MEAT SALAD

Posted on April 5, 2011 by snowbirdredux

MEAT SALAD

When my children were little, LONG before Taco Salad was on anyone’s menu, I made a dish that we simply called “Meat Salad”.  I have no idea where I got the recipe. It was most certainly NOT from the Nelson Girls or Mom. Because we lived a year in Mexico City that long time ago, it was possible that I got it there, but I have forgotten the origin.

SUTRO BATHS

When we opened our first restaurant in Long Beach, California on Chestnut Place and the Walk of a Thousand Lights, in a converted tattoo parlor on the last vestige of the old Pike, it was a favorite feature at Mirage.

We hung this picture of the Sutro Baths at Mirage because it was indicative of the salt water pools that were popular in the 30’s  and although this was famous in San Francisco and not in Long Beach, it evoked the era  and harkened to the salt water Plunge on the Pike in Long Beach. It now hangs in our living room at Castenada Place and will ultimately move with us to Mt. Faith.

But getting back to the Meat Salad, it was especially yummy because it was not your traditional taco salad as they are usually prepared.  It is the combination of the warm meat and beans which melts and blends the flavors of the cheese and vegetables that makes it special. Like Mom, I will not give you specific amounts, but I think you’ll get the picture.

MEAT SALAD

In a large salad bowl, mix together torn up lettuce, a good combination is half romaine and half iceberg (for crunch), chopped bell pepper, cucumber, Green onions and tomato.  Add shredded cheese (cheddar or Monterey jack), and diced avocado.

Brown about 1 pound ground beef, add 1 can drained kidney beans, add salt and pepper and oregano and cumin.

Make a dressing of 50% ketchup and 50% mayonnaise and add salsa to taste.

Add as much dressing to salad greens as needed to coat.  Fold in ground beef mixture, and crushed tortilla chips at the last and fold again.

It should be on the “goopy” side without being too wet.  YUM.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Posted on April 4, 2011 by snowbirdredux

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

I always thought names were magic.  I not only scribbled names under my mother’s angel figurines, but on other objects as well, for instance Billia Bunny Bunnykins for the ceramic Easter rabbit (I know, not terribly clever but I was likely five) and even behind the tusks of our carved teak elephant table – which still bears the marks of Kulia, Telia and Zabo. I can’t remember the name of the fourth leg, as it’s faded away, but I hope it wasn’t Dumbo.

Bilia Bunny Bunnykins!

First to grab in a fire!

It only stands to reason that names must be of the ultimate importance when you consider that many religious traditions require that the true name of God NOT be spoken.  That gives some credence to my belief.  And consider the doors and worlds that could be opened just by uttering “Sesame” or “Rumplestiltskin”. Certainly our names tend to define us.  Just how far ahead do you think Bernie Swartz or Archibald Leach would have gotten in Hollywood if they had kept their birth monikers?

My father and his next-in-line brother both switched their names about to their liking.  This is something I only recently discovered and it was somewhat of a shock to find out that Jennings Palmer Johnson (a good strong name I always thought) had begun life as Palmer Jennings Johnson. And Ernest Clarence Johnson was christened Clarence Ernest Johnson. I don’t know how my grandfather and grandmother felt about this bit of rebellion from their first sons, but I can tell you how it particularly makes a difference of sorts.  Uncle Ernie, who was much admired by all the  cousins and who cut a dashing figure on the racing circuit  as the “Flying Swede” (which bothered him a bit as he was actually Norweigian) was particularly fond of a drink which included two ingredients which had the number 7 in the name.  Hence, we kids  called it an “Uncle Ernie” and as we have all matured we make it a point to celebrate his memory from time to time and raise our glasses simultaneously in a toast of “Uncle Ernie” (called out with a  strong emphasis on the ER, as in ERnie).   Somehow I don’t think it would be the same to toast to Uncle Clarence.

Then there is the issue of all the immigrants who were willy-nilly reassigned and that hardly seems fair.  It seems important to me to know that one grandfather was in reality Kristoffer Johan Pederssen.  And that our true familial name is Johannesen.

Not to mention the fact that I myself received the wrong name at birth.  And that is not the fault of the hospital or the official registry.  Rather it is because my mother heard a popular  song of the day at the last minute and seemed to think the sappy lyrics “…I’m in heaven when I see you smile, smile for me, my Diane” was a good enough reason to switch from the very fine familial name of Kerstin.  Kerstin Jonsson was the name of my great grandmother, and Kerstin Bernhardson was a great aunt and Grandma Marie’s sister was Kerstin, although she went by the nickname Kjeshti (not sure of the spelling).  I would like to be Kjeshti. I never felt like a Diane.  And given the power of names, it is possible that the entire course of my life might have been different had a silly song not intervened.

Great Grandma and Grandpa

But I can’t really blame my mother too much for I myself erred as a too-young mother who would have done it all so differently given the chance.  There is so much to be said for maturity.  In the case of my son, I was impressed by the name Kevin, which at the time was quite unusual, believe it or not.  The actor Kevin McCarthy being a lonely example.  Same is true for Robert, who named his first son Kevin, also about the same time. So we had two sons with that name. And if I could go back, I most likely would have named him Jennings.

As for Noelle, who WASN’T born at Christmas, it seemed a lovely name at the time.  But now, I know for sure, I would have named her Kerstin Marie.

Posted in introspection | 1 Comment

THE ANGEL TREE

Posted on April 3, 2011 by snowbirdredux

THE ANGEL TREE

Because I’m so focused on my garden, children and friends often give me garden ornaments for gifts. I can’t actually recall just why I did this, but I took an angel who seemed to blend the perfect woodsy grey into the bark of the Blue Oaks that abound here on Castenada Lane, and put it in the crook of the oak’s branches.  There are quite a few oaks on the three acres, mostly Blue (Quercus douglasii), some Valley (Quercus lobata), the Interior Live Oak (Quercus wislizenii) and even two examples of the evergreen California Scrub Oak (Quercus dumosa). The tree I selected not only had the perfect cradled crook but, and this may seem preposterous, it was simply my favorite of all.  It was the Mother Tree.

THE ANGEL TREE

And right across from it – the one I call The Magus. It is old and wizened and magic all right and the deep pockets in it’s trunk give our Acorn Woodpeckers the finest hidey holes imaginable.

THE MAGUS

The Angel Tree became a ritual for our granddaughters, Cassidy Rose and Haley Marie. I would tell them they had to search all over, take their time, be very selective, find just the right and perfect spiritual offering for the angel. It may be a flower petal, a rock that catches their eye, a discarded bird feather, something that “speaks” to them in a magical sense. And then, they could visit the Angel Tree, make the pilgrimage up the hill, present their offering and make a wish. I have to admit I occasionally make my own sojourns when they’re not around.

I was raised with Angels all around, literally and figuratively.  My Mom always collected angels – figurines and pictures – from the time I was little.

As a girl I gave them names, scrawling with pencil on the bottom of each, often fanciful, usually ending in “el” as I thought was appropriate.   When Harriet died on the last day of July 2010, we said “she passed away peacefully at home with her beloved collection of angels, looking down from every surface, nook and cranny” so that one might truly believe in and experience the reality of Shakespeare’s phrase “…and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”  On many levels I believe that was true of Mom.  Harriet didn’t just “collect” angels, she believed in them.

We always ask the angels, my daughter Noelle and I, for that is what Harriet taught us to do.  After a distressing automobile accident – not my fault – but involving a pedestrian, I felt so uncomfortable behind the wheel for a time that I created two guardian “car angels” who I named Zepheriel and Mercuriel (always the “els”).  I imagined that they were lesser, “in-training” angels who were always really excited to sit above the car in inclement weather, actually relishing the excitement of the wind and the rain, and loved to experience new venues – even the dreaded L.A. freeways, so they would always keep me safe, even there.  In this way I eased myself back into a semblance of comfort behind the wheel. Mara, my good friend, laughed at me and wondered why it was I felt I was only worthy of the “trainees”. Well, good point.  I guess we’re all deserving of the “biggies”, the ARCH’s, but I do still like my guys. And I even loan them out on occasion.

My own angel collection consists of just one  large picture which is actually a photograph in black and white, showing the lower half of a being, swathed in gauzy white, falling down through space. It’s called “Angel Descending”.  Hard to describe in  words the beauty and the peace I see in that photo.  It reminds me of the idea of the Bodhisattva, who finally becomes an enlightened being, and as the story goes, just as he/she is ready to step off the last rung of the ladder to heaven having earned his wings and his divinity, pauses and turns around to help all those behind them.  There’s a concept we need more of in this world.  Our favorite film, maybe of all time, is by Wim Wenders, a German director.  It’s called “Wings of Desire” and tells the story of an angel, previously one of the guardian “watchers” who simply lend their unseen presence to humans going about daily business, but who eventually chooses to give up his divinity and become a man.  He’s like the Bodhisattva.

So Harriet gave me a sense and appreciation for angels in our lives.  And just recently, when ventricular tachicardia began to be a bit too worrisome and problematic, I actually placed a wish for health by that very photo of the Angel Descending along with the first white flowers of spring from the garden and a candle.  Next week, after the procedure is complete, I’m going to take the flowers to the Angel Tree.

