tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54500831994078419362024-03-28T06:47:30.232-07:00Mike and Mary's Kitchen: Recipes and Memories from Point CadetA tribute to my family's recipes, traditions and history from the old Point Cadet neighborhood in Biloxi, Mississippi.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-80858394038630219502011-12-24T18:04:00.000-08:002011-12-24T15:45:43.375-08:00Christmas Eve Traditions on the Point<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Perhaps on no day of the year, are Croatian families from Point Cadet closer to the traditions of their homeland than on Christmas Eve. Back in the day, the air hanging over the Point was thick with fog and redolent of <i>bakalar</i>, the traditional cod stew served for Christmas Eve dinner, and frying pusharates, the glazed fruit-filled doughnut holes that are the star of all Christmas pastries.<br />
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The enduring popularity of bakalar is a bit of a mystery to me. I am not a picky eater, but I could never get past the stinky smell of the cooking cod to actually taste it (not even when I visited Croatia) though I hear it is quite delicious. It is amazing to me that a fish that originates from the North Sea is so popular along the Adriatic and the Northern Gulf of Mexico, areas both known for their excellent indigenous seafood. Blame it on the Venetians and their trade routes.<br />
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The dried salted cod for bakalar must be ordered well in advance of Christmas, soaked for hours and pounded to a pulp to soften it. The fish is cooked down along with potatoes, bay leaves and other seasonings to make a thick stew. My grandfather used to put raisins in his bakalar, a touch you'll often find in North African versions of the dish, but no one else I know of on the Point did that. To see photos of bakalar (both cooked and pre-cooked), visit <a href="http://www.lajkam.com/bakalar-na-badnjak/">this site</a>.<br />
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And then there was the singing. <br />
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Midnight Mass at St. Michael's was always packed and afterward, the Croatian men of Point Cadet would begin their rounds of visits, singing a cappella in Croatian at each house and lingering for a shot of whiskey or homemade grappa, freshly fried pusharates, bowties slices of strudel before moving on to the next house.<br />
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Aunt Frances' husband, Uncle Frank, was not Croatian but always accompanied the group to hum background harmony. About half-way through their rounds, after a few belts of the hard stuff, he gave up humming and began singing along in Croatian-sounding gibberish. No one seemed to notice or care.<br />
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Not surprisingly, many of the singers enjoyed a Christmas breakfast of Alka Seltzer.<br />
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I've often wondered if these customs, which traveled to Biloxi with our immigrant ancestors in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, were still alive and well in Dalmatia.<br />
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You'll find the answer <a href="http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/316660">here</a> and <a href="http://suncanihvarhotels.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmas-time-on-hvar.html">here</a>. I should have known. Traditions this good just never die.<br />
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So no matter where your family comes from or where you live now, <i>Sretan Bozic i Nova Godina</i> (Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year) from Mike and Mary's Kitchen.<br />
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<br />Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-29063105819915694572011-12-24T17:40:00.000-08:002011-12-24T11:27:54.024-08:00Christmas Weather<div>
In South Mississippi a "White Christmas" isn't quite the same as a "White Christmas" elsewhere. Here the white stuff is fog, not snow. And we've been getting a lot of it lately.<br />
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Actually, Christmas weather rolls in off the Gulf, the rivers and the bayous just before Thanksgiving and stays for the duration.<br />
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The wetness drips from the eaves like melting icicles.<br />
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It clings to driveways, sidewalks, patios.</div>
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It brings clogged sinuses and hacking coughs.<br />
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It wreaks havoc on driving conditions. And cooking conditions. Beloved holiday candies -- pralines, divinity fudge, meringues -- turn into icky, sticky messes fit only for the garbage can. You can't even get the glaze to dry on a patch of pusharates.<br />
