Welcome to my world...

Let me begin by telling you I’m not a nutritionist, dietician, or Cordon Bleu Chef. I’ve never even worked in a restaurant. What I am is a wife of over 30 years, a mother, and a grandmother who loves to cook. I have, at times, needed to use all “101 Ways to Cook Hamburger”, made tuna casserole and split pea soup until my husband begged for mercy…and had fun doing it.

As times and finances improved, so did my repertoire. I had the freedom to try more exotic fare, like pork chops. By the time the kids were in high school, I had progressed as far as shrimp and crab. Now the kids are all grown up, it’s just the two of us, and I’ve had to re-learn to cook yet again. Of course, trying new foods and new recipes is part of the fun. My motto is “I’ve never met a recipe I didn’t change.”

That’s what this blog is about, sharing recipes, stories and memories. So, enjoy your food, enjoy your life. And most importantly, don’t forget to have fun, playing with your food.

Friday, September 27, 2013

The Sage Seed

             Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” Her only complaint was that along with the game birds, he usually brought home enough dust and sage seed to choke a mule. It wasn't so bad, at least the season was shorter than football.
            A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual eastern Oregon bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.
            Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.
            He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.
            Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.
            On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.
            “I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”
            “Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”
            “It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”
             Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new.  A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.
            “Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”
            An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.
            Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.
            Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.
            “Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.  
            Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.
            A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”
            “Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”
            Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”  
            Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.



***********************

        That was a true story. It happened back in the 80’s…when you could put anything on lay-away at K-Mart, and the customer was always right. This is Frankie’s recipe. It works best with domestic duck, the fatter the better. The fat all cooks off, and leaves a wonderful, crispy skin and succulent meat. A deep, open pan with a rack is essential.

ROAST DUCK         Heat oven to 400°


1 large, fat duck
1½ tsp kosher salt
½ coarse, black pepper
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
Fresh sprigs of rosemary (optional)

Cut duck into quarters. Shears work well for this. Trim excess fat and ragged skin edges, but do not remove the skin. (If you are using wild, skinned duck breasts, lay strips of bacon across each breast to replace the skin. Secure with picks. Proceed as follows.)

Make a dry rub of salt, pepper, garlic and paprika. Proportions are suggested, but you can adjust to taste. Rub both sides of each duck piece generously.

Use a deep broiler pan for best results. Lightly oil the roasting rack. Lay duck quarters skin-side-down on the rack. Place a stem of fresh rosemary on each piece (non-skin side).

Place in hot oven. Reduce heat to 325°, and roast skin side down for 30 minutes.

Turn the duck quarters skin-side-up. Drain any fat from the drip pan. Continue roasting, skin-side-up, 2 - 2½ hours, until inner temperature at thickest point reaches 165°. The drip pan will likely be full. When slow-roasted this way, the fat melts away, leaving a moist and tender bird with a crackly-crisp skin.

I like to serve this with a wild rice pilaf and baby carrots.


Saturday, September 14, 2013

Feeding Vikings

Watching the Oregon Ducks beat the tar out of the Tennessee Volunteers this afternoon made me a bit homesick for the days when my boys played high school football. 
 In a small town, everybody shows up for games, whether they have kids on the team or not. When the team made it to state, the Tacoma Dome had more Orcas people in the stands then fans from the more local opponent.
   
      For several years, we spent most Saturdays in the stands or on the sidelines at Buck Park, cheering for our Vikings. Often, eagles soared overhead. My husband, like most of the dads, would pace the length of the field, following the action, shouting encouragement. I found I had a better view from the bleachers, with the other moms. Sometimes, we got quite loud ourselves, clapping and chanting along with the pep squad:  "O-R-C-A-S…V-I-K-I-N-G-S…ORCAS (clap clap) VIKINGS (clap clap).
  It's been ten years since our youngest graduated, and my time as a football mom ended. Now, I'm just a fan.
          
There  were no lights on our field, so Varsity games always played on Saturday afternoon, usually starting at 1 or 2pm. When James was playing, we rarely got home before 5 or 6 on games day….hungry and ready to eat. I got into the habit of using the crock-pot, so dinner would be waiting for us, ready to be served up. It's a great feeling, coming home to the aroma of chili, pot roast, or a wonderfully hearty soup. This took a bit of morning time-management, but it was worth it. Sometimes, I got the bread machine out, too.
            This is one of our favorites, especially with homemade bread. The Guinness Stout adds a great richness, and helps to tenderize the meat.


