religion at San Diego State College. He was an expert in studies of Eastern Religions. He was quiet, expressive, astute. All of us who attended the four lectures received an education that I can only describe as unique.
The I Ching is a Chinese (or Indian) book of divination. That does not sound quite right in these more rigid times, so let us say a book for meditation. Its main message is: Change. Everything is changing all the time. Change is the one unchanging thing in our universe. Dr Anderson taught us how to throw the yarrow sticks or the coins in order to form hexagrams. The I Ching book has the keys to the results of these lines. Proper study and daily use of these hexagrams can do a great deal to ward off anxiety, I found, and to stabilize a fractious nature such as mine. I will not go into detail as to the procedures and use of the book, because that info is available all over the web now.
I would use it daily and copy down in a notebook the results of each day's perusal. I soon learned to stop trying to understand it. I just took it literally. If it said it was going to rain, I expected rain. In a time of tumult in our marriage when my husband would be absent for months or finally years at a time, I 'd consult it daily. I got to the point finally where I felt that I didnt need it any more and a wise friend told me that that's the point of it. You are supposed to use it until you don't need it any more. How wise of the Chinese to think of that all those years ago. But its principles do not change. All is change.
This blog is going to change. Slowly and little by little I am going to lighten it up, put on more pictures, see what I can do with it (translation: what it can do with me) to make it better. We shall see. There will be change. YAZZYBEL
Monday, January 24, 2011
Today will be dull....
Good morning!
Today will be dull, for I cannot think of anything to say.
Yesterday was dull, because I did not get enough sleep the night before. Today will be dull because I took a half benedryl and a half tylenol at bedtime, and spent the night in a leaden slumber.
I had a wonderful dream, though, and woke up at about four o'clock in the middle of it. It was a dream like part of a novel. I was participating in it, though it was not about me. There was a dynamic creative man in it, and a thoughtful scientifically minded woman. They were in love, or just starting to be that way, and they had just recently met in an environment of chaos like the Katrina aftermath, or Haiti.
Of course, it was about me. Our dreams are always about ourselves, and the other people in them just represent traits or qualities of ourselves. I am a good and interested dream-listener. The little germ of a story above is just a portent of things about myself, that just may be coming together.
For breakfast today we had bacon and scrambled eggs. I couldnt bear another McD's offering, and stopped Theodore on the way out the door. I made the bacon in the microwave, but scrambled the eggs on top of the stove. As usual, he is winning out by "going slow" in true union-style with the kitchen revival--until I can take no more bad food and say: ENOUGH! We are going on with out lives, come heck or high water. Say, maybe that dream last night was about me for sure. YAZZYBEL
Today will be dull, for I cannot think of anything to say.
Yesterday was dull, because I did not get enough sleep the night before. Today will be dull because I took a half benedryl and a half tylenol at bedtime, and spent the night in a leaden slumber.
I had a wonderful dream, though, and woke up at about four o'clock in the middle of it. It was a dream like part of a novel. I was participating in it, though it was not about me. There was a dynamic creative man in it, and a thoughtful scientifically minded woman. They were in love, or just starting to be that way, and they had just recently met in an environment of chaos like the Katrina aftermath, or Haiti.
Of course, it was about me. Our dreams are always about ourselves, and the other people in them just represent traits or qualities of ourselves. I am a good and interested dream-listener. The little germ of a story above is just a portent of things about myself, that just may be coming together.
For breakfast today we had bacon and scrambled eggs. I couldnt bear another McD's offering, and stopped Theodore on the way out the door. I made the bacon in the microwave, but scrambled the eggs on top of the stove. As usual, he is winning out by "going slow" in true union-style with the kitchen revival--until I can take no more bad food and say: ENOUGH! We are going on with out lives, come heck or high water. Say, maybe that dream last night was about me for sure. YAZZYBEL
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Oh, the Book Club!!!
The word for today is : procrastination. Putting things off. Putting a pillow over your head so as not to be reminded that there's something you have to do. I am given to procrastination, though not as badly as I used to be.
The Book Club is coming!!! Strangely, it is not the hostessing nor the refreshments-planning that I'm procrastinating about.....I am ashamed to say that I am putting off reading the book.
What's the matter with me? My mother said that I was practically born with a book in my hand. My early happiest moment was when she took me to the neglected and sparsely furnished little library of San Benito, TX--and I laid eyes on a copy of Dr Dolittle. I went everywhere with Thomas Stubbins and the cats' meat man and Dr Dolittle. Polynesia was my favorite person. We even went to the moon together. I wanted a Pushme-Pullyou. It was wonderful to be able to travel the world in their company.
Now, I have been everywhere with Azimov and Zabokov and all the others in between. For a while, science fiction was my field and I became as at home in Alpha Centaurii and Betelguese as I was in Brownsville TX where I resided by then. I learned the humanity of inhumanity as I went to Mars with Ray Bradbury's bemused astronauts and came home a very different person...or went to his carnival and came out tatooed in body and soul.
Early on in high school, I came upon Brideshead Revisited, and The Ballad and the Source, and read into a world stranger to me by far than Mars ever was. But I read on, and when my mother gave me Pride and Prejudice for Christmas, I found my home and happily settled in. English literature was all my joy, and in college I especially enjoyed the Eighteenth Century dramatists. It took me another twenty years to find the Seventeenth Century ones, more interesting to me now by far---but, heck, I love them all.
So--WHY OH WHY can I not open up and "get into" As the Great World Spins, by Colum McCann? Perhaps I shouldn't have read the blurb, as the idea of someone walking a tightrope between the Twin Towers isn't appealing to me. Or it's the fact that I read Everything in This Country Is, by the same author and was not much impressed. I have two weeks to read it and it is as bad as weekend homework or my Sunday School Lesson. No, thanks. Uh-uh. Busy. Tired. Can't see, and the light is bad. I don't want to....
For eats I am serving apricot pie (2011 is the Year of Pie, in case you aren't on the Internet and don't get the important news)...made from pre-thickened filling from a can (my sister says it is delicious) wrapped up in supermarket crusts. That is the best I can do from my scarcely-functioning oven. No problem there. When the time comes, I'll just do it. Wish I could say that I'll have read the book.
YAZZYBEL
The Book Club is coming!!! Strangely, it is not the hostessing nor the refreshments-planning that I'm procrastinating about.....I am ashamed to say that I am putting off reading the book.
What's the matter with me? My mother said that I was practically born with a book in my hand. My early happiest moment was when she took me to the neglected and sparsely furnished little library of San Benito, TX--and I laid eyes on a copy of Dr Dolittle. I went everywhere with Thomas Stubbins and the cats' meat man and Dr Dolittle. Polynesia was my favorite person. We even went to the moon together. I wanted a Pushme-Pullyou. It was wonderful to be able to travel the world in their company.
Now, I have been everywhere with Azimov and Zabokov and all the others in between. For a while, science fiction was my field and I became as at home in Alpha Centaurii and Betelguese as I was in Brownsville TX where I resided by then. I learned the humanity of inhumanity as I went to Mars with Ray Bradbury's bemused astronauts and came home a very different person...or went to his carnival and came out tatooed in body and soul.
Early on in high school, I came upon Brideshead Revisited, and The Ballad and the Source, and read into a world stranger to me by far than Mars ever was. But I read on, and when my mother gave me Pride and Prejudice for Christmas, I found my home and happily settled in. English literature was all my joy, and in college I especially enjoyed the Eighteenth Century dramatists. It took me another twenty years to find the Seventeenth Century ones, more interesting to me now by far---but, heck, I love them all.
So--WHY OH WHY can I not open up and "get into" As the Great World Spins, by Colum McCann? Perhaps I shouldn't have read the blurb, as the idea of someone walking a tightrope between the Twin Towers isn't appealing to me. Or it's the fact that I read Everything in This Country Is, by the same author and was not much impressed. I have two weeks to read it and it is as bad as weekend homework or my Sunday School Lesson. No, thanks. Uh-uh. Busy. Tired. Can't see, and the light is bad. I don't want to....
For eats I am serving apricot pie (2011 is the Year of Pie, in case you aren't on the Internet and don't get the important news)...made from pre-thickened filling from a can (my sister says it is delicious) wrapped up in supermarket crusts. That is the best I can do from my scarcely-functioning oven. No problem there. When the time comes, I'll just do it. Wish I could say that I'll have read the book.
YAZZYBEL
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tweet Saturday
When I first heard of twittering and tweeting, it seemed a perfect medium for my ADD type brain to manage. I begged my son Ben to enlighten me and enable me in this pursuit, but was unable to coerce him. Thus, I remain a non-tweeter.
Had I succeeded, that first paragraph would have been the extent of today's offering, more or less.
Some days I have little to say, or, as in the case of today, I'm interrupted in the course of my writing and whatever I have put down gets blown away, a-borning. I was interrupted by an important need on my husband's part, however, to talk something out. Rare enough that he expresses that need, so I said, "Sure."
We talked about his driving. Specifically, some visiting sisters have expressed concern with it. I feel their concerns are justified to some extent. To what extent? To the extent that I have concerns with it too.
Getting older isn't easy. The Internet had about twenty suggestions, early this year, of possible age-related driving problems. I wish I had printed it up. Now, as Theo drives I'll often say, "No. 12," or, "No. 20," as a laugh. The truth is that, if we really judged self and others on that scale, we would all go down like stones. Everyone I know makes driving errors from time to time.
To some extent, the fact that they get nervous if he's driving is their business. Nobody should have to ride with a driver who makes them feel insecure. It's a risky affair, being out there on the streets of Chula Vista, (read San Diego, Concord CA, Cedar Rapids, Brownsville TX, everywhere I 've been lately). People of all ages are speeding, veering, passing on the right, refusing to stop at stop signs, not to mention talking or texting on their phones or simply enjoying the effects of their favorite quaff. So Theo and I agreed as we spoke.
The relatives have spoken of "caravanning," a low class way of getting about, it seems to me. And it is boring to have to "keep up," or "hold back," if someone gets away from the group. But--caravan we shall. Blow the damn gas costs! And the foolishness of the whole thing. And if we all get there more or less together and in one (six) piece(s), hurrah!!! It's okay with us. Worth it to have guests and to have some fun.....YAZZYBEL
Had I succeeded, that first paragraph would have been the extent of today's offering, more or less.
Some days I have little to say, or, as in the case of today, I'm interrupted in the course of my writing and whatever I have put down gets blown away, a-borning. I was interrupted by an important need on my husband's part, however, to talk something out. Rare enough that he expresses that need, so I said, "Sure."
We talked about his driving. Specifically, some visiting sisters have expressed concern with it. I feel their concerns are justified to some extent. To what extent? To the extent that I have concerns with it too.
Getting older isn't easy. The Internet had about twenty suggestions, early this year, of possible age-related driving problems. I wish I had printed it up. Now, as Theo drives I'll often say, "No. 12," or, "No. 20," as a laugh. The truth is that, if we really judged self and others on that scale, we would all go down like stones. Everyone I know makes driving errors from time to time.
To some extent, the fact that they get nervous if he's driving is their business. Nobody should have to ride with a driver who makes them feel insecure. It's a risky affair, being out there on the streets of Chula Vista, (read San Diego, Concord CA, Cedar Rapids, Brownsville TX, everywhere I 've been lately). People of all ages are speeding, veering, passing on the right, refusing to stop at stop signs, not to mention talking or texting on their phones or simply enjoying the effects of their favorite quaff. So Theo and I agreed as we spoke.