Posted in HEALTH, introspection | 1 Comment

A WRINKLE IN TIME *

Posted on March 31, 2011 by snowbirdredux

A WRINKLE IN TIME *

This past weekend began with the best of family gatherings in Carmel as planned, and continued the next day with another family gathering of a different sort, but also good because it was family.

Here we are together.

And here – hanging out.

With Robert.

AT LEAST HE'S SMILING!

It turned out that his strange “heart issue” which he has been wrestling with for over 40 years, broke way beyond the bounds of acceptability and demanded attention. And that is the good and the bad of it.  Or rather, I should say the bad and the good of it, because I think we are finally “on to something”.

It started a long time ago and mainly manifested two or three times a year in the beginning, then two or three times a month and recently two or three times a week and then five times a day.  Numerous doctors and even cardiologists have repeatedly said “hmmm”. And that was that.

It was just this weekend when daughter/nurse, Sheila and I experienced the “issue” that caused us to race him to CHOMP (Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula).

Always in the past, when he had these “episodes” he would have to throw himself down on his back and hold his breath and gasp repeatedly and wait for it to pass. This time he experienced six “episodes” in succession, a new marker in the nature of scary progression.

In the past it was mainly a nuisance because it occurred infrequently. But you can imagine the issues it might conjecture in the grocery line, driving on the freeway, or at a restaurant, when he had to suddenly throw himself onto the ground. And it was at a charming restaurant in Carmel this weekend when it finally ground to a conclusion. And we were off to CHOMP.

LOBBY AND KOI POND

CHOMP is the country club of hospitals. In the woods above Pebble Beach, next to Carmel, California and designed by the world famous architect, I. M. Pei, it sits like a Mayan temple among the trees. In the lobby under the magnificent glass dome, a koi pond with splashing water. One could sit there reflectively forever.

But beyond the glitz and the artistry, CHOMP (as the locals call it) is a first rate hospital. We have had personal experiences in the past.  I had some inner parts removed, for example. And Robert had his radiation therapy for cancer here, which was successful beyond our dreams. Some of our children have been admitted here for something as sensational as driving off a cliff and doing damage to oneself. Our grandchildren have been born here. So yes, we are fans.

It was a major revelation, then, when after all these years of fussing with the heart episodes that, count them – THREE doctors had the diagnosis just like that. Dr. Hage in Emergency, Dr.Dansky in Critical Decision Care and Dr. Lui, Cardiology all immediately had the answer.  Of course – it was PSVT (paroxysmal supra ventricular tachicardia). All about electrical pathways and changing the frequency.                          .

Suddenly I felt compromised in my surity about the move to Minnesota.  I felt first of course, bereft and terrified. With all the stresses and concerns of the past about the major issues that we would contend with upon such a big journey, this entered upon new territory.  This was huge. Yes, there were the concerns about packing and traversing the continent, about how we consign what goes and what stays, how we make peace with losing California and family here, how we just dare to make the jump.  But suddenly I was wondering if  this was going to be a major  glitch in the program, not just a wrinkle in time, but an enormous rift in it all? And of course, it was all about my traveling companion.

The good of it all, the positive transformation ahead, is that we were in the right place at the right time, ready to end this 40 year nonsense and be there at CHOMP next week for the “catheter ablation” which promises a possible 99.9% success.  Hopefully just a wrinkle.

*(Thank you to Madeleine L’Engel who wrote the book “A Wrinkle In Time”, which I loved and my children LOVED, that envisioned a journey so deep that it went not only into the fourth but the fifth dimension. And it too, was all about transformation, family and Love.)

Posted in HEALTH, introspection | Leave a comment

ENTICEMENT

Posted on March 27, 2011 by snowbirdredux

What’s the hardest thing about picking up and moving far, far away? Hands down. No contest.

Cassidy Rose

Haley Marie

Christmas last year with our Divas

And there’s Sean, a senior now at Sonoma State, grown ever so big and wise from that little boy I so loved, and Sam, who is just beginning a new phase and adventure and if our highest wishes can come true they’re his for the taking.

So. What I propose to do is regale them with tales of the Great Prairies and untold lakes, of the Aurora Borealis, and the SNOW!

Well, California kids think snow is a ticket to fairy land.

And then there’s that great extended family they have never met.

Cousin Debbie's North Dakota farm

And all the perks that go with family and farms.

The twins Nolan and Aspen and brother Alex

La Ditzy and Kjelsey (Cousins Debbie and Kjelsey)

Betcha didn’t know I had a cousin who is a clown? And who gives her grandchildren horse rides on her farm?