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While you can't make a fog-man or fog-angels or have a fog-ball fight, there's no denying that for all of the problems with fog, it does possess a certain mystical, magical quality worthy of a Christmas story by Dickens<br />
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The beckoning glow of Christmas lights takes on a surreal quality when viewed through the opacity of a thick, Christmas Eve fog.<br />
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When the swirling mists take on fanciful shapes and touch your cheeks with wet fingers as you're walking down the street, it's easy to believe you're being trailed by the spirits of Christmases past, present and future</div>
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And, sometimes, just sometimes, the fog burns off around 10:00 to reveal a Christmas miracle --blue skies and golden sunshine -- a perfect South Mississippi Christmas Day. </div>
</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-37886558533405561912011-12-22T16:31:00.001-08:002011-12-22T17:33:22.997-08:00Remembering Uncle Raymond<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OauzK3ggss4/TvPZdleB-2I/AAAAAAAAAxg/-sqdsBU_N4w/s1600/Uncle%2BRaymond%2Bsmiling.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689129856596573026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OauzK3ggss4/TvPZdleB-2I/AAAAAAAAAxg/-sqdsBU_N4w/s400/Uncle%2BRaymond%2Bsmiling.jpg" border="0" /></a>I have a few Christmas posts at the ready, but I am postponing them to remember my uncle, Raymond who passed away last Friday.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689129854414215554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 290px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1QW8dZRkuSw/TvPZddVt2YI/AAAAAAAAAxY/KvI-qk8b7TQ/s400/Uncle%2BRay%2Bsitting.jpg" border="0" />Uncle Raymond was a big guy right from the start -- a whopping 12 pounds when he was born. His birth reportedly was a long, difficult one, and when he didn't draw breath, the attending physician (he was born at home as were most babies back then), declared a stillbirth. <br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My great-grandmother refused to believe that this big, beautiful much-longed-for baby boy, didn't have a shot at life. She dunked him back and forth between tubs of hot and cold water, rubbing him vigorously between dunks until he started screaming and flailing. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689127595418443026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 283px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-COg-EtscHTg/TvPXZ97J3RI/AAAAAAAAAxA/xXJ_LgbFXX0/s400/Uncle%2BRaymond%2Bconfirmation.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><div>His uncles called the solemn little boy with coal-black hair and big dark eyes "the kid with the million dollar smile." When they called him that, he just frowned all the harder.<br /><br />That's not to say he didn't have a sense of humor. He loved to tease his four older sisters, and they loved to tease him back. When he was real little they convinced him that he really wasn't their brother and that their mama and daddy decided he would have to go back where he came from.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689127817725121074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 312px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1O2ttEG6_G0/TvPXm6FMkjI/AAAAAAAAAxM/sY3t464DS0o/s400/uncle%2Braymond%2Bgraduation.jpg" border="0" />Wiping away tears, he packed a few treasured toys into a box and went out to Old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Biloxi</span> bridge to hitchhike his way to his new home. Nona, who had been shopping downtown, stepped off the bus, to see her son climbing into stranger's car, while her daughters, who realized the prank had gone a little too far, ran out from behind the bush where they had been hiding waving their arms to ward the car off. That was the last time they ever tried give him away.<br /><br /><br /><div>He grew up to be a handsome young man who somewhat <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">resembled</span> a young singer from Memphis (by way of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Tupelo</span>).<br /><br />Although he would spend most of his life in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Pascagoula</span>, Uncle Raymond was a true Point Cadet boy. From the very start, he loved the water and spent most of his life on it. He learned to throw a cast net before he learned to read. He grew to be a commercial shrimper. I remember vividly the picnics our family held on his boats.