The relatives have spoken of "caravanning," a low class way of getting about, it seems to me. And it is boring to have to "keep up," or "hold back," if someone gets away from the group. But--caravan we shall. Blow the damn gas costs! And the foolishness of the whole thing. And if we all get there more or less together and in one (six) piece(s), hurrah!!! It's okay with us. Worth it to have guests and to have some fun.....YAZZYBEL
Friday, January 21, 2011
Word of the Day is: "chicharroneros"!
Good morning! Yesterday the South Bay edition of the Union-Tribune had an article about a new Mexican supermarket that's opening up on Euclid Avenue in National City. Says the article:
"Positions available include meat cutters, bakers, cashiers, produce clerks, salesclerks, food preparers, chicharoneros (sic), drivers with grocery experience, as well as management."
I love it when certain words are too mystifying to translate. They misspelled "chicharroneros," which has the rolled RRRR sound rather than the flip of the tongue that is the R. But as to translation? Got me to thinking. How would I best translate "chicharroneros"?
Chicharrones are those Dr. Atkins-beloved items made of fried pork skin. They come in bags like Fritos, but they are very fragile as to preservation. In fact, I do not like them because they must taste fresh and crisp or they are intolerable. "Chitlin's" (or chitterlings) is their name in English, but "chitlin' fryers" wouldn't have been a suitable translation because the word itself in English is obscure except to Southerners, I think.
So, as in all cases of doubt, I went to Google for a tip. That led me down a merry chase on Youtube.com, where "chicharroneros" are very popular. Fun. I went to sleep last night thinking that I 'd thought of the perfect translation--"fry-cooks."
Now in the harsh light of a new morning, fry-cooks doesn't sound as good. I see a fry-cook as a kind of hashhouse man-of-all-tasks before the griddle. (You can see that I am a devotee of the hyphenated word. More on that in the future.)
Perhaps it were best to leave the U-T article just as it was printed, and let language-lovers pursue meaning on their own time, as dedicated language-lovers will always do, now and forever. YAZZYBEL
"Positions available include meat cutters, bakers, cashiers, produce clerks, salesclerks, food preparers, chicharoneros (sic), drivers with grocery experience, as well as management."
I love it when certain words are too mystifying to translate. They misspelled "chicharroneros," which has the rolled RRRR sound rather than the flip of the tongue that is the R. But as to translation? Got me to thinking. How would I best translate "chicharroneros"?
Chicharrones are those Dr. Atkins-beloved items made of fried pork skin. They come in bags like Fritos, but they are very fragile as to preservation. In fact, I do not like them because they must taste fresh and crisp or they are intolerable. "Chitlin's" (or chitterlings) is their name in English, but "chitlin' fryers" wouldn't have been a suitable translation because the word itself in English is obscure except to Southerners, I think.
So, as in all cases of doubt, I went to Google for a tip. That led me down a merry chase on Youtube.com, where "chicharroneros" are very popular. Fun. I went to sleep last night thinking that I 'd thought of the perfect translation--"fry-cooks."
Now in the harsh light of a new morning, fry-cooks doesn't sound as good. I see a fry-cook as a kind of hashhouse man-of-all-tasks before the griddle. (You can see that I am a devotee of the hyphenated word. More on that in the future.)
Perhaps it were best to leave the U-T article just as it was printed, and let language-lovers pursue meaning on their own time, as dedicated language-lovers will always do, now and forever. YAZZYBEL
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Thursday with a Monster
Sometimes I just regard the computer as a monster. A physical monster, that is. It takes up a lot of space, the way I have it set up. I don't like having it dominate my living room.
I have begged Theodore to let me set it up in the garage, on his workbench. Too hot in summer, too cold in winter, he says. And he doesn't want to give up his long space even though the chances of his making anything much up there aren't very big, any more.
I have railed at Benjamin, our son who helped me choose the computer, for not making me get a laptop. 'You insisted," he reminds me, none too kindly. But that matters little. Laptop or desktop, I would still have monitor, computer, keyboard, printer and sheaves of paper cluttering up a large untidy space.
My present thought is to go to the library and establish an account and go over there to write my blog. Then I could just unplug this monster and set it aside until I get my way about the garage. Why shouldn't the computer be in the garage? If we had a barn or loft, I'd have it there. Or in a little fairy garden house. Or in a shed.
Just thinking.
As for cooking, today, I think I will talk about my grandmother's chicken fried steak. She was a delicate little lady who had great energy in the kitchen. If one had to pound steak, she could pound. And, to make good chicken fried steak, you do have to pound. With a hammer.
Get your round steak and wash it and trim it. You need a hammer (ball peen is good) and a large bowl with ice water in it. You need a big piece of wood to hammer on.
Cut the steak into pieces, following more or less the natural shapes. The large piece will have to be cut into strips. Take a piece and lay it on the board, and begin to pound. The point is to break down the strong fibers of the meat, while not breaking through completely to make lacework of your steak. It's always seemed to me that you do have to break through, however. So pound away. When you have virtually macerated that piece of meat, drop it into the ice water. Proceed with the rest of the pieces.
When you are ready to cook the meat, place a lot of fat (she used Crisco, the old fashioned Crisco made of hydrogenated cottonseed oil ) into a large black iron frying pan. Heat it up at a moderate heat until it's quite hot.
Make a nice mix of flour, salt and pepper. Do not stint on the seasonings. Dredge the rescued pieces of steak in the flour and drop into the fat. Make sure it is hot enough by testing with a teeny pinch of the mix. Fry one side, and turn and fry the other. My grandmother took it out and laid it on a brown paper bag to drain. It fries up quite fast, and leaves a lot of black stuff in the pan, so if you have to repeat this process many times, be prepared to start over in the middle with a new batch of fat. When all are done, you can pour out the majority of the fat, add a little new flour, and make a rich thick gravy with the rest of the pan scrapings. That's why it doesn't work with burnt flour...gravy should be creamy brown, not blackish gray.
That's all. It's such a simple recipe, almost primitive. Hard to see how so many restaurants make such a disaster of it, turning out a product that's glutinous, pre-boiled, or otherwise made a travesty. It is the best steak in the world. I fry it now in safflower oil, not as good a frying medium as the cottonseed oil, but still--good. YAZZYBEL
I have begged Theodore to let me set it up in the garage, on his workbench. Too hot in summer, too cold in winter, he says. And he doesn't want to give up his long space even though the chances of his making anything much up there aren't very big, any more.
I have railed at Benjamin, our son who helped me choose the computer, for not making me get a laptop. 'You insisted," he reminds me, none too kindly. But that matters little. Laptop or desktop, I would still have monitor, computer, keyboard, printer and sheaves of paper cluttering up a large untidy space.
My present thought is to go to the library and establish an account and go over there to write my blog. Then I could just unplug this monster and set it aside until I get my way about the garage. Why shouldn't the computer be in the garage? If we had a barn or loft, I'd have it there. Or in a little fairy garden house. Or in a shed.
Just thinking.
As for cooking, today, I think I will talk about my grandmother's chicken fried steak. She was a delicate little lady who had great energy in the kitchen. If one had to pound steak, she could pound. And, to make good chicken fried steak, you do have to pound. With a hammer.
Get your round steak and wash it and trim it. You need a hammer (ball peen is good) and a large bowl with ice water in it. You need a big piece of wood to hammer on.
Cut the steak into pieces, following more or less the natural shapes. The large piece will have to be cut into strips. Take a piece and lay it on the board, and begin to pound. The point is to break down the strong fibers of the meat, while not breaking through completely to make lacework of your steak. It's always seemed to me that you do have to break through, however. So pound away. When you have virtually macerated that piece of meat, drop it into the ice water. Proceed with the rest of the pieces.
When you are ready to cook the meat, place a lot of fat (she used Crisco, the old fashioned Crisco made of hydrogenated cottonseed oil ) into a large black iron frying pan. Heat it up at a moderate heat until it's quite hot.
Make a nice mix of flour, salt and pepper. Do not stint on the seasonings. Dredge the rescued pieces of steak in the flour and drop into the fat. Make sure it is hot enough by testing with a teeny pinch of the mix. Fry one side, and turn and fry the other. My grandmother took it out and laid it on a brown paper bag to drain. It fries up quite fast, and leaves a lot of black stuff in the pan, so if you have to repeat this process many times, be prepared to start over in the middle with a new batch of fat. When all are done, you can pour out the majority of the fat, add a little new flour, and make a rich thick gravy with the rest of the pan scrapings. That's why it doesn't work with burnt flour...gravy should be creamy brown, not blackish gray.
That's all. It's such a simple recipe, almost primitive. Hard to see how so many restaurants make such a disaster of it, turning out a product that's glutinous, pre-boiled, or otherwise made a travesty. It is the best steak in the world. I fry it now in safflower oil, not as good a frying medium as the cottonseed oil, but still--good. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Emma the Eponym
Emma is the heroine of Jane Austen's novel, Emma. To tell the truth, I have never liked the novel much, and I have never liked Emma much either. She is a spoiled, cocky young woman with a vaunted opinion of herself, who doesn't hesitate to tell other people how to live their lives.
I was very like the first half of that sentence, but never followed through with the second half. I was content to feel superior without the need to convert others to my point of view. So, Emma's need to keep moving people around like chessmen is not a positive trait in my point of view. At the end of the novel, Emma is brought into line by the realization that she finally has gone too far with disregarding others' feelings and rights. Good. Serves her right. I guess it was worth writing a novel about, since most people seem to love the book. I just don't.
Last night at the Old Globe, I saw "Emma, the Musical." It was a preview night and I love preview nights. You don't have to stay up so late. A friend was kind enough to let me out near the theater entrance and pick me up the same...so I could go. Frankly, I loved the production. Emma was a very good singer and actress. Mr Knightly was all that could be hoped for as friend and lover and he had a wonderful voice. The set was entrancing (a huge green maze of hedges raking up towards the back of the stage, from which all persons and props made their entrances and exits) and the music nice. Good that the composer was able to use so much of the original dialog, and to rhythm and rhyme it all so enchantingly.
Now for some negatives. I did not like Miss Bates. Since this is not a real review I don't have to mention actors' names. Miss Bates came out too vulgar and even blowsy for my taste. As an old maid, Miss Bates is indeed an object of fun, but the tragedy of her situation is pointed up in the novel by the fact that she is a sweet loving lady driven daffy by her situation in life. I liked "Mother" and found her sympathetic ;). I was sorry that she disappeared from the action early on, but later read in the program that her actress had to come on then as Mrs. Elton. Mrs. Elton, an awful somebody, did not have enough scope to strut her stuff and was mostly made known to us by the references from others' talk.
The whole production seemed to lag in energy in the second half. I don't know just why, but I think it's because Frank Churchill comes on too late in the story to really count for much. I think this is an Austen flaw, a rare one for her. Or maybe it's just me. There is a confusion there, almost as if she knew she had to augment her story a bit and added the Miss Fairfax/Frank Churchill duo to pad things out. I am open to criticism on this critical point.
Back to the good--for the first time, I rather liked Harriet Smith. She's another irritating character in the book, someone who does not seem to know her own mind at all. That's understandable because she is very young and inexperienced. Her place and attitude do serve to point up the fairly rigid caste levels in that society. However, in this production, the sweetness and sweet voice of Miss Smith were just right. Her love for Mr Robert Martin, which she finally comes to recognize and put ahead of the judgments of Emma, is well projected in the first half of the play though she becomes a little strident towards the latter half. Mr Robert Martin was the perfect lovable rural buffoon, who will spend the rest of his life in happiness with his Harriet. One does wonder, though, how much of each other the two friends, Emma and Harriet, will see in the future? No matter, it was a very pleasant evening. YAZZYBEL
I was very like the first half of that sentence, but never followed through with the second half. I was content to feel superior without the need to convert others to my point of view. So, Emma's need to keep moving people around like chessmen is not a positive trait in my point of view. At the end of the novel, Emma is brought into line by the realization that she finally has gone too far with disregarding others' feelings and rights. Good. Serves her right. I guess it was worth writing a novel about, since most people seem to love the book. I just don't.
Last night at the Old Globe, I saw "Emma, the Musical." It was a preview night and I love preview nights. You don't have to stay up so late. A friend was kind enough to let me out near the theater entrance and pick me up the same...so I could go. Frankly, I loved the production. Emma was a very good singer and actress. Mr Knightly was all that could be hoped for as friend and lover and he had a wonderful voice. The set was entrancing (a huge green maze of hedges raking up towards the back of the stage, from which all persons and props made their entrances and exits) and the music nice. Good that the composer was able to use so much of the original dialog, and to rhythm and rhyme it all so enchantingly.
Now for some negatives. I did not like Miss Bates. Since this is not a real review I don't have to mention actors' names. Miss Bates came out too vulgar and even blowsy for my taste. As an old maid, Miss Bates is indeed an object of fun, but the tragedy of her situation is pointed up in the novel by the fact that she is a sweet loving lady driven daffy by her situation in life. I liked "Mother" and found her sympathetic ;). I was sorry that she disappeared from the action early on, but later read in the program that her actress had to come on then as Mrs. Elton. Mrs. Elton, an awful somebody, did not have enough scope to strut her stuff and was mostly made known to us by the references from others' talk.
The whole production seemed to lag in energy in the second half. I don't know just why, but I think it's because Frank Churchill comes on too late in the story to really count for much. I think this is an Austen flaw, a rare one for her. Or maybe it's just me. There is a confusion there, almost as if she knew she had to augment her story a bit and added the Miss Fairfax/Frank Churchill duo to pad things out. I am open to criticism on this critical point.
Back to the good--for the first time, I rather liked Harriet Smith. She's another irritating character in the book, someone who does not seem to know her own mind at all. That's understandable because she is very young and inexperienced. Her place and attitude do serve to point up the fairly rigid caste levels in that society. However, in this production, the sweetness and sweet voice of Miss Smith were just right. Her love for Mr Robert Martin, which she finally comes to recognize and put ahead of the judgments of Emma, is well projected in the first half of the play though she becomes a little strident towards the latter half. Mr Robert Martin was the perfect lovable rural buffoon, who will spend the rest of his life in happiness with his Harriet. One does wonder, though, how much of each other the two friends, Emma and Harriet, will see in the future? No matter, it was a very pleasant evening. YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The word is.......
Good morning. This morning I am writing about words. Words, the use thereof. And the mode of their employ.
When I was at the Forum one Sunday morning a year or so ago, a young man raised his hand to ask if we might have a forum on the use of the Internet, specifically the e-mail system. He said that he personally knew of three ended relationships, the demise of which in each case might specifically be traced to communication on e-mail. He was puzzled, and would have liked an airing on the subject. I assume nobody expert enought to conduct this forum has come up, for as far as I know it has never happened.
We can say all manner of things orally, that careen and explode into the air in front of us. Even these have a great power. They have been the cause of killings, revenges, broken spirits. But they have the blessing of disappearing in the course of the explosion--plus, everybody heard a different thing, it turns out. We do not hear what is said, often.
The written word is different. There it is, set in stone. Take it back as you will, someone can still come up with it and show it to you in front of your face. I write a lot of poems, from time to time, and ruefully wrote one entitled, " Do not write a love letter, write a poem." And what we write on the Internet is read by whomever stumbles upon it. Including the FBI they tell me. (LOL)
Emoticons are vulgar, but they are necessary in the writing on the computer. The simplest jests can be misinterpreted. You must demonstrate your intent with a sign, it seems. A smile, :), means no harm intended. A wink, ;), a little more malice intended. You can put your electronically-compounded thoughts out there with a
bit more control over their intended effect.
In Foucault's Pendulum, Umberto Eco's protagonist notes the changed quality of his writing once a primitive word processor is introduced into his office. I note it too. I wrote a lot of stories on a giant IBM typewriter that I was fortunate enough to own. Those stories would not have been the same, written on a word-processor. Imagine, Jane Austen's writing would have been totally different had she not been writing by hand. Perhaps it would have come out more like, "Emma: the musical," which I am going to see tonight at the Globe...;)....
I think I have more to say on this but will perhaps say it tomorrow. Right now, the Taterton is up and prowling. I am not hungry, perhaps because I am full of humble pie. I really am. That is not an apology. It is an epiphany. YAZZYBEL
When I was at the Forum one Sunday morning a year or so ago, a young man raised his hand to ask if we might have a forum on the use of the Internet, specifically the e-mail system. He said that he personally knew of three ended relationships, the demise of which in each case might specifically be traced to communication on e-mail. He was puzzled, and would have liked an airing on the subject. I assume nobody expert enought to conduct this forum has come up, for as far as I know it has never happened.
We can say all manner of things orally, that careen and explode into the air in front of us. Even these have a great power. They have been the cause of killings, revenges, broken spirits. But they have the blessing of disappearing in the course of the explosion--plus, everybody heard a different thing, it turns out. We do not hear what is said, often.
The written word is different. There it is, set in stone. Take it back as you will, someone can still come up with it and show it to you in front of your face. I write a lot of poems, from time to time, and ruefully wrote one entitled, " Do not write a love letter, write a poem." And what we write on the Internet is read by whomever stumbles upon it. Including the FBI they tell me. (LOL)
Emoticons are vulgar, but they are necessary in the writing on the computer. The simplest jests can be misinterpreted. You must demonstrate your intent with a sign, it seems. A smile, :), means no harm intended. A wink, ;), a little more malice intended. You can put your electronically-compounded thoughts out there with a
bit more control over their intended effect.
In Foucault's Pendulum, Umberto Eco's protagonist notes the changed quality of his writing once a primitive word processor is introduced into his office. I note it too. I wrote a lot of stories on a giant IBM typewriter that I was fortunate enough to own. Those stories would not have been the same, written on a word-processor. Imagine, Jane Austen's writing would have been totally different had she not been writing by hand. Perhaps it would have come out more like, "Emma: the musical," which I am going to see tonight at the Globe...;)....
I think I have more to say on this but will perhaps say it tomorrow. Right now, the Taterton is up and prowling. I am not hungry, perhaps because I am full of humble pie. I really am. That is not an apology. It is an epiphany. YAZZYBEL
Monday, January 17, 2011
Monday, wash day....
Did anybody ever stick to that old song? Monday, wash day; Tuesday, ironing day....I forget what was supposed to happen on Wednesday and the rest of the days. When I used to iron Theodore's shirts, I didn't have a particular ironing day that I remember. I was not a bad little ironer. It was one of the few household tasks that I did fairly well. I enjoyed the method, and the sequence. If you want to iron a shirt, first you fold it so you can iron the yoke. When this looks good, take on one sleeve and then the other. Then the back. Then the two fronts, and lastly you do the cuffs and the collar. Some people used to fold them and put them away, but I always hung them in the closet.
I loved to iron linen. Cotton was good, but ironing linen was a real art that my mama taught me. If you want to iron linen, you must catch it before it dries completely. Sprinkling won't do, with linen. When you have your damp article before you on the board, attack it fast with a hot iron. It's miraculous how it smooths out and becomes beautiful. Do not iron folds into linen; it breaks the particular kind of cellulose that linen is made of. Just fold it and press it with ye hand. If you have six napkins, you can tie them into a stack with a pink or blue ribbon before you lay them away.
The modern custom of wearing unironed linen is an anathema, but I must admit to doing it myself sometimes. I had the best dress, a loose rectangle of thickly woven white linen with black designs stamped on it. It looked acceptable (to whom? my mother would have said) unironed, but better ironed.
I did not iron sheets much, but am here to state that there is no greater pleasure than sliding into freshly ironed sheets, the night of ironing day. After I finish this writing today, I am stripping down the bed and throwing the sheets into the washer, and then the dryer, and then I'll either fold them away or put them back onto the bed. I won't be ironing them, but they will still feel wonderful.
Just woofed down a McBiscuit brought to me by Theodore. Oh dear. Last night for supper we had a cooky sheet full of nachos made by laying out a million corn chips, topping them with a small slice of cheese each, topping again with Herdez Salsa Casera, and last with a crown of pickled jalapeno slice. They are better and probably more nutritious made with quartered corn tortillas that you've toasted by themselves in the oven using a spray of oil...then topped as above...but--there is no space in the kitchen to cut them up...till tomorrow when the situation may be better, may be not. YAZZYBEL
I loved to iron linen. Cotton was good, but ironing linen was a real art that my mama taught me. If you want to iron linen, you must catch it before it dries completely. Sprinkling won't do, with linen. When you have your damp article before you on the board, attack it fast with a hot iron. It's miraculous how it smooths out and becomes beautiful. Do not iron folds into linen; it breaks the particular kind of cellulose that linen is made of. Just fold it and press it with ye hand. If you have six napkins, you can tie them into a stack with a pink or blue ribbon before you lay them away.
The modern custom of wearing unironed linen is an anathema, but I must admit to doing it myself sometimes. I had the best dress, a loose rectangle of thickly woven white linen with black designs stamped on it. It looked acceptable (to whom? my mother would have said) unironed, but better ironed.
I did not iron sheets much, but am here to state that there is no greater pleasure than sliding into freshly ironed sheets, the night of ironing day. After I finish this writing today, I am stripping down the bed and throwing the sheets into the washer, and then the dryer, and then I'll either fold them away or put them back onto the bed. I won't be ironing them, but they will still feel wonderful.
Just woofed down a McBiscuit brought to me by Theodore. Oh dear. Last night for supper we had a cooky sheet full of nachos made by laying out a million corn chips, topping them with a small slice of cheese each, topping again with Herdez Salsa Casera, and last with a crown of pickled jalapeno slice. They are better and probably more nutritious made with quartered corn tortillas that you've toasted by themselves in the oven using a spray of oil...then topped as above...but--there is no space in the kitchen to cut them up...till tomorrow when the situation may be better, may be not. YAZZYBEL
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Blessed Sunday
Today Theodore drove me up to church so that we could breakfast together afterward.
Church was not noteworthy, other than the fact that it can exist at all. Sometimes watching those moving figures on the altar preparing to give us Holy Communion, I think of all the Episcopal Churches across our nation, all with the same gentle and genial ritual. Makes me feel good.
I could not stay for the Martin Luther King Forum, for which I was sorry. But when necessary, I put Theodore's needs first. And he needed to breakfast. We ate at The Gathering, a nice place in Mission Hills.
And now I have to go back to church at noon for the Annual Meeting. Have to? you ask. Well, I have to because I have committed to go. It will be a bit boring, but it is nice when Episcopalians can get together to celebrate--something. The Chapter nominees are a shoo-in, and there are no longer protracted and possibly humorous presentations from the various department heads, but the lunch is free and catered. The Episcopal ladies of our Cathedral no longer provide a meal, and I am sorry. All that sweatin' and cussin' in the kitchen, in the old days, provided a strong sense of bonhomie amongst high and low, and also turned out a very tasty meal.