KIDDER (also known as Kenny)

And even has a son who is a clown! How special is that!

So you can see how much fun it will be when you come to visit Grandma and Grandpa. And here ‘s the house in Fergus Falls which will be your home away from home (minus the for sale sign – it’s already ours).

Mt. Faith

So today we are driving to Carmel to spend some quality time with Cassidy Rose and Haley Marie – (and Tony and Jenny and Sheila). I have to keep telling myself, it’s not the time, it’s the quality.

Posted in introspection, retirement | Leave a comment

WHAT THEY DID OR DIDN’T TELL US

Posted on March 26, 2011 by snowbirdredux

WHAT THEY DID OR DIDN’T TELL US

Yesterday, once again I found myself in the kitchen exclaiming – Mom, what did you MEAN by a “handful”? What’s a “slow” oven?  Were you cooking with wood?

There have been so many times I was half-way through an old family recipe and found myself stumped by the vagaries of it all. THEY knew what they meant. They could do it in their sleep, those Nelson girls and all. They were old country cooks and good at it. They could win a Quick Fire in nothing flat. But sometimes I struggle to interpret their handwritten notes.

And sometimes I really have to laugh at their personal inditements and guidelines.  Take Aunt Verna’s FRUIT SALAD. Along with the cherries and oranges and pineapples and yes, marshmallows, she calls for “pecans-25 cents worth”.  Can you imagine the pittance of pecans you would get today for 25 cents!

And then there’s Mom’s notation for MAYME’S PIE, which she has copied maybe 8 times on various scraps of paper, so you know that it was definitely one of Harriet’s favorites and I can vouch for that, having grown up with her telling me repeatedly how good it was.  And it was. But what I find interesting is the insertion after “10 soda crackers” that says “14 OUR size”  WHAT!!!

And actually you might like to try her cousin Mayme’s Pie, that is if you can work  out the cracker issue:

3 egg whites, beaten stiff; 1 Cup of sugar with ½ teasp baking powder; ½ cup nuts (I’m assuming chopped) and the, oh I don’t know, 10 to 14 soda crackers. Put in a greased pan and bake for 30 minutes in a 300 degree oven.

And of course, serve with Whipped Cream!

I went to the Comstock ALC (American Lutheran Church) Women’s Cookbook for 1990, where every name seems to be a family friend or relative, to see how those great cooks stand up in print. The first entry I turned to began –  “take a big gob of Crisco on your fingertips and mix into flour”.  A “handful”, a “pinch” and now a “gob”.  I don’t know.

Another entry marked “Frozen Mystery” began with the first ingredient being “1 gallon of inexpensive vanilla ice cream”.  Now I have eaten at this person’s house and she is a distant relative and I could swear I was served only the finest ingredients at her house. But I see her point. The best cooks,  and this person deserves the title, are often thrifty cooks especially the country cooks from our heritage, and really there is no real reason to splurge on Ben and Jerrys if you are going to simply “mush it all together with the other ingredients.” There is perhaps a good reason why she ends the recipe with the comment – “Guest will say, What is this?” Her daughter’s recipe for Strawberry Pie calls for a crust of only Hydrox cookie crumbs.  I don’t think they are still on the market, but I’m wondering what we can substitute.  I’m not sure, but I’m thinking they must be Oreos? (Which are just like Jo-Jo’s from Trader Joe’s which Robert likes to keep and eat right out of the freezer.)   And finally, this favorite old food-spattered cookbook has an amazing entry for Fudge whose first ingredient is – 1 lb. Velveeta Cheese.

I’m not kidding.

Yet I’ve saved the best for last. This discovery came about just yesterday while on the phone with my cousin Maryanne as we were trying to determine which recipe of Aunt Verna’s (Maryanne’s mother) – whether the Brown Oatmeal Bread or the Whole Wheat Molasses – was the one we remembered as the very best.  I happened to turn the little scrap of paper over and found notations for WINE from Mildred, Verna’s sister. And I seemed to remember being at her house in Fargo in the early 70’s when these two fabulous cooks scribbled their specialties down for me.  I think I remember liking the wine, but in those days wine was something reserved for communion.  I don’t know if I would like this version today but it is definitely too dear not to pass on. And I give it to you as written.

MILDRED’S WINE

Two 49 or 54 cent bottles Welch’s grape juice

One large can frozen Welch’s grape juice

Four ½ cups of sugar

½ teaspoon yeast

Water to fill gallon jar. Dissolve sugar first in warm water in gallon jar.      Add juice and yeast and water to neck of bottle.

Cover with a ten cent balloon.

Takes at least 4 weeks.