</div><br /><br /><div>At his service, he was remembered as a man who enjoyed the simple pleasures in life: the water, his family and food. </div><br /><div><br />Not too bad for a boy who wasn't supposed to have a life at all.</div></div></div></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-56097259740286529832011-11-18T12:39:00.000-08:002011-11-20T09:49:56.196-08:00The Washington InterludeAlthough the Hurricane of '47 has been eclipsed by Camille and Katrina in its destructive fury, it was a storm of some significance to Point Cadet.<br /><br />My mother's family lost their home on East Howard Avenue -- and everything in it -- to the unnamed storm. Grandpa lost both of his boats, too, which left the family homeless and destitute.<br /><br />Enter Plan B.<br /><br />Nona had relatives in Bellingham, Wash., so she, Grandpa and Uncle Michael, who was then about five, temporarily moved up there for 10 months so that Grandpa could make some quick money fishing on the West Coast tuna boats. The rest of the kids moved in with Aunt Marie, who was, by then, married and living on Oak Street.<br /><br />Living on the West Coast took some adjustment. Everything -- the terrain, the customs, the food, the accents -- was different from what they knew in South Mississippi. Uncle Michael adapted quickly, as kids do, and in no time at all was talking like he'd been born and raised in Washington State. He also delighted in Bellingham's hilly terrain and regularly reported home on the number of steps it took to get to the mailbox, the store, the bus stop and anywhere else he went.<br /><br />He and Nona learned that unlike Point Cadet, where it was perfectly respectable to refer to elders by their first names prefaced by "Miss" or "Mr.," in Washington, everyone was addressed formally no matter how well you knew them. Nona never could get used to being referred to as Mrs. Soljan by her auntie's friends.<br /><br />In Bellingham, ladies played bridge at parties where the hostesses all served a new dessert that was all the rage: Floating Island. Eventually, Grandpa amassed enough of a nest egg to come home and rebuild the house and finally bring the family back together under one roof.<br /><br />They were glad to be home.<br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Floating Island</strong></span></p><br /><p>The French dessert Ile Flottante or Floating Island - airy meringue islands swimming in sea of creamy vanilla custard -- was the "it" dessert for fashionable hostesses in Bellingham, Wash. circa 1947. My nona brought the recipe back to Point Cadet although it never really caught on despite the area's sizable French population.</p><br /><p>3 eggs<br />1/4 cup white sugar<br />1/4 teaspoon salt<br />1 1 teaspoon vanilla extract<br />1 1/2 cups whole milk</p><br /><p>Separate two of the eggs. In top of double boiler, combine 1 whole egg and 2 yolks with sugar, salt and vanilla, beating until smooth. Stir in milk and cook over simmering water, stirring constantly. When custard thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon, remove from heat. (Do not boil. If custard should start to curdle, remove from heat and beat vigorously until smooth.) Cool completely. </p><br /><p>In a medium bowl, beat egg whites with electric mixer until stiff. Gradually beat in 4 tablespoons sugar. Pour cooled custard into serving dish. Drop meringue by heaping tablespoons onto custard to make islands. Chill before serving.</p>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-3104007238026796232011-10-17T07:43:00.000-07:002011-11-06T18:48:26.440-08:00The Pecan Harvest<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBaJQX4u-pY/TrdGVFCiHNI/AAAAAAAAAw0/ihAQrHoJloQ/s1600/pecans.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672079583640427730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 256px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBaJQX4u-pY/TrdGVFCiHNI/AAAAAAAAAw0/ihAQrHoJloQ/s400/pecans.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The pecan* tree in my side yard -- after several barren years -- is now loaded with appears to be a bumper crop. The race is on to see who gets them first -- me or the squirrels.<br /><br />Pecan trees are common in Southern yards -- and recipes. The tree in my grandparents' back yard provided for the pies we ate at Thanksgiving and the pig tails we consumed at Christmas with enough left over to augment the odd batch or two of brownies or pralines.<br /><br />In summer, we'd squint up into the branches, assessing the expected harvest. A rainy summer meant the nuts would be full with sweet, tasty meat. A dry summer foretold of shriveled nuts that wouldn't even tempt the hungriest squirrel.<br /><br />The kids were the designated pickers; our young eyes and knees were better suited to the task. We shuffled around in the dried leaves, locating pecans with our feet before dropping to our knees and scooping them into brown paper grocery sacks (crