A Drive to Remember

With Thanksgiving just two weeks away, I was reminded of a trip we took in 1979. Newlyweds, my husband and I were living in Central Oregon, while our family all lived in Portland. That's a trip of 180 miles or so, usually about 3 hours, if obeying the horrendous 55 mph speed limit that was in effect at the time.

We had spent Thanksgiving Day with my in-laws, and Friday and Saturday visiting friends and family. Now it was Sunday, and we had brunch with my mother before getting on the road back home. The forecast was calling for more snow in the mountains, with a traveler's advisory for the Santiam Pass. Fretting as we prepared to leave, Mom fixed us a care package. "This is way too much food for me," she said. "You kids take this home."

Before we reached the highway, we heard that the Pass was closed. Pat had to be at work the next day, so we wanted to get home, if we could. We turned around and headed toward Mt. Hood. Up and over the mountains, then Highway 97 all the way home.

At the base of the mountain was a roadblock, traction devices required beyond that point. Fortunately, we had chains for our old, two-wheel-drive pick-up. Unfortunately, the sheer number of vehicles chaining up created a massive bottleneck. A single lane of traffic was open in each direction. We started the up-hill climb, amidst hundreds of holiday travelers. Creeping slowly, bumper to bumper in driving snow, progress was minimal. About halfway to the summit, the line of eastbound cars ground to a halt. Minutes passed. The occasional O.D.O.T. truck or county vehicle would pass going the other way. Every so often, we would move a car length or so.

The snow continued to fall hard, the wind blowing. Time dragged on as we sat, trapped in an icy caravan. After four hours, we had yet to reach the summit. I was nine months pregnant with our first child, due any day. Cranky and uncomfortable, I was ready to be home. Pat was worried that I might go into labor, and I was trying not to think about it. He tried to keep the old Ford at a comfortable temperature, but it seemed we were always too cold, or too hot.

Brunch was a long time ago, and we were getting hungry. We remembered mom's care package. Inside was a piece of ham, a brick of Swiss cheese, and several ripe tomatoes. We had excellent sandwich fixings, with no bread or utensils. Laughing, we cut chunks of ham with Pat's pocketknife, broke bits off the cheese, and ate tomatoes like apples. Food never tasted so good.

Inching along, we finally reached the summit of the pass, the marker barely visible through the snow. The downhill grade did nothing to speed things. As dusk fell, the snow and wind stopped simultaneously. We had been sitting in the truck for nearly seven hours. The line of vehicles stretched as far as we could see, both in front and behind. There seemed no logical explanation for the hold up. No emergency vehicles had gone by, in either direction. We realized that nothing at all had passed for hours.

Three cars up ahead of us, a yellow International Scout suddenly put on his turn signal. He pulled into the available left lane, and started down the mountain, oncoming traffic be damned.

Pat looked over at me, "what do you think?"

"Go for it." I was as sick of the mountain as he was. He pulled out, following the Scout.

The chains bit easily into the new snow, and we progressed steadily. Passing literally hundreds of cars, we encountered no obstacles. Eventually, we reached the front of the line. At its head was a small white sedan, traveling at a snail's pace. Everyone else had apparently fallen in behind, dutifully staying in line, until it caused an eleven mile traffic jam.

Soon we were off the mountain. The snow behind, the road clear, Pat pulled over and removed the tire chains. Finally, we were able to make some time. The desert shimmered under a layer of frost as we drove through the moonlight. The road spun out before us, long and straight. A far-off flashing red light announced the turn to Warm Springs. Up ahead, we could see taillights. Probably Mr. Scout, we hadn't seen any other cars. He reached the stoplight…and didn't even slow down.

"Look at that crazy bastard!" Pat exclaimed. "He just ran right through that red light!"

A moment later, we came to the light…and slid right through it. The entire surface of Hwy. 97 was coated in black ice. We continued, slower and wiser.

Finally reaching Bend, we pulled into Denney's at the edge of town to thaw out, and eat. The place was packed. We got a small booth, and ordered soup and coffee. As we waited, we gazed idly out the window. There was plenty of snow here, the road plowed and hard-packed. Just then, a huge Buick station wagon approached the diner. Trying to slow, the wagon slid, turning sideways across the four-lane road. We could clearly see the faces in the car. Dad was white-knuckled on the wheel and mom looked terrified, while the kids in the backseat laughed, waving at people in the restaurant.

We waved back as Dad corrected the skid and continued down the street, completely unscathed. He'd had the entire block to himself

By the time we got home, we had been on the road for over ten hours. We were exhausted, and caught colds, but were otherwise fine. It was another two weeks before Laura was born.