SKOL!

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JOHAN’S JOURNEY

Posted on March 26, 2011 by snowbirdredux

KRISTOFFER JOHAN PEDERSEN

JOHAN’S JOURNEY

I’m home this weekend from work on the Big Sur coast because the south end of the highway, now, is covered with rocks and boulders and mud. And it all happened at just about the spot I was picking up and hefting rocks just last Sunday.  Uff Da!

And if I am chastened by the sight and memory of that scary journey home last week, and given to fret a bit too much over the proposed move and journey  to Minnesota for a new life, I have to remember or try to imagine the immensity of the trip taken by my grandfather, Kristoffer Johan Pedersen, who also came to a new life in Minnesota, but a long time ago.  I didn’t have the connection to him that I did with my other three grandparents and consequently, even the “idea” of him seems faraway and sad and a little romantic.

I grew up on the tales of how he was sent as a young boy of perhaps 8 years old along with his brother whose age I do not know, on a ship to America. My mother would always say – “Can you imagine those two little boys coming all alone on the ship by themselves.”  Certainly there must have been an adult overseeing them, an uncle or family friend. But that was the way it was done in those days. Money was saved and a few were sent at a time, until all the family could be re-united in the new land. The same was true for my Grandma Marie, who he eventually married. She came in the second wave from Norra Finnskoga, Varmland, Sweden with her father and Uncle Jens.  Her mother and the other children had gone before.

Johan came from the far north of Norway near Tromso – on an island called Skarvik. It is offshore from  a village at the end of the Salangen fjord called Sjovegan which means “the way down to the sea” and that seems like an apt foretelling of his future for he, of course, went down  to sea and kept going. If you have ever seen the Swedish movie “The Emigrants” with Liv Ulman as the mom and Max von Sydow as the father, you get a chilling sense of the chaos and abysmal conditions that they endured on those voyages.  Crowded in with little privacy and fresh food and water, many of them succumbed to disease. They must have all existed in a constant state of terror what with the roiling sea, as if they were in a perpetual “E’ Ride at Disneyland, but for real.  And the fear of the unknown. They must have asked themselves repeatedly  if it was really worth it, could possibly be better “over there” than back at the comfort of the village, the familiar security of home.

My grandfather as a little boy must certainly have experienced the fear, but what I do know for certain is that he, like so many other immigrants, contracted tuberculosis in the close and unhealthy hold of the ship.  And he would fight it for the rest of his life which was to end prematurally at the age of 32.  He left my Grandma Marie as a young widow with four children from the ages of 9 to 18 months, the youngest being my mother. And, so they were to grow up with various relatives, who fortunately had practically adjoining farms along that stretch of the Red River Valley – the Nelsons (of the precious recipes),the Bernhardsons, and primarily Aunt Ida and Uncle Joel Anderson, which became my mother’s primary home for her growing-up years.

In arriving at the gates of this new country, the immigration people must have looked at his name and reassigned a new one more in keeping with their Anglican sensibility. So Kristoffer Johan Pedersen became John Christopher Pederson.  Just like that. In the same way, my father’s grandfather went from Jorgen  Jacob Johannesen to a Johnson, and Grandma Marie’s father became Jens Johnson, from Jonsson.  (Have you noticed the connection in the versions of “Johnson” on both sides of my family  which seems especially spooky if you know that my maiden name was Johnson and I married a Robert Johnson, although I guess it’s not so different than the odds with Smith and Jones.) But my main point is that the re-naming of immigrants, which includes the slaves who were assigned their master’s last name, seems so out of touch with what we would like to hold dear and true with our heritage.  Granted, they took it. (Maybe not the slaves.) They accepted the new moniker and went for the New World and all it might promise and entail. So Johannesen and Jonsson became Johnson and probably hoped it would help them assimilate and  grab for the gold ring and be rewarded with the new American dream.  And for the most part they caught it.  After great hardships, my relatives did quite well for themselves along the lovely alluvium plain that was the Agassiz glacial valley. They knew where to settle.

I have letters from my grandfather which he wrote to Grandma Marie from a clinic in Wisconsin over the Christmas of 1909. I have pored over them trying to make out some of the words, but they are in Norwegian with the exception of the postscripts which read “Dears Myrtle, Be all ways goods to mama and Arnold, From your Dear Papa” and “Dear Arnold, Papa love boy. Be good. From dear Papa.”  It’s enough to break one’s heart, wondering if he thought he would never return with his health intact.  And finally the year before his death, there is noted three hospital visits, all lasting more than a month, and finally his death in November.

Because he has been such a remote and distant Grandpa, shrouded in long ago past tragedy, and because I felt the ache of losing my own father at a young age, I have wanted to know him especially, rediscover who he might have been beyond Grandma Marie telling me that he was such a “good man, someone every one loved and respected.”

Last year when we were in Minnesota, I purposely looked for his final resting place.  I had often been to some of the small country graveyards  where my dad and his parents and many aunts, uncles and cousins already rested. For some reason, and probably because he had died so long ago and that particular Pedersen line had moved on to other places, it was unknown. So we poked around the Swedish and the Norwegian  plots on both sides of the Red River, both North Dakota and Minnesota side. I walked the line up and down, peering over gravestones, reading names, recognizing Aunt Kerstin Bernhardson and oh here’s Great Grandma and Grandpa Jens and Kerstin (again), and Ingeborg and Ole Nelson and so forth.

And then suddenly – there it was! Back in the far corner –  JOHN C. PEDERSON. And the entire grave was covered with peonies.  Peonies. Who planted the peonies after all these years still hale and hearty?  Certainly it must have been the young grieving widow, Marie.  My darling Grandma Marie.

I was hoping to go this year and see them in bloom. If not this year,then next. And I want to weed and feed them and thank my Grandpa Kristoffer Johan Pedersen and tell him what a lovely wife he had and what beautiful children he created.

Posted in Immigration, introspection | 2 Comments

PUDDING

Posted on March 25, 2011 by snowbirdredux

There is nothing better than comfort food. Our favorites are grilled cheese sandwiches and creamed chicken and peas over biscuits.  Not your typical health food, but YUM. We normally aim for healthy meals, but there is something to be said for just satisfying that occasional craving for what feeds the soul as well as the tummy. Pudding is one of those things.

Pudding is SO a thing of my childhood. Butterscotch or chocolate with whipped cream on top. Just the stuff out of the box, milk added and brought to a boil. What could be better. We don’t do that anymore.

When I think of good comfort food too, I think of the Nelson Girls. That is what we always called them although they were hardly girls when I was young.  The Nelson girls were relatives of my mother – Lena, Tilla, Freda, Milla, Ella and Lottie.  Good Swedish stock out of Ingeborg and Ole, farming along the Red River Valley of the North outside of Comstock, Minnesota. I grew up hearing that you really had to be blessed and special if the Nelson girls shared a coveted recipe with you.  They were that renowned as cooks.

I don’t know if the Nelson girls did pudding (I’m sure they did) but the falling apart yellowed pieces of paper from my mother’s file speak of long ago.

First is her “Lemon Pudding” which is really a “pudding-cake” and bears the name of “Alma”, as in Alma’s Lemon Pudding. I remember mother talking about Alma, but I haven’t put the pieces together. I have made it repeatedly  however, and it is always a hit, especially after a heavy meal, the perfect light ending.

ALMA’S LEMON PUDDING

1 Cup sugar

2 T. Butter

Yolks of two eggs

2 Heaping T. of flour

Grated rind and juice of one lemon

Beat well.

Add 1 Cup of Milk and fold in Beaten Egg Whites.

Pour in greased baking dish, set in a pan of water and bake in 350 oven

For ¾ of an hour.

Serve with whipped cream.

CHERRY PUDDING

This recipe is so torn that the page is in four pieces.  But I can still read Mom’s handwriting and I will always remember that we made it for special occasion dinners, unlike Lemon Pudding, and I still reserve it for Christmas, because it is like a Norwegian version of Plum Pudding, only better.

1 Cup flour                              1 T. melted butter

1 Cup sugar                             1 Cup sour cherries and juice

½ teasp. Salt                            1 tsp. Soda dissolved in 1 tsp water

1 egg, beaten                            1 Cup chopped nuts (I always like

pecans)

Mix sugar, flour and salt. Add beaten egg, soda and cherry juice. Mix well. Add melted butter. Fold in cherries and nuts.

Bake in greased pan until well done- 350 for 35 minutes. Pour sauce over cake as soon as taken from oven.

SAUCE FOR PUDDING

1 Cup brown sugar          2 Cups hot water

2 T. flour                          1 tsp. Vanilla

1 T. butter                        Pinch of salt

Melt butter, mix in brown sugar, flour, hot water, vanilla and salt.

Cook til boiling and pour over hot cake. Serve with whipped cream.

(1 ½ times recipe makes 13” by 19” cake.  Need only one recipe of

sauce for larger cake.)

NOTE: Make the larger pudding cake!   Serve portions with whipped cream!

COCOA PUDDING

Well, this is the upscale version of what came out of that box!

¼ Cup Sugar

¼ Cup Cornstarch

¼ Cup Cocoa

¼ Teasp. Salt.