Harvest Stew
       Serve with hot biscuits or fresh bread

1 lb. beef,  lamb, or venison, cut into cubes
⅓ cup seasoned flour
2 tbsp. oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 stalks celery, sliced
2 carrots, sliced
2 -3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, cubed
1 large or 2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups frozen mixed vegetables
Small, whole, fresh mushrooms (optional)
2 cups beef broth
1 - 12oz. bottle Guinness Extra Stout

Place the meat and flour in a bag, and shake to coat thoroughly.

Heat the oil to medium-high in a large, heavy pan. Cook the meat until brown. Place in crock-pot set on low. Add the vegetables Add the beef broth and stir well. Cover.

De-glaze the hot pan with the Guinness, being sure to loosen any bits. Let it boil at least 2 minutes, to evaporate the alcohol. Scrape the pan again, and add the liquid to the crock pot. Stir well. Cover and turn the temperature up to desired cook time.
 
Cook on high 4 to 5 hours, or med/low 7 to 8 hours.
 

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Charlie

           The old man glanced across the pick-up seat at the little girl sitting beside him. She wore faded jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, and Keds that had once been pink. She was eight years old, and the picture of her mother at that age. Blonde and tan, a tomboy from head to toe. In her lap she held a small, green plastic tackle box.

           It was late summer in central Oregon. An excellent time to take his granddaughter fishing, Hank thought. The water level in the canal had been dropped for the season, leaving the trout trapped in isolated deep holes. It was, almost literally, catching fish in a barrel.
           The pigtailed face turned toward him. “Papa, doesn’t it hurt the worms when you put them on the hook?”
           “Well,” Hank hesitated, unsure what to say, “I don’t think they hurt the way we do. Their brains are too little”
           “But can they swim? It must be scary if they can’t swim. Don’t they drown?”
           “They can breathe in the water,” he explained patiently improvising. He had no idea whether a night crawler could swim or not. It hadn’t occurred to the girl that the worms would be eaten alive by a trout. Grandpa was deciding it would be better to use Powerbait.
He cranked the steering wheel hard left and turned onto the BLM right-of-way. It was a rutted, hard-packed dirt access road, which meandered along, following the canal out into the desert.     
“Look, Papa!” Lucy giggled, pointing, “Look at those funny birds!”
A family of Valley quail marched, single file across the road. Mama was in the lead, followed by a six adolescent chicks, with Daddy bringing up the rear. Lucy was delighted.    
Hank slowed to an idle to let them pass. “They were most likely down at the water hole. Just up a bit is our spot.”
           The old truck rumbled to a stop by the side of the road. There was a bend in the canal here, where the water widened and slowed. This was the fishing hole. Lucy jumped out and slammed the door. They settled down on a fallen log and grandpa set their lines. He fixed the girl up with a baited hook, making sure no worms were injured in the process.
           “Hold down on this button,” he instructed, “then let go at the top of the cast.”
           “I know.” She grinned confidently, “Daddy showed me how.”  With a look of supreme concentration, she swung the pole through the air, the bobber landing with a plop. Hank nodded, proud of her. The child had been practicing.
           They caught four nice pan fish within the first hour. It was the perfect amount for dinner.
            The day warmed. Dragonflies floated on shimmering heat waves. Sometimes, a breeze rippled the water, or raised a dust-devil. Otherwise, all was still.
           When the sun was straight overhead, they went back to the truck. Hank put the tailgate down, and spread the lunch Nana had packed. Lucy munched on her ham sandwich, asking questions about the desert animals between bites. Her grandpa had lived in the area his entire life. He knew all about the wildlife, and loved to share his knowledge.
           “Look at them whistle pigs,” he said, pointing to a prairie dog colony the size of a football field, a few yards across the canal road. “They dig holes to hide in, deep burrows, and then just stand there on the edge and watch. If a hawk flies by, they’re gone just like that.”
           They decided it was getting too hot to fish, so they packed up the gear and started for home. As they bumped along the rutted road, a flurry of activity caught Lucy’s eye. Something had scattered a covey of quail, sending dust and feathers flying. Hank hit the brakes, swearing under his breath, as several birds erupted in front of the truck. They heard the thump of several bodies coming in contact with the vehicle. Lucy leapt out and ran onto the road. Most of the birds were across now, looking flustered. One, however, lay in the road, twitching. “Oh, Papa,” the girl cried. “He’s hurt! Did we do that?”
           “I think he ran into the truck in the dust cloud,” Hank answered. “We should put him down. He can’t survive if he can’t fly. He’d be someone’s supper before nightfall.” Damn birds, he thought could’ve cracked a windshield.
           The bird’s wing was badly damaged. “Can’t we take him home? I could take care of him while he heals up.” The pleading dark eyes were hard to resist. He melted like the marshmallow that he was. He couldn’t deny that the bird was still alive, and didn’t seem to be suffering. He wrapped the wounded quail in a shop towel, laid him in an empty pail, and handed it all to Lucy. “Gives a whole new meaning to a Bucket of Chicken.” He grinned.
           “This is Charlie Quail,” she announced after a bit of thought. “He’ll heal up better if he knows his name.”
           Grandpa nodded gravely, hiding a smile under his mustache.
           Back at the house, Fran found a box for Charlie. They lined it with newspaper and set it in a warm corner of the kitchen. Lucy got a handful of chicken scratch from the henhouse and the water dispenser they used for day-old chicks.
           By the time she was through fussing over the injured quail, dinner was ready.  They ate a fine meal of rainbow trout, baked potatoes, and corn, fresh from the garden. There was blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. After dinner, the neighbor kids came to get Lucy for a game of flashlight tag. She brought them in, one at a time, very quietly, to see Charlie. She insisted on slow movements and low voices. The children were suitably respectful. They had all nursed wounded birds. Most had not survived the first night.
           After the children had gone, Fran looked at the little quail. “What do you think his chances are, Hank?”
           “Oh, I’d say about fifty-fifty. He hasn’t died of shock yet. He’s not hurt that bad, but the kid might love him to death.”
           In the morning, Charlie was not only alive, but quite alert. He was up and pecking at the grain when Lucy came down for breakfast. His wing drooped, and he stood on one foot. Hank smiled, watching from behind his newspaper as his granddaughter painstakingly inspected the bird.  
           Days passed, and Charlie continued to improve. “He needs more space,” Lucy complained to her grandma. “How can his wing heal if he can’t stretch it out? I can’t turn him loose until he can take care of himself.”
           Hank and Fran smiled at each other. At least she wasn’t planning on making the thing a pet, they both thought. “We could put him out with the chickens,” the old man offered. “He’d have room, and company, too.”
           “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, Nana!” the girl cried enthusiastically, hugging them, “I’ll go get him set up!”
           That was how Charlie Quail came to live with fifteen white hens. Within hours, he was swaggering around like he owned the place, apparently forgetting about his injured leg. It was clear he felt he was in charge.
           Lucy looked after Charlie with tireless dedication. “For an animal that’s not a pet, he sure gets a lot of pampering,” Hank teased, “He’s getting fat on my chicken feed. You think he’ll be well soon?”
           The little nurse looked thoughtful, “He’s pretty much healed,” she decided, “I think he’ll be ready for release soon.” Evidently, she had been watching Animal Planet.
           The next afternoon Lucy confirmed that Charlie was ready to return to the wild. She put the now docile bird into a crate in her wagon and headed east. When she found a good field, she stopped and opened the box. After a wing-stretch and a feather ruffle, Charlie started pecking at sage seeds. Smiling with satisfaction, the girl returned to the farm.
           In the morning, Fran went to gather eggs. From the porch she saw a small figure on the wrong side of the fence. Coming closer, she realized that it wasn’t a chicken. Charlie had returned.
           Hank and Lucy decided they had released him too near the coop, and he was attracted back by the available food. This time they would go to the mill fields. There were other wild quail there. Two days went by, and there was no sign of the bird. Then, on the third evening, coincidentally at feeding time, Charlie came sauntering up to the hen house.
           “I think you’ve got yourself a pal,” Hank said to his granddaughter, “You better open the gate.”
           Charlie went right in and made himself at home. Strutting along the fence, he inspected the boundary. He was a comic little figure, bopping around with the big white hens. When Fran fed the chickens, he joined right in. Evidently, he intended to stay.
           Vacation ended and Lucy went home, but her grandparents promised to take care of Charlie. After all, the quail had chosen their chickens as his covey.