There is no word of the day that I'm moved to speak on. Oh yes, back to Prudence. The Dean said that Prudencia states, "None are well until all are well." Oh, yes! Hear those words, folks who'd condemn others for the ills and follies of Arizona and the rest of our land. If our President had been inclined to tell the truth, he'd have said in his speech: "And Jared Loughner is one of us." And may God have mercy on us all. Until tomorrow, YAZZYBEL
Church was not noteworthy, other than the fact that it can exist at all. Sometimes watching those moving figures on the altar preparing to give us Holy Communion, I think of all the Episcopal Churches across our nation, all with the same gentle and genial ritual. Makes me feel good.
I could not stay for the Martin Luther King Forum, for which I was sorry. But when necessary, I put Theodore's needs first. And he needed to breakfast. We ate at The Gathering, a nice place in Mission Hills.
And now I have to go back to church at noon for the Annual Meeting. Have to? you ask. Well, I have to because I have committed to go. It will be a bit boring, but it is nice when Episcopalians can get together to celebrate--something. The Chapter nominees are a shoo-in, and there are no longer protracted and possibly humorous presentations from the various department heads, but the lunch is free and catered. The Episcopal ladies of our Cathedral no longer provide a meal, and I am sorry. All that sweatin' and cussin' in the kitchen, in the old days, provided a strong sense of bonhomie amongst high and low, and also turned out a very tasty meal.
There is no word of the day that I'm moved to speak on. Oh yes, back to Prudence. The Dean said that Prudencia states, "None are well until all are well." Oh, yes! Hear those words, folks who'd condemn others for the ills and follies of Arizona and the rest of our land. If our President had been inclined to tell the truth, he'd have said in his speech: "And Jared Loughner is one of us." And may God have mercy on us all. Until tomorrow, YAZZYBEL
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Saturday
Time got away from us today. Neither of us slept well. Could it have been the result of the strong, delicious iced tea we had yesterday at the Marina where we had lunch? That was the only thing we both had, and we were both restless and wakeful all night.
Then we got up. I made bacon and eggs. The bacon I made in the oven, but this time I relented and scrambled the eggs on top of the stove. That is the last I'll cook until the kitchen is declared by my husband as done, and IF I concur. There has to be a cutoff date, as the Book Club is coming here the first week in February. That there will still be no working oven and no working dishwasher seems not to matter. My husband will have painted, and that was important to him. But I got green paint on my favorite yellow tee shirt today so--no more kitchen for me until--sometime.
Then he painted more, and I sorted out some papers. I hate to sort out papers. Then he wanted to go to a Vet's Thrift Store over in Lemon Grove, and we did. We had a Foster Freeze hamburger near the thrift store. fried up by a Chinese man who's taken over the stand from the American guy who had it for years. He made a delicious hamburger. The meat tasted good, not like mystery meat. Then we wandered around a bit and found our way home by way of the Dollar Tree. After all that, I went by myself to have my hair done at Matty's. And that was all for today. I hope nobody's reading this. It's dull. Grrr. YAZZYBEL
Then we got up. I made bacon and eggs. The bacon I made in the oven, but this time I relented and scrambled the eggs on top of the stove. That is the last I'll cook until the kitchen is declared by my husband as done, and IF I concur. There has to be a cutoff date, as the Book Club is coming here the first week in February. That there will still be no working oven and no working dishwasher seems not to matter. My husband will have painted, and that was important to him. But I got green paint on my favorite yellow tee shirt today so--no more kitchen for me until--sometime.
Then he painted more, and I sorted out some papers. I hate to sort out papers. Then he wanted to go to a Vet's Thrift Store over in Lemon Grove, and we did. We had a Foster Freeze hamburger near the thrift store. fried up by a Chinese man who's taken over the stand from the American guy who had it for years. He made a delicious hamburger. The meat tasted good, not like mystery meat. Then we wandered around a bit and found our way home by way of the Dollar Tree. After all that, I went by myself to have my hair done at Matty's. And that was all for today. I hope nobody's reading this. It's dull. Grrr. YAZZYBEL
Friday, January 14, 2011
Ah, Friday!
What could Friday mean, to a person who's retired? Well, it still means TGIF. I don't know why, but it still has the implication of a time of freedom...even though it's all free for me and my cohort wrinklies.
A teacher friend of mine said that it took her two years to realize, after her retirement, that she could go shopping at Mission Valley Center on any day of the week, not just Saturday.
Friday to me nowadays means my TOPS meeting here at the Senior Center. I have been in this group for years and am now down about ten pounds from my top weight. It was about 14 pounds, but I have been eating unwisely of late.
The Reader's Digest has announced its perfect diet for 2011, and lo and behold, if it isn't the old Atkins plan perfectly reproduced. Just eat the good stuff. I was on the Atkins diet in the seventies and I was gorgeous. And just skinny enough. It's hard to go back on it, though. Mostly because of how much I love toast and jam. Maybe I should to back to that old-new plan and allow self a toast with jam on Sunday morning. And no donuts at church. Hmmm....
Belatedly, we'll come to the word, "gizzard." What a perfect name to call a reprehensible organ that digests chickens' food. Tough (as shoe-leather), tasteless, utterly un-appetizing---and yet, there are people who love them. Today my silver guy tells how his father loved gizzards. My own grandfather, also born on Tennessee, was a gizzard-lover. Of course, my grandmother's fried chicken would make you love any part of that bird. One time, some Mexicans told my father that if they shot enough little birds (I don't know what the breed was) and cooked them up and fed them to me, my asthma would go away. My mother's brother went out with his friend Stuart and bagged a large number of the little birds and they cooked them up and we all ate of them. (Wheeze.) Just for a lark, so to speak, my grandmother and grandmother fried up a whole panful of tiny gizzards for my grandfather, and presented them, crispy and brown on a platter. He gobbled them up and pronounced them delicious. They didn't cure deafness either. All for today, YAZZYBEL
A teacher friend of mine said that it took her two years to realize, after her retirement, that she could go shopping at Mission Valley Center on any day of the week, not just Saturday.
Friday to me nowadays means my TOPS meeting here at the Senior Center. I have been in this group for years and am now down about ten pounds from my top weight. It was about 14 pounds, but I have been eating unwisely of late.
The Reader's Digest has announced its perfect diet for 2011, and lo and behold, if it isn't the old Atkins plan perfectly reproduced. Just eat the good stuff. I was on the Atkins diet in the seventies and I was gorgeous. And just skinny enough. It's hard to go back on it, though. Mostly because of how much I love toast and jam. Maybe I should to back to that old-new plan and allow self a toast with jam on Sunday morning. And no donuts at church. Hmmm....
Belatedly, we'll come to the word, "gizzard." What a perfect name to call a reprehensible organ that digests chickens' food. Tough (as shoe-leather), tasteless, utterly un-appetizing---and yet, there are people who love them. Today my silver guy tells how his father loved gizzards. My own grandfather, also born on Tennessee, was a gizzard-lover. Of course, my grandmother's fried chicken would make you love any part of that bird. One time, some Mexicans told my father that if they shot enough little birds (I don't know what the breed was) and cooked them up and fed them to me, my asthma would go away. My mother's brother went out with his friend Stuart and bagged a large number of the little birds and they cooked them up and we all ate of them. (Wheeze.) Just for a lark, so to speak, my grandmother and grandmother fried up a whole panful of tiny gizzards for my grandfather, and presented them, crispy and brown on a platter. He gobbled them up and pronounced them delicious. They didn't cure deafness either. All for today, YAZZYBEL
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Do not make oven-scrambled eggs while using the computer
.....while using the computer in another room! I was searching for a small good Cuisinart coffee maker while the eggs were baking away. They went from a little too creamy to SHOE LEATHER in all too short a time. We ate them anyway.
"Shoe leather" was my mother's family's term for anything tough and hard. Not just leather, mind you. Shoe leather, the toughest and hardest. I wra pped my bacon and hard egg in a (hard) tortilla which I had also left in the oven while searching the Internet. I just finished it all, and it was delicious!!!
My mother's father's family were from Tennessee. They used the most flowing and descriptive language, which was never vulgar nor obscene. Well, almost never vulgar nor obscene. Mother did not want us to become nurses, unless we were willing to be "Miss Carrie Potts." But that is about as far as it went. And the richness of the similes and the frequency with which her speech was salted with them, added a great deal to her biggest gift. She was a story-teller. I have never known anyone more gifted with that quality. If a married couple in Brownsville were said to have quarreled, my mother could recite the quarrel to her listeners word by word as it was spoken, even though it might have taken place a mile away. Though I was mostly silent in those days, I was an appreciative hearer of those recountings.
Mother knew grammar very well, and studied Latin in high school. She also studied French and taught me to sing, "Il etait une bergere, ron, ron, pati-patapon," while I was still very young. Educations were very limited in her day compared to the things kids study nowadays. She never cut up a frog, much less a kitten,as far as I know, and she surely would have commented upon it. But her language was in her veins and in her bones, and her education expanded and secured her in it. What a gift! When I view all the tongue-tied and nonverbal kids nowadays, struggling with "like" and even "uh," I feel that our school system has done its worst work in taking out oral reading, recitation, grammar study from Grades 1-12.
No cooking today. I blush for the tough eggs, though Taterton ate them without complaint. Kitchen still in disarray and parted out. Hasta mañana, and I thank one of my nameless sisters for the how-to of making the tilde. YAZZYBEL
"Shoe leather" was my mother's family's term for anything tough and hard. Not just leather, mind you. Shoe leather, the toughest and hardest. I wra pped my bacon and hard egg in a (hard) tortilla which I had also left in the oven while searching the Internet. I just finished it all, and it was delicious!!!
My mother's father's family were from Tennessee. They used the most flowing and descriptive language, which was never vulgar nor obscene. Well, almost never vulgar nor obscene. Mother did not want us to become nurses, unless we were willing to be "Miss Carrie Potts." But that is about as far as it went. And the richness of the similes and the frequency with which her speech was salted with them, added a great deal to her biggest gift. She was a story-teller. I have never known anyone more gifted with that quality. If a married couple in Brownsville were said to have quarreled, my mother could recite the quarrel to her listeners word by word as it was spoken, even though it might have taken place a mile away. Though I was mostly silent in those days, I was an appreciative hearer of those recountings.
Mother knew grammar very well, and studied Latin in high school. She also studied French and taught me to sing, "Il etait une bergere, ron, ron, pati-patapon," while I was still very young. Educations were very limited in her day compared to the things kids study nowadays. She never cut up a frog, much less a kitten,as far as I know, and she surely would have commented upon it. But her language was in her veins and in her bones, and her education expanded and secured her in it. What a gift! When I view all the tongue-tied and nonverbal kids nowadays, struggling with "like" and even "uh," I feel that our school system has done its worst work in taking out oral reading, recitation, grammar study from Grades 1-12.
No cooking today. I blush for the tough eggs, though Taterton ate them without complaint. Kitchen still in disarray and parted out. Hasta mañana, and I thank one of my nameless sisters for the how-to of making the tilde. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Oh, I am back on!!
Well, a funny thing happened on the way to the blog. I was kicked out on my kazoo. Couldn't even open the page. Mourned all day, wrote to my kids and my daughter in law has saved the day for me. Thank you, --------!! (I forgot to ask her if I could use her name.)
WOW. What a relief. I'm back!!
Yesterday I promised to tell how Theodore got to be Taterton. We had a Scandinavian friend who always called Theodore, "Thader." I don't know if that's really the word for Theodore in Swedish, or if it was merely his fancy, but I really liked it. The kids liked it too, but, in the way of my language-manipulating family, they called their father, "Tater."
He didn't mind, and I kind of liked it. It has a homey sound.
When Theodore left Mission Hills and bought a small house in Chula Vista, our middle son, Gregory, dubbed it, "Taterton Manor."
It happens to be the very house where we live now. Taterton and I live in Taterton Manor. And that is all there is to tell about that part of the story.
Again , we got word and memory all in one. And now to food. Kitchen is still torn up, so we are still eating out a lot. But this morning I made bacon in the oven, and then scrambled eggs in the oven. Very delicious, oven-scrambled eggs. My mother had told me long ago that many restaurants in that era made oven-scrambled eggs, as did hospitals and dormitories and other places that made large quantities of scrambled eggs. I beat a little heavy cream, salt and pepper into 2 eggs, poured them into the cooky sheet, and put them into the oven. From time to time, I opened it up and stirred with a spatula of the pancake turner variety. It took quite a while, why I do not know, but in time there they were--perfect creamy scrambled eggs.
Yesterday for lunch the weather was fair and I went out onto the back patio and made us a lunch on the camp stove. Ground beef, onion, green pepper were frazzled in the skillet, and after they were done I laid a few thin slices of cheddar over the top. I had three tortillas and I laid them one by one on the (gas) flame of the campstove. I guess it's propane. They browned nicely and I gave Theodore 2 tacos and I had one. How delicious they were! I always toast tortillas by laying them on a gas flame instead of frying them. Though once in a while I "fry" them in grapeseed spray oil in a skillet or on a cooky sheet in the oven. That's all for today and glory be to God for getting back on the blog and having a daughter in law smart enough to get me there. YAZZYBEL
WOW. What a relief. I'm back!!
Yesterday I promised to tell how Theodore got to be Taterton. We had a Scandinavian friend who always called Theodore, "Thader." I don't know if that's really the word for Theodore in Swedish, or if it was merely his fancy, but I really liked it. The kids liked it too, but, in the way of my language-manipulating family, they called their father, "Tater."
He didn't mind, and I kind of liked it. It has a homey sound.
When Theodore left Mission Hills and bought a small house in Chula Vista, our middle son, Gregory, dubbed it, "Taterton Manor."
It happens to be the very house where we live now. Taterton and I live in Taterton Manor. And that is all there is to tell about that part of the story.
Again , we got word and memory all in one. And now to food. Kitchen is still torn up, so we are still eating out a lot. But this morning I made bacon in the oven, and then scrambled eggs in the oven. Very delicious, oven-scrambled eggs. My mother had told me long ago that many restaurants in that era made oven-scrambled eggs, as did hospitals and dormitories and other places that made large quantities of scrambled eggs. I beat a little heavy cream, salt and pepper into 2 eggs, poured them into the cooky sheet, and put them into the oven. From time to time, I opened it up and stirred with a spatula of the pancake turner variety. It took quite a while, why I do not know, but in time there they were--perfect creamy scrambled eggs.
Yesterday for lunch the weather was fair and I went out onto the back patio and made us a lunch on the camp stove. Ground beef, onion, green pepper were frazzled in the skillet, and after they were done I laid a few thin slices of cheddar over the top. I had three tortillas and I laid them one by one on the (gas) flame of the campstove. I guess it's propane. They browned nicely and I gave Theodore 2 tacos and I had one. How delicious they were! I always toast tortillas by laying them on a gas flame instead of frying them. Though once in a while I "fry" them in grapeseed spray oil in a skillet or on a cooky sheet in the oven. That's all for today and glory be to God for getting back on the blog and having a daughter in law smart enough to get me there. YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Naming names
Good morning!
Today I'll write about how Yazzybel came into being.
I was christened Linda Temple Longoria, after my mother. Her baptized name was Linda Proctor Temple, and I am kinda surprised she didn't give me the Proctor too with all the rest. They were hoping for a boy, and he would have been a Junior.
So when I turned out to be me, they seem to have gone into automatic mode when they named me.
I really never liked having my mother's name. I did not like being, "Little Linda," which I was around the house. But it never occurred to me to protest or to tell anyone how I felt, because to be honest, nobody ever asked me about such things. And truth to tell, I love the name, Linda. Beautiful in English, and, literally, "beautiful" in Spanish, it fits the bill for a wonderful girl's name.
In my middle age, it began to be a bit confusing, when my mother started signing her papers and checks, "Linda Temple Longoria," instead of Mrs. Benito Longoria--her version of women's lib, I guess. And I, divorced, had taken back my maiden name because of the Bilingual Program, of which again, more later. So I too was, "Linda Temple Longoria," and I didn't like it.
"WHY did you not choose a name different from yours, when you named me?" I asked once when I was visiting. After all, all my sisters had managed to be named after someone else. My mother was baffled at this rebellion after all those years.
"What could we have named you?" she asked, at a loss.
"Well, there's my Mexican grandmother, Ysabel," I said. "That's a beautiful name too." My mother sniffed. But she took umbrage, and for some time she took to addressing her letters to me to "Ysabel." She was living in North Carolina at that time, and my then-brother-in-law, a Southerner, once spotted an envelope and asked, "Who is this Yazzabel?" A natural pronunciation for an American reader. But we thought it was funny, and it became my nickname. One of my sisters with her little Lady-Bird-Johnson accent slid the name into "Yazzybel," and there it stuck. I am Yazzybel. I kind of like it; it's funny.
"Yazzy" is a name seen often amongst the Navajo (no connection). And there are Mexican variants such as Yetzabel and Guetzabel, whom I assume to be variations of Jezebel. (Let's go quickly past that one.) But you have read above of the birth of Yazzybel, who, having discovered the electric coffee maker in the garage, has put two and two together and doesn't have to wait for McDonald's coffee any longer.
There, you have had word and memory all in one again. No cooking but the coffee, for which Thank the Lord. And tomorrow, if you are good, I'll tell you how my husband Theodore became the Taterton. YAZZYBEL
Today I'll write about how Yazzybel came into being.
I was christened Linda Temple Longoria, after my mother. Her baptized name was Linda Proctor Temple, and I am kinda surprised she didn't give me the Proctor too with all the rest. They were hoping for a boy, and he would have been a Junior.
So when I turned out to be me, they seem to have gone into automatic mode when they named me.
I really never liked having my mother's name. I did not like being, "Little Linda," which I was around the house. But it never occurred to me to protest or to tell anyone how I felt, because to be honest, nobody ever asked me about such things. And truth to tell, I love the name, Linda. Beautiful in English, and, literally, "beautiful" in Spanish, it fits the bill for a wonderful girl's name.
In my middle age, it began to be a bit confusing, when my mother started signing her papers and checks, "Linda Temple Longoria," instead of Mrs. Benito Longoria--her version of women's lib, I guess. And I, divorced, had taken back my maiden name because of the Bilingual Program, of which again, more later. So I too was, "Linda Temple Longoria," and I didn't like it.
"WHY did you not choose a name different from yours, when you named me?" I asked once when I was visiting. After all, all my sisters had managed to be named after someone else. My mother was baffled at this rebellion after all those years.
"What could we have named you?" she asked, at a loss.
"Well, there's my Mexican grandmother, Ysabel," I said. "That's a beautiful name too." My mother sniffed. But she took umbrage, and for some time she took to addressing her letters to me to "Ysabel." She was living in North Carolina at that time, and my then-brother-in-law, a Southerner, once spotted an envelope and asked, "Who is this Yazzabel?" A natural pronunciation for an American reader. But we thought it was funny, and it became my nickname. One of my sisters with her little Lady-Bird-Johnson accent slid the name into "Yazzybel," and there it stuck. I am Yazzybel. I kind of like it; it's funny.
"Yazzy" is a name seen often amongst the Navajo (no connection). And there are Mexican variants such as Yetzabel and Guetzabel, whom I assume to be variations of Jezebel. (Let's go quickly past that one.) But you have read above of the birth of Yazzybel, who, having discovered the electric coffee maker in the garage, has put two and two together and doesn't have to wait for McDonald's coffee any longer.
There, you have had word and memory all in one again. No cooking but the coffee, for which Thank the Lord. And tomorrow, if you are good, I'll tell you how my husband Theodore became the Taterton. YAZZYBEL
Monday, January 10, 2011
What happened in Tucson
I guess everybody who writes has to write about the shootings in Tucson. I tried not to think about it too much all day yesterday, but it was still there when I went to bed and I found that I had something to say.
My husband and I did not hear about the shootings until late in the day on Saturday. We were busy and out all morning, distracted by the kitchen project in the afternoon, but late in the afternoon the talk on the robin was all about what had happened, so we turned on CNN.
There we heard the news of the tragedy, all incomplete, all awful. A disturbed young man stepped up to an elected Representative to the US Congress and shot her through the head as she conducted a meeting with constituents. On the side, he shot and killed six persons besides, and wounded twelve or so. As the newsgivers told us about this tragedy, the emotion coming from the screen was this: a kind of warped elation. "At last, something to chew on." The news industry serves a greedy monster. That is plain to see.
I want to focus on the two points that were most important to me.
When I heard that a nine year old girl had been killed, my feelings all went her way. And yesterday morning, when I learned who the little girl was, I wondered that the focus of the tragedy could be anybody else, no matter how important or beloved.
Nobody is more important than a nine year old girl in a family. Nobody more beloved. This little girl was a shining star. How can her family survive? Her mother, father, brother? That they are going to have to wake up day after day with her memory in their hearts, eyes, body, just wrenches my heart with compassion.
I grieve for the family of Christina Green. God be with all of us.
My second focus is on the shooter, Jared Lee Loughner. I 've heard all kinds of dancing around the subject, but this young man is clearly out of his mind. I heard some official call him a criminal yesterday. I have had lots of experience with our mental health system, and I'd like to say that it's crazier than the clients. I will talk more about that sometime, but for now I'd just like to say that people in this guy's condition are not responsible for their actions, however heinous they might be. We have to "get" somebody, don't we? Sometimes we can't "get" somebody. We have to reflect on our entire system and way of life. We have to make changes now so that some other unhappy American kid won't do the same thing in a year, two years, ten years. We cannot fix what Jared has done. We must look at ourselves and our nation. He is now in custody, thanks to the bravery of onlookers at the incident. He should be kept there. He should tell us everything in his mind, and of his associates and everything that led him to do this act. He can do this. He is lucid enough to post messages on all the social networks, apparently. He needs to be medicated (and you don't know how much I hate to say that.) I grieve for Jared. God be with all of us.
Well, t hat is all I will write about today. Shortly I have to go to McD's to get coffee and Egg McBiscuits as they are as good as anything for miles around, as we found out yesterday by fruitlessly driving the streets of Chula and Bonita for a leisurely breakfast. YAZZYBEL
My husband and I did not hear about the shootings until late in the day on Saturday. We were busy and out all morning, distracted by the kitchen project in the afternoon, but late in the afternoon the talk on the robin was all about what had happened, so we turned on CNN.
There we heard the news of the tragedy, all incomplete, all awful. A disturbed young man stepped up to an elected Representative to the US Congress and shot her through the head as she conducted a meeting with constituents. On the side, he shot and killed six persons besides, and wounded twelve or so. As the newsgivers told us about this tragedy, the emotion coming from the screen was this: a kind of warped elation. "At last, something to chew on." The news industry serves a greedy monster. That is plain to see.
I want to focus on the two points that were most important to me.
When I heard that a nine year old girl had been killed, my feelings all went her way. And yesterday morning, when I learned who the little girl was, I wondered that the focus of the tragedy could be anybody else, no matter how important or beloved.
Nobody is more important than a nine year old girl in a family. Nobody more beloved. This little girl was a shining star. How can her family survive? Her mother, father, brother? That they are going to have to wake up day after day with her memory in their hearts, eyes, body, just wrenches my heart with compassion.
I grieve for the family of Christina Green. God be with all of us.
My second focus is on the shooter, Jared Lee Loughner. I 've heard all kinds of dancing around the subject, but this young man is clearly out of his mind. I heard some official call him a criminal yesterday. I have had lots of experience with our mental health system, and I'd like to say that it's crazier than the clients. I will talk more about that sometime, but for now I'd just like to say that people in this guy's condition are not responsible for their actions, however heinous they might be. We have to "get" somebody, don't we? Sometimes we can't "get" somebody. We have to reflect on our entire system and way of life. We have to make changes now so that some other unhappy American kid won't do the same thing in a year, two years, ten years. We cannot fix what Jared has done. We must look at ourselves and our nation. He is now in custody, thanks to the bravery of onlookers at the incident. He should be kept there. He should tell us everything in his mind, and of his associates and everything that led him to do this act. He can do this. He is lucid enough to post messages on all the social networks, apparently. He needs to be medicated (and you don't know how much I hate to say that.) I grieve for Jared. God be with all of us.
Well, t hat is all I will write about today. Shortly I have to go to McD's to get coffee and Egg McBiscuits as they are as good as anything for miles around, as we found out yesterday by fruitlessly driving the streets of Chula and Bonita for a leisurely breakfast. YAZZYBEL
Sunday, January 9, 2011
No church!
Now, let's get this straight. I'm not a churchy person. But I am sorry to be having to miss church today.
My husband is a diabetic who must have breakfast, which he would normally make for himself while I am at church...but today he can't do so (see previous dismal pages)...so we must eat out.
We are spending a fortune on eating out poorly. It's increasingly hard to find a good cheap meal out. Somebody in this burg should be able to turn out a decent breakfast, including the cup of coffee, for $4.95. Decent for my husband means one or two slices of bacon, as he can't have the toast. But no--we have to support the outrageous real estate prices around here when we eat out. The food is the least of the restauraneur's expenses, I think. Loan payments, leases, waiters' salaries, insurances,---it is tragical and awful that we can't just serve up a decent little meal, with or without badly microwaved "potatoes", for a reasonable price. If not for the diabetes, we could have toast and microwave coffee at home....or even use the camp stove, which is now set up and ready. But he (we) have found that a very limited carb intake really does work best with his very imcompetent pancreas, so, eggs and bacon it is.
We'll go to McDonald's I guess. Yes, you can get a thin plastic plate of scrambled eggs and sausage for little money there. I am going to start carrying a couple of forks in my purse for those meals consumed at institutions that provide plastic forks. The trouble is that, down here in Chula Vista, cheaper restaurants have started turning terrible. At least in the protein department, for food, and in the general quality of the establishment. Is this a universal trend in the American economic system right now?
Incidentally, I 'd like to put in a word for the McDonald's breakfast. We have found, traveling on the road, that McD's is a very reliable place to have a light meal. We have never once been victims of anybody's Revenge when eating at one. And that is a real plus when you're traveling.
Today, not going to church, I had a longer time than usual to read the Sunday funnies. I read these comics and no more. Doonesbury, Dilbert, La Cucaracha,
Fusco Bros, Mother Goose and Grimm, Pickles, and Mutts. I have some difficulty reading now, and our local paper has reduced the comic strips to a ludicrous size. So sometimes I do not read Doonesbury if there are too many little words. I missed the death of Mike's mother, though I have caught the funeral. MUTTS is my favorite comic strip. It has everything I admire in a comic strip: few words, book-quality art, and gentle humor.
I spoke of food first today, and words and memories got short shrift. There is always manana (oh where oh where is that list of symbols, including the tilde?) so hasta that day, my dear readers. YAZZYBEL
My husband is a diabetic who must have breakfast, which he would normally make for himself while I am at church...but today he can't do so (see previous dismal pages)...so we must eat out.
We are spending a fortune on eating out poorly. It's increasingly hard to find a good cheap meal out. Somebody in this burg should be able to turn out a decent breakfast, including the cup of coffee, for $4.95. Decent for my husband means one or two slices of bacon, as he can't have the toast. But no--we have to support the outrageous real estate prices around here when we eat out. The food is the least of the restauraneur's expenses, I think. Loan payments, leases, waiters' salaries, insurances,---it is tragical and awful that we can't just serve up a decent little meal, with or without badly microwaved "potatoes", for a reasonable price. If not for the diabetes, we could have toast and microwave coffee at home....or even use the camp stove, which is now set up and ready. But he (we) have found that a very limited carb intake really does work best with his very imcompetent pancreas, so, eggs and bacon it is.
We'll go to McDonald's I guess. Yes, you can get a thin plastic plate of scrambled eggs and sausage for little money there. I am going to start carrying a couple of forks in my purse for those meals consumed at institutions that provide plastic forks. The trouble is that, down here in Chula Vista, cheaper restaurants have started turning terrible. At least in the protein department, for food, and in the general quality of the establishment. Is this a universal trend in the American economic system right now?
Incidentally, I 'd like to put in a word for the McDonald's breakfast. We have found, traveling on the road, that McD's is a very reliable place to have a light meal. We have never once been victims of anybody's Revenge when eating at one. And that is a real plus when you're traveling.
Today, not going to church, I had a longer time than usual to read the Sunday funnies. I read these comics and no more. Doonesbury, Dilbert, La Cucaracha,
Fusco Bros, Mother Goose and Grimm, Pickles, and Mutts. I have some difficulty reading now, and our local paper has reduced the comic strips to a ludicrous size. So sometimes I do not read Doonesbury if there are too many little words. I missed the death of Mike's mother, though I have caught the funeral. MUTTS is my favorite comic strip. It has everything I admire in a comic strip: few words, book-quality art, and gentle humor.
I spoke of food first today, and words and memories got short shrift. There is always manana (oh where oh where is that list of symbols, including the tilde?) so hasta that day, my dear readers. YAZZYBEL
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Saturday morning
Saturday morning, and the word is CASE.
When I went to school at Ellis Private School in Laredo TX oh so long ago, I learned that CASE is one of the==whats? Well, I'll rephrase. Nouns have CASE.
There is the Possessive Case.. "Linda's blog."
There is the Nominative Case. When the noun is doing the action. " Linda writes."
There is the Objective Case. Now Mrs. Ellis simplified the rules for her fourth graders. The noun in the objective case is the receiver of the action. "Mrs. Ellis taught Linda." (Also, which is really the dative, I believe, "Mrs. Ellis gave the papers to Linda." That is the noun following a preposition.)
However, in the fourth grade, she made it easy. If a noun were the receiver of an action, whether or not it was in a prepositional clause, that noun was in the OBJECTIVE CASE.
It only gets interesting when we substitute pronouns for the nouns. After all, that 's what pronouns are for.
Possessive Case. "My blog." (or our, his, hers and any number of others).
Nominative case. "I write."
Objective case. "Ideas come to me." Oh, the objective case looks different now.
Here is the point of the lesson: All these things have to be in agreement. If mother gives flowers to Sally, fine. But she also gave them to ME. So, "Mother gives flowers to Sally and ME." I cannot write the I- word in this context even as a bad example.
"I sent a message to she and her husband," someone wrote to me recently. OUCH. NO! BAD! You wrote the message for HER. What you do not realize is that "husband" is also in the objective case in that sentence, because objective-case nouns don't change in English. Too bad. There just has been too little teaching of grammar rules . Common sense, out there, fellow seekers.
This brings me to a problem I am experiencing with my blog. A few people have told me that they would like to post comments but cannot. I'd welcome your comments, my readers. But, alas, I am a nitwit when it comes to word processing or whatever I am doing, and do not know how to make this blog admit commenters.
There will be no mention of cooking today because the kitchen is still DOWN and I tried to make breakfast in the oven. Not too delicious. Now we have brought the kitchen still more down,and the toaster is removed as well as any other small appliance, so I guess we will be eating out. I have had NO coffee yet.
If I had room I would describe the wonders of a recent evening's sunset. Perhaps I should say, If I had words. A number of people were there, struck dumb with beautysuch as I have never seen before. I've never been with a group so united in spirit before, as I was with these strangers of varied races and languages, all moved beyond speech. Until tomorrow, YAZZYBEL
When I went to school at Ellis Private School in Laredo TX oh so long ago, I learned that CASE is one of the==whats? Well, I'll rephrase. Nouns have CASE.
There is the Possessive Case.. "Linda's blog."
There is the Nominative Case. When the noun is doing the action. " Linda writes."
There is the Objective Case. Now Mrs. Ellis simplified the rules for her fourth graders. The noun in the objective case is the receiver of the action. "Mrs. Ellis taught Linda." (Also, which is really the dative, I believe, "Mrs. Ellis gave the papers to Linda." That is the noun following a preposition.)
However, in the fourth grade, she made it easy. If a noun were the receiver of an action, whether or not it was in a prepositional clause, that noun was in the OBJECTIVE CASE.
It only gets interesting when we substitute pronouns for the nouns. After all, that 's what pronouns are for.
Possessive Case. "My blog." (or our, his, hers and any number of others).
Nominative case. "I write."
Objective case. "Ideas come to me." Oh, the objective case looks different now.
Here is the point of the lesson: All these things have to be in agreement. If mother gives flowers to Sally, fine. But she also gave them to ME. So, "Mother gives flowers to Sally and ME." I cannot write the I- word in this context even as a bad example.
"I sent a message to she and her husband," someone wrote to me recently. OUCH. NO! BAD! You wrote the message for HER. What you do not realize is that "husband" is also in the objective case in that sentence, because objective-case nouns don't change in English. Too bad. There just has been too little teaching of grammar rules . Common sense, out there, fellow seekers.
This brings me to a problem I am experiencing with my blog. A few people have told me that they would like to post comments but cannot. I'd welcome your comments, my readers. But, alas, I am a nitwit when it comes to word processing or whatever I am doing, and do not know how to make this blog admit commenters.
There will be no mention of cooking today because the kitchen is still DOWN and I tried to make breakfast in the oven. Not too delicious. Now we have brought the kitchen still more down,and the toaster is removed as well as any other small appliance, so I guess we will be eating out. I have had NO coffee yet.
If I had room I would describe the wonders of a recent evening's sunset. Perhaps I should say, If I had words. A number of people were there, struck dumb with beautysuch as I have never seen before. I've never been with a group so united in spirit before, as I was with these strangers of varied races and languages, all moved beyond speech. Until tomorrow, YAZZYBEL
Friday, January 7, 2011
Faithfully here
Good morning...here we are. It's about breakfast time and the kitchen is kind of taken apart. Don't know what we'll do about that.
Last night we solved the taken-apart kitchen by eating a dinner from the Jack in the Box. It was kind of heavy and still sitting in our tummies when we went to sleep.
I got up this morning and made a very petite petit-dejeuner of microwaved instant coffee and one piece of raisin toast.
Well, the day will unfold as it goes on...we'll see what happens with the cooking. We can dispense with lunch as my husband eats mostly deli items for lunch, and I eat from the refrigerator. But we have a prepared breakfast and a prepared dinner...gracious. For how many days? I guess I can zap Campbell's soup in the microwave. Better than Jack for sure.
Instead of reading, I have been watching, and engrossed in, The Barchester Chronicles by Anthony Trollope and presented by the BBC. I sort of saw it, back when, on our black and white television---but now, ordered out on DVD---wow, how beautiful it is. And the acting is wonderful. The Bishop is a perfect sissy, and his wife, as played by Geraldine MacEwan, is really scary. And very very funny.Alan Rickman is the personification of slimy evil... I love all the characters. I am still trying to figure out where I have known all the characters in the years hence, in other characterizations. Bertie Stanhope, for example. He is somebody I know very well in another incarnation, but who? I'll get it eventually. I have the book of The Barchester Chronicles, a little paperback with a great introduction and nice pen and ink illustrations. I have read AT it (thank you, Mother) but have never settled down to a serious reading. Anyway, it is a wonderful series and a great purchase for BBC-philes.
Well, with the kitchen in transition, I never even made a Twelfth Night cake after all, though when Patricia came to play piano on Wednesday she told me where I might find charms in San Diego (art store in Hillcrest where the stationery store used to be.) If I had had the kitchen in order, well, in its accustomed state of disorder, I would have made Lemon Bread-Cake. I got this recipe from the LA Times back in the day. Lemons, walnuts, sugar--it never fails to please. I pass on the recipe.
Lemon Bread-Cake
3/4 c. butter
2 c. sugar,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Cream them
4 eggs, beaten in one at a time
1 c. milk
grated zest of one or two lemons depending on your taste
3 c. sifted flour
1 1/2 t. baking powder..............sift and add.
3/4 cup chopped walnuts.
The recipe says to put into greased bundt pan or 10 " tube. Bake at 350 degrees for 60 minutes. I have never used a bundt pan or tube, but used an old aluminum ring mold which makes a more compact slice. BUT HERE"S THE GOOD PART:
Mix the juice of one lemon and 1/2 cup sugar. While the cake is warm, pour this over the cake (in the pan) and allow it to cool before turning out. The lemony sugar syrup will be on the top, all over in fact. Decorate or serve plain. YUMMO.
YAZZYBEL
Last night we solved the taken-apart kitchen by eating a dinner from the Jack in the Box. It was kind of heavy and still sitting in our tummies when we went to sleep.
I got up this morning and made a very petite petit-dejeuner of microwaved instant coffee and one piece of raisin toast.
Well, the day will unfold as it goes on...we'll see what happens with the cooking. We can dispense with lunch as my husband eats mostly deli items for lunch, and I eat from the refrigerator. But we have a prepared breakfast and a prepared dinner...gracious. For how many days? I guess I can zap Campbell's soup in the microwave. Better than Jack for sure.
Instead of reading, I have been watching, and engrossed in, The Barchester Chronicles by Anthony Trollope and presented by the BBC. I sort of saw it, back when, on our black and white television---but now, ordered out on DVD---wow, how beautiful it is. And the acting is wonderful. The Bishop is a perfect sissy, and his wife, as played by Geraldine MacEwan, is really scary. And very very funny.Alan Rickman is the personification of slimy evil... I love all the characters. I am still trying to figure out where I have known all the characters in the years hence, in other characterizations. Bertie Stanhope, for example. He is somebody I know very well in another incarnation, but who? I'll get it eventually. I have the book of The Barchester Chronicles, a little paperback with a great introduction and nice pen and ink illustrations. I have read AT it (thank you, Mother) but have never settled down to a serious reading. Anyway, it is a wonderful series and a great purchase for BBC-philes.
Well, with the kitchen in transition, I never even made a Twelfth Night cake after all, though when Patricia came to play piano on Wednesday she told me where I might find charms in San Diego (art store in Hillcrest where the stationery store used to be.) If I had had the kitchen in order, well, in its accustomed state of disorder, I would have made Lemon Bread-Cake. I got this recipe from the LA Times back in the day. Lemons, walnuts, sugar--it never fails to please. I pass on the recipe.
Lemon Bread-Cake
3/4 c. butter
2 c. sugar,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Cream them
4 eggs, beaten in one at a time
1 c. milk
grated zest of one or two lemons depending on your taste
3 c. sifted flour
1 1/2 t. baking powder..............sift and add.
3/4 cup chopped walnuts.
The recipe says to put into greased bundt pan or 10 " tube. Bake at 350 degrees for 60 minutes. I have never used a bundt pan or tube, but used an old aluminum ring mold which makes a more compact slice. BUT HERE"S THE GOOD PART:
Mix the juice of one lemon and 1/2 cup sugar. While the cake is warm, pour this over the cake (in the pan) and allow it to cool before turning out. The lemony sugar syrup will be on the top, all over in fact. Decorate or serve plain. YUMMO.
YAZZYBEL
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Epiphany
Oh, dear. I had started a nice little exposition on the subject of Epiphany. Alas, I had a mini-epiphany as I wrote. My husband, flipping switches on the outside board in order to turn off the light over the stove top,revealed to us that the stove top light and the computer are on the sames switch--- and away went my blog, not to return. In that incarnation.
An epiphany celebrates a reality. The reality is that, if my blog is interrupted electrically, it will disappear not to return.
Rats! So now we know what an Epiphany is. Its original meaning was, an appearance. So, an appearance of whatever unexpected kind, that presents us with a reality. We are to contemplate it and reflect upon it.
The Magi were little considered in my Sunday School childhood, as far as I can remember. Joseph, Mary, the Baby Jesus, lambs, goats, burros, were all American (some might have been half-or-all-Mexican) but the Magi were foreign. Really foreign. And they were rich. They traveled, following a star. Little was made of their erudition, which must have been great. They had no Google maps, wikipedias, or web pages to help them make their conclusions. But nobody ever remarked on their educations...simply that they came, mysteriously, bearing gifts that nobody could precisely define. Gold, yes, that we all knew. I envisioned gold coins. But frankincense and myrrh remained a mystery to me for many years. And I feel sure they were a mystery to my Sunday School teachers and even to my own family, truth be told.
I cannot conclude with a recipe, but with this caution: beware a lapse in this Blog, as more electric failures ensue in the days to come as Taterton (my husband) works to remodel the kitchen. Oh dear. And this is not a recipe, but it is a prescription: Eat three prunes before you go to bed tonight. You will not be sorry. Dr. YAZZYBEL
An epiphany celebrates a reality. The reality is that, if my blog is interrupted electrically, it will disappear not to return.
Rats! So now we know what an Epiphany is. Its original meaning was, an appearance. So, an appearance of whatever unexpected kind, that presents us with a reality. We are to contemplate it and reflect upon it.
The Magi were little considered in my Sunday School childhood, as far as I can remember. Joseph, Mary, the Baby Jesus, lambs, goats, burros, were all American (some might have been half-or-all-Mexican) but the Magi were foreign. Really foreign. And they were rich. They traveled, following a star. Little was made of their erudition, which must have been great. They had no Google maps, wikipedias, or web pages to help them make their conclusions. But nobody ever remarked on their educations...simply that they came, mysteriously, bearing gifts that nobody could precisely define. Gold, yes, that we all knew. I envisioned gold coins. But frankincense and myrrh remained a mystery to me for many years. And I feel sure they were a mystery to my Sunday School teachers and even to my own family, truth be told.
I cannot conclude with a recipe, but with this caution: beware a lapse in this Blog, as more electric failures ensue in the days to come as Taterton (my husband) works to remodel the kitchen. Oh dear. And this is not a recipe, but it is a prescription: Eat three prunes before you go to bed tonight. You will not be sorry. Dr. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Go out and look for charms!!!
Good morning!
I woke up full of cares and vague inquietudes this morning. I know the reason. I have about four or five scheduled obligations within the next two to three months. And that situation always makes me unquiet. Not admirable, but that's my nature.
The word today is: Tomorrow's Epiphany. A big, mysterious important Day, which we don't make enough of in our culture, in my opinion. It signifies the end of Christmas, but in a way it is a foreshadowing of the beginning of Christianity, the opening up of the Christ story to the big wide world. I was going to make a cake for Twelfth Night and give a slice to various friends, but I forgot to buy (look for) the charms that have to go into it. A bean, one bean, is sometimes used and the lucky winner gets to be the King or Queen and pick an honorary consort for the party... One could write fortunes on strips of paper, roll them up, wrap in wax paper, and insert into the dough...but I prefer the vagueness of charms. Let people take them as they will.
For the cake, I would make Fannie Farmer's Grandmother's Pound Cake. The proper cake is a baba type yeast-risen cake bread, but I would want something delicious and simple with the least anxiety attached to it (for the baker.) The Mexicans make Rosca de Reyes, which is a baba type yeast-risen cake bread. It is very good. The Mexicans make a great deal of Twelfth Night, and that is the night that the children receive their Christmas presents. It seems more appropriate, somehow, that the gifts come from the three Reyes Magos (Magi), than from Santy and a store filled by elves. However, I love fairies and elves and Santa Claus too, so let the bon temps roulez, however the means. My grandchildren live far away, so I have never been able to have them over for Twelfth Night, but how nice it would be for them--to get presents twice. Plus a slice of cake and some cocoa. And, perhaps, a portent--a charm!!! YAZZYBEL
I woke up full of cares and vague inquietudes this morning. I know the reason. I have about four or five scheduled obligations within the next two to three months. And that situation always makes me unquiet. Not admirable, but that's my nature.
The word today is: Tomorrow's Epiphany. A big, mysterious important Day, which we don't make enough of in our culture, in my opinion. It signifies the end of Christmas, but in a way it is a foreshadowing of the beginning of Christianity, the opening up of the Christ story to the big wide world. I was going to make a cake for Twelfth Night and give a slice to various friends, but I forgot to buy (look for) the charms that have to go into it. A bean, one bean, is sometimes used and the lucky winner gets to be the King or Queen and pick an honorary consort for the party... One could write fortunes on strips of paper, roll them up, wrap in wax paper, and insert into the dough...but I prefer the vagueness of charms. Let people take them as they will.
For the cake, I would make Fannie Farmer's Grandmother's Pound Cake. The proper cake is a baba type yeast-risen cake bread, but I would want something delicious and simple with the least anxiety attached to it (for the baker.) The Mexicans make Rosca de Reyes, which is a baba type yeast-risen cake bread. It is very good. The Mexicans make a great deal of Twelfth Night, and that is the night that the children receive their Christmas presents. It seems more appropriate, somehow, that the gifts come from the three Reyes Magos (Magi), than from Santy and a store filled by elves. However, I love fairies and elves and Santa Claus too, so let the bon temps roulez, however the means. My grandchildren live far away, so I have never been able to have them over for Twelfth Night, but how nice it would be for them--to get presents twice. Plus a slice of cake and some cocoa. And, perhaps, a portent--a charm!!! YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Tuesday, January 4th, already?
Good morning! I am always surprised to see that the days rush past us after New Year's Day. I seem to have entered some limbo, expecting some hiatus suspended in time--and I get surprised by what's happening to time.
I think I have the reason for the expectation of time suspended for a bit.
When I went to first grade, Miss Johnnie wrote out the months of the year on the top of the blackboard, all around the room. January and February were written in white chalk , denoting Winter. Then followed across the front, March, April and May, in pink and denoting Spring. Then the board turned the corner and entered Summer, with June, July and August in sky-blue occupying the full space of that board. Then there was the door, through which I sometimes saw my own mother passing by on business of her own and not thinking of me, which caused me much grievance of heart. After the door there was still a short board on that wall, with September, October and November limned out in yellow. A corner was turned again, and all by itself on a small board at the back of the room was December, in red chalk so rich and dark that one could hardly see it even with six-year-old eyes. When the corner turned again, the year had ended and we had entered upon a great wall of windows which opened onto the beauties of the Lower Rio Grande Valley of South Texas: palm trees, birds,breezes. sun, rain, wind, dust. I think it's the wall of windows that sends me into limbo at the New Year. I keep anticipating that time of daydreaming that carried me across into the New Year and its railroad-track of time.