Combine in a saucepan the above and gradually stir in 2 ¼ Cups

Milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until boils.

Boil one minute longer and stir in 1 teasp. Vanilla and 2 T. butter.

Dish up and obviously serve with whipped cream.

My Mom said (and I think she actually meant it) that she would eat

Dirt with whipped cream!

CUSTARD  Makes 6 Cups

And speaking of my Mom, she always thought that when anyone

was sick they needed Custard.  Comfort food. But with plenty

of whipped cream on top!  Here’s her recipe.

4 T. sugar

Salt  (pinch)

2 eggs, beaten lightly

A “little” vanilla (whatever that means!)

2 Cups milk

Mix together, put custard cups in pan of water. Sprinkle dusting of Nutmeg on top. Bake until set (knife comes out clean) at 325.

COMFORT FOOD!

Harriet’s recipes are written in pencil, fading now on slightly torn pieces of paper. They were some of her best. And unlike the Nelson girls, I’m sharing them with one and all.

 

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THE HIMALAYAN MUSK

Posted on March 24, 2011 by snowbirdredux

Paul's Himalayan Musk Rose

What with the peach blossoms and the crabapples and the flowering quince, I must admit I’m getting restless for the roses. I know I’m getting ahead of Mother Nature here but it’s been on my mind and rather than continually running to the garden to see if there just might be a first bloom, I thought I would sing the praises and dedicate the coming season to the Musk Rose, specifically the Himalayan which is intrepid and spectacular as you can see. It would be almost as difficult for me to name a favorite rose as designate a favorite child, but this one is right up there, and, to make a bad pun, as you can see, in more ways than one.

By some accounts it is said to climb over 30 feet and from my experience that may be a cautious estimate.  Needless to say it is a mighty scrambler that loves to climb trees.  I once had to caution a friend who reported with pleasure that she had purchased a small but attractive arbor for her garden and  planted a climbing Himalayan Musk at the base.  No! I cried. Not a good idea!  Then I explained that there might be a good reason why “Himalaya” is included in it’s name, for the rose quickly springs up more than ready for a serious trek and not a rolling meadow stroll.  The photo above shows it flinging it’s canes out over the second story deck, grasping for the nearby oak tree.

MUSK ROSE ABOVE THE FROG POND

The history of the Musk goes back to an ancient variety in the Middle East, “Rosa Moschata” which (so Peter Beales in his noted book “Roses” tells us) was probably introduced to Europe during the reign of Henry VIII.   This is what I particularly love about the heirloom roses, along of course with their beauty and fragrance and ability to  delight. It’s the ancient history and romance. This Rosa Moschata then, traveled who knows how – by caravan over the Silk Road? A cutting tucked in the cloak of a Knights Templar, back from the crusades, back to his Lady in Hertfordshire, England?  And then picked up by nurseryman William Paul towards the end of the last century, and using the chromosomes of the parent, created this hybrid which now climbs up to my second story and beyond.

Every year I have to hack it back so that we may dine without its thorny long limbs encroaching on the deck but it, like most of the old roses, is most forgiving and just readjusts it’s trek in the other direction, making a nice companion for the oak.

When I first considered the issues of moving to Minnesota from California,  I must admit I had a moment of dread about the roses among other things. Every time we have moved  and there have been many, I have picked myself up reluctantly from a garden newly formed and hardly mature. And every time I began all over again, ordering my favorites, usually from the Heirloom Rose Nursery in St. Paul Oregon. This time I found the truth in what is said in Rosarian talk, that it takes at least 8 years for old heirloom roses to come into their own.  To really WOW you. To show you their full complexity and depth. This time its almost 12 years and the Rosarians were right. Every year the show has been getting better and better.  So now – to begin again in a totally different clime – well, I’m game, but how about my favorites!

And Yes. Thank you Mother Nature. It turns out that Paul’s Himalayan Musk is perfectly happy in the snows of Minnesota. And so one of his breed will be joining us there.

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HOME

Posted on March 23, 2011 by snowbirdredux

When I was caught in the storm this past weekend, unable to pass through the 60 foot gap in the Big Sur highway, the Post Ranch Inn kindly gave me a room for two nights, and I use the word “room” with needed and further qualification.  My work is with and for my friend, Alice who provides the retail store/accommodation for the notable, smallish but much acclaimed Post Ranch Inn on the Big Sur coast of California. It in fact, has been judged one of the “Best Small Inns in the World” by Conde Nast Travel and Guide, and they should know.