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With that happy memory in mind, I'd like to add a recipe that has been a tradition in the Brown family for four generations. It's labor intensive, but worth the work. Known regionally as 24-Hour Salad, Overnight Salad, or "that salad with the little marshmallows", this is one of my husband's favorites:

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Ambrosia

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2 cups Royal Ann cherries, halved

2 cups pineapple tidbits

2 cups mandarin oranges

2 cups quartered marshmallows

1 egg

1 ½ tbsp. sugar

¼ cup lemon juice

½ cup orange juice

1 cup heavy cream, whipped

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Combine well-drained fruit and marshmallows.

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Beat egg until lemon colored. Gradually add sugar, lemon juice and orange juice. Mix well. Cook in double boiler until smooth and thick, stirring constantly.

Allow to cool completely. Stir in whipped cream.

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Pour over fruit and fold in. Chill 24 hours before serving. Do not freeze.

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            Going from the labor intensive, to the beautifully easy, this is a way to dress up your cranberry sauce. You still need to plan ahead a little, but the prep time is minimal. It's a jell-o salad that even cranberry-shy kids like, and the shape is a departure from the classic "can mold" of my youth.

            I've used various size and shape molds, but my favorite is a 3-cup copper ring. This makes two of those, or one 6-cup Tupperware mold.

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Cranberry-Orange Wreath

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1 - 6oz. box red jell-o, raspberry, cran-raspberry, or cranberry

2 cans whole-berry cranberry sauce

2 small cans mandarin oranges, drained well

¼ tsp. each, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice

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Dissolve jell-o in hot water, per box directions. Add spices. Stir in cranberry sauce in place of cold water. Chill for and hour until partially set. Gently fold in mandarin oranges, and pour into 6-cup mold. Allow to set at least 6 hours, preferably overnight.

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To make un-molding easier, dip mold to the rim in very hot tap water for 10 seconds. Immediately flip onto serving plate and re-refrigerate until ready to serve.

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Garnish with whipped topping just before serving, if desired.

 



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.


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        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.

Once Upon A Time, 30 years ago...

            During the recession of the early 1980's, we lived in Central Oregon. This was at a time when all the mills were beginning to shut down. As a result, much of the town was unemployed. Even those who didn't work directly for a mill were affected. Everyone we knew supplemented their food budget with gardens…and game. My husband, an experienced hunter and fisherman, made sure there was always meat on the table. We ate what many people might consider delicacies. Quail, pheasant, duck, elk, the list could go on. Roast wild goose or back-strap of venison was not unusual. Neither was freshly caught, fried bass or bluegill. Unfortunately, you can have too much of a good thing. At one point, I never wanted to see another trout, let alone eat one. Now, I enjoy it again…but it took a few years.

            When we moved back to the Portland area, we kept living off the land as much as practical. We rented a little house on five acres, on the outer side of the West Hills. It had a neglected old orchard, filled with apple, plum, and pear trees, and a large garden space. By this time, we had three toddlers. They spent many hours in the garden with me, playing farmer with their own little plastic tools. They loved to snack on berries or pull carrots for their lunch. Tiny cherry tomatoes, sweet as candy, were consumed by the handful. We also raised rabbits, sheep, and chickens. Gathering eggs was part of the fun. There were times when we supplied the whole neighborhood with eggs. At some small level, the kids grew to understand that food didn't just come from the store. They all have fond memories of our days on the farm.

            There are two times each year when I find myself with tiny vegetables. The first is early summer, when I'm impatient to harvest something. Then again at the end of the season, when the garden is winding down. Too little of any one thing to use alone, but together they make a wonderful vegetable soup. I don't think I've made this the same way twice, it depends on what I have on hand, but it's always gotten good reviews from my family. It can easily be made vegetarian.

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Baby Vegetable Soup

Serves 4 to 6

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1 tbsp. butter

1 tbsp. olive oil
1 small onion, minced

1 carrot, thinly sliced

1 stalk celery, diced

1 small hot pepper, seeded and diced or 1 dried chili pepper (optional)

1 small sweet pepper, any variety, seeded and diced

1 clove garlic, minced

1 cup green and/or wax beans, cut into 1 inch pieces

1 quart chicken or vegetable broth

2 or 3 ripe tomatoes, diced or 1 can diced tomatoes in juice

3 or 4 baby red potatoes, quartered

1 or 2 small summer squash, sliced or cubed, depending on size

¼ cup chopped, assorted fresh herbs or 1 tbsp. dried (parsley, basil and marjoram)

Salt, pepper

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Heat oil and butter in a stock pot to medium high. Saute onion until golden brown. Add carrots, celery, peppers and garlic and saute for a minute or two. Add tomatoes, beans and broth. Season with salt and pepper. Stir well. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Stir in potatoes and summer squash and cook 15-20 minutes longer or until vegetables are all tender. Stir in herbs and adjust seasonings.