I 've always carried that visual map of the year in my mind, and used it--although I did not realize it, did not realize that I actually have always used it, until I was in my forties. And I realized too that not everybody had it! Profound!
Word of the day is, "porpentine." I found it in a quote by TS Eliott, and it means, "porcupine." His cat was "porpentine." Wonder if it threw quills, or just seemed to. Freckles, our cat, throws quills at my husband who is gullible enough to trust Freckles and invites him into his lap.
Today I started out with memory, and went to word, and now leave you without a recipe or reference to cooking. I have overeaten this holiday, and so had for breakfast only a corn tortilla toasted on the gas flame with just a leeeetle butter . YAZZYBEL
I think I have the reason for the expectation of time suspended for a bit.
When I went to first grade, Miss Johnnie wrote out the months of the year on the top of the blackboard, all around the room. January and February were written in white chalk , denoting Winter. Then followed across the front, March, April and May, in pink and denoting Spring. Then the board turned the corner and entered Summer, with June, July and August in sky-blue occupying the full space of that board. Then there was the door, through which I sometimes saw my own mother passing by on business of her own and not thinking of me, which caused me much grievance of heart. After the door there was still a short board on that wall, with September, October and November limned out in yellow. A corner was turned again, and all by itself on a small board at the back of the room was December, in red chalk so rich and dark that one could hardly see it even with six-year-old eyes. When the corner turned again, the year had ended and we had entered upon a great wall of windows which opened onto the beauties of the Lower Rio Grande Valley of South Texas: palm trees, birds,breezes. sun, rain, wind, dust. I think it's the wall of windows that sends me into limbo at the New Year. I keep anticipating that time of daydreaming that carried me across into the New Year and its railroad-track of time.
I 've always carried that visual map of the year in my mind, and used it--although I did not realize it, did not realize that I actually have always used it, until I was in my forties. And I realized too that not everybody had it! Profound!
Word of the day is, "porpentine." I found it in a quote by TS Eliott, and it means, "porcupine." His cat was "porpentine." Wonder if it threw quills, or just seemed to. Freckles, our cat, throws quills at my husband who is gullible enough to trust Freckles and invites him into his lap.
Today I started out with memory, and went to word, and now leave you without a recipe or reference to cooking. I have overeaten this holiday, and so had for breakfast only a corn tortilla toasted on the gas flame with just a leeeetle butter . YAZZYBEL
Monday, January 3, 2011
Finally, it's breakfast time
I open with this statement: so far, I am writing every day. The other bloggers I read just write de vez en cuando (from time to time) so I may filter down to that schedule.
People in the papers, online, and on the radio are all prognosticating for the future. Here's what I prognosticate: For my generation, (really old)=fearlessness. For my children, in their forties or fifties=mindfulness. For my grandchildren=courage.
I read about the Virtues on some website today. Was surprised that Prudence has specifically to do with money. News to me. Have been imprudent in many other areas of life besides money. So, it is a lesson specifically to me. This year, prudent with my money, my spending.
Everyone is changing their furnace filters in my family today. Much robin email about filters, value of changing such, reasons for changing such. YES--everyone should go out and get a new furnace filter and change their old one out. Buy a pack. One of my brother in laws says to get moderately priced filters as it is better to change moderately priced filter once a month than super filter hardly ever.
To change the subject: Here is the recipe for the Bizcochitos [little biscuits en espanol ( I have forgotten the tilde symbol)].
1 c. butter
3/4 c. sugar
1 t. anise seed......Cream all
Add 1 egg and beat well.
Add 3 c. flour and 1 1/2 t. baking powder and 1/2 t. salt.
Mix well, add 1/2 c. brandy. Mix.
NOW, here's where I differ from the recipe. I DO NOT ROLL AND CUT any more. So, mass the dough up, put on plastic, form into roll or rolls depending on how large you want your cookies to be. Chill.
Then when you take the rolls out, cut small cookies (they wont spread much) roll in cinnamon and sugar mix (1/2 c. sugar, 1 1/2 t. cinnamon). Place on greased cooky sheet and bake for about ten minutes. They are simply delicious, brown and crispy on the edges. Texture is delicate, SANDY. They are true sand tarts. If this is what you want in a cooky, you couldn't do better. I frankly prefer my other butter cookies with baking soda instead of baking powder, but these are very nice. All for today, YAZZYBEL
People in the papers, online, and on the radio are all prognosticating for the future. Here's what I prognosticate: For my generation, (really old)=fearlessness. For my children, in their forties or fifties=mindfulness. For my grandchildren=courage.
I read about the Virtues on some website today. Was surprised that Prudence has specifically to do with money. News to me. Have been imprudent in many other areas of life besides money. So, it is a lesson specifically to me. This year, prudent with my money, my spending.
Everyone is changing their furnace filters in my family today. Much robin email about filters, value of changing such, reasons for changing such. YES--everyone should go out and get a new furnace filter and change their old one out. Buy a pack. One of my brother in laws says to get moderately priced filters as it is better to change moderately priced filter once a month than super filter hardly ever.
To change the subject: Here is the recipe for the Bizcochitos [little biscuits en espanol ( I have forgotten the tilde symbol)].
1 c. butter
3/4 c. sugar
1 t. anise seed......Cream all
Add 1 egg and beat well.
Add 3 c. flour and 1 1/2 t. baking powder and 1/2 t. salt.
Mix well, add 1/2 c. brandy. Mix.
NOW, here's where I differ from the recipe. I DO NOT ROLL AND CUT any more. So, mass the dough up, put on plastic, form into roll or rolls depending on how large you want your cookies to be. Chill.
Then when you take the rolls out, cut small cookies (they wont spread much) roll in cinnamon and sugar mix (1/2 c. sugar, 1 1/2 t. cinnamon). Place on greased cooky sheet and bake for about ten minutes. They are simply delicious, brown and crispy on the edges. Texture is delicate, SANDY. They are true sand tarts. If this is what you want in a cooky, you couldn't do better. I frankly prefer my other butter cookies with baking soda instead of baking powder, but these are very nice. All for today, YAZZYBEL
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Prudence
Good morning all....It's Sunday, and the word of the day is prudence. The Dean preached his sermon on that virtue today. It was astounding to me that the whole thinking world seems to be coming around to the basics of what is good and right for us. Simplicity. Prudence. Honesty.
There were lots of laughs today. A fey spirit seemed to have been present in the cold, cold, cold nave of our Cathedral. The Dean in his announcements announced tonight's Evensong, "sung by the Gentlemen (so called) of the Choir." Hmm. It drew a smile...
Then, at Communion, the Presider launched out early with his "The Lord be with you," as the offering takers were yet struggling up the altar steps with their burden. Then, a hiatus while business was taken care of. The Presider said, "The Lord is always with you," and to my surprise this elicited a roar of laughter from us, the Eight o'Clock Club, out in the pews.
Things ensued tranquilly from then on. I attribute the comedy to the little New Year, an immature sprite who's come to visit and doesn't realize that he is here to wear himself out.
Church is both word and memory. Memory of all those we prayed for, and of all the New Years that have been celebrated in that church.
And at home, I am making bizcochitos from a New Mexico Christmas card recipe. I'll tell you how they came out, tomorrow. YAZZYBEL
There were lots of laughs today. A fey spirit seemed to have been present in the cold, cold, cold nave of our Cathedral. The Dean in his announcements announced tonight's Evensong, "sung by the Gentlemen (so called) of the Choir." Hmm. It drew a smile...
Then, at Communion, the Presider launched out early with his "The Lord be with you," as the offering takers were yet struggling up the altar steps with their burden. Then, a hiatus while business was taken care of. The Presider said, "The Lord is always with you," and to my surprise this elicited a roar of laughter from us, the Eight o'Clock Club, out in the pews.
Things ensued tranquilly from then on. I attribute the comedy to the little New Year, an immature sprite who's come to visit and doesn't realize that he is here to wear himself out.
Church is both word and memory. Memory of all those we prayed for, and of all the New Years that have been celebrated in that church.
And at home, I am making bizcochitos from a New Mexico Christmas card recipe. I'll tell you how they came out, tomorrow. YAZZYBEL
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year's Day, 2011
Good morning, and a HappyNew Year's Greeting to all!
Names are words, and the word today is that not one of my sisters nor nieces has chosen to be mentioned on the blog by name. So be it; I don't blame them. The blog will be the less for it, but that is okay. It is dangerous to allow your name into the hands of another.
Right now I am reading Harold Bloom: The Western Canon
Harold Bloom: How to Read and Why
And my book club book, which is drifting aroound here somewhere and is entitled--barely got a chance to look at it, as it arrived in the mail a couple of days ago--something like, Where the World Turns...oh, surely not.
Right now I am playing on the piano Haydn's Sonata no. 2, the first movement. I have read the second and third movements so need to get on with them before I get TOO GOOD on the first part and get stuck there.
Also on top of the piano is a big fat book, The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols, a wonderful compendium of seasonal music. It's still Christmas until January 6, so can keep playing them.
I should say that I am playing at, rather than playing, these works. This morphs us right conveniently into memory, as it was my mother's term. "She played AT it," was her description of an over-ambitious lady's rendering of some piece of music. It's a handy and true phrase. Some nights I cook, but there are nights when I just cook at a dinner.
Last night we went to a party where we saw people we had not seen for twenty five years or more--since I lived in that neighborhood. Everyone looked beautiful and happy, mostly because they are the children's generation with their growing children. The house was ablaze with candles, and the food was good. Frijoles, arroz, homemade tamales El Paso style. I make tamales too and will talk about those at some later time. It was a good beginning to the new year. YAZZYBEL
Names are words, and the word today is that not one of my sisters nor nieces has chosen to be mentioned on the blog by name. So be it; I don't blame them. The blog will be the less for it, but that is okay. It is dangerous to allow your name into the hands of another.
Right now I am reading Harold Bloom: The Western Canon
Harold Bloom: How to Read and Why
And my book club book, which is drifting aroound here somewhere and is entitled--barely got a chance to look at it, as it arrived in the mail a couple of days ago--something like, Where the World Turns...oh, surely not.
Right now I am playing on the piano Haydn's Sonata no. 2, the first movement. I have read the second and third movements so need to get on with them before I get TOO GOOD on the first part and get stuck there.
Also on top of the piano is a big fat book, The Shorter New Oxford Book of Carols, a wonderful compendium of seasonal music. It's still Christmas until January 6, so can keep playing them.
I should say that I am playing at, rather than playing, these works. This morphs us right conveniently into memory, as it was my mother's term. "She played AT it," was her description of an over-ambitious lady's rendering of some piece of music. It's a handy and true phrase. Some nights I cook, but there are nights when I just cook at a dinner.
Last night we went to a party where we saw people we had not seen for twenty five years or more--since I lived in that neighborhood. Everyone looked beautiful and happy, mostly because they are the children's generation with their growing children. The house was ablaze with candles, and the food was good. Frijoles, arroz, homemade tamales El Paso style. I make tamales too and will talk about those at some later time. It was a good beginning to the new year. YAZZYBEL
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