Entry to Sierra Mar restaurant at Post Ranch Inn

When they handed me the key to my “room” it turned out to be GRIMES, which is a treehouse. The Grimes family, along with the Posts, the Pfeiffers, the Danis, the Moleras, the Burns, the Harlans, and so on, were just some of the tough pioneers who homesteaded this rugged coastland, and Billy Post, a good-old farm boy himself, most happy on a tractor, named each accommodation after one of those other rugged souls.  One could only imagine what Mr. Grimes and his neighbors, living without indoor plumbing and electricity, without a road between them and a civilized town (well, we  can at least connect on that one) would have thought about the current lodgings commemorating and bearing their names.

Tree Houses at Post Ranch

Grimes, it turns out, is one of six treehouses, and I think the best of the lot, for if you go to the Post Ranch Website, and click on “treehouses” it is pictures of Grimes which appear. The other types of accommodations include Coast Houses which are sculptured to resemble a redwood tree, everything angled and woodsy, and Ocean Houses – probably the most coveted of the lot, bermed into the edge of the cliff with grass and flowers growing on the sloping roof, accessed down a little side hobbit-hole path, and opening in full glory to a deck hanging over the Pacific Ocean.  The architect Mickey Muenig conceived this masterpiece, fitting it into the old Post Ranch as if it had sprung from nature spirits. I really admire his work.

Ocean House

So I took my key to Grimes and feeling slightly out of my league, settled in for two nights of – I won’t say impersonating the other half, because that would insinuate that we as a society are half poor and half rich, but rather I impersonated  the other “upper fraction”. Grimes, it seems, goes for about $1000. a night. The Ocean Houses more like $2500.  So you see what I mean about the upper fraction. I must admit I sort of  carefully insinuated myself into the unit, not really making up the bed in the morning, but definitely straightening the covers as any interloper might do. I did use the deep soaking Jacuzzi tub built of Raja slate and ladled into my bath “lavender and arnica with Big Sur botanials” bath salts ($18-) out of the laquered pomegranite bowl ($56-). I did eat the organic nuts and imported chocolate out of the refrigerator. And I definitely enjoyed the hand wrapped all cotton mattress with a French wool wrap topping  ($5488-) and the 800 fill power Hungarian goose down and syriaca comforter ($820), covered with the cotton and linen duvet cover ($350-) and ditto the down pillow ($295-) and the soft as silk organic cotton sheets ($310-)  I know all this because I sell them.

Bedroom at Grimes

Cozy nook at Grimes

So what’s not to like?  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and I know it seems as if I’m a silly poor-me goose who should be thoroughly enjoying this sumptuous opportunity.   But I sat there that weekend and thought all the time about home, and not to further sound like Dorothy in Oz, but it is true that there’s no place like home.

The subject of Home has been much on my mind since we embarked on this journey to move from California to Minnesota and the Nervous Nelly in me, has naturally clung to the notion  that we would be “losing” our home and therefore we must hope we can re-establish it in the new location, as if it would get lost somehow in transit, maybe in Colorado or Iowa.  Of course I know that home is not the physical building or the “things” that decorate it, but I have to admit that there is a great sense of comfort and familiarity in the photo of me at four with my arm around my mom which hangs above this very desk. And I would miss beyond belief the carved teak elephant table that my father had shipped from India.  Or the wagon wheel hub that Robert unearthed in Bixby Canyon when he dug the foundation for our house there. Or the tortoise shell and ivory treasure chest (I know, I know – illegal and endangered materials) that Norman, my godfather sent to me from the South Pacific. Or even the rat-eared copy of “I Married Adventure” by Osa Johnson.  Things like that which speak of home and history.

I can take all those things to Mt. Faith Ave. They are not welded down here on Castenada Lane.  And obviously when I was sitting in that lovely Grimes room, truly enjoying the crackling fire and the foggy redwoods beyond, I was not reminiscing about missing my treasure chest.  But I was missing the energy and essence of home. I suppose we create a space that not only reflects our taste in art and objects, but in so doing we embue the very atmosphere with ourselves.  And it feels good.  And we miss it.

Part of it must be the familiarity. We know that Dorothy went back to Oz eventually. But at the time all she could think of was the chickens and the cornfields and Auntie Em. And maybe if Auntie Em had been sucked up into the tornado too, Oz wouldn’t have seemed so foreign. And so, of course it’s true that if Robert had driven up the long coast and joined me, it would have been a party! We would have laughed at the chance to be upper fractions and tried all the amenities not just the bath salts, and wrapped ourselves in Post Ranch robes ($160), and he would have poked the fire because he is much better at that than I am. I have to keep in mind, that when we move across the country, we will be taking our energy and essence as well as our objects and most importantly, we will be doing it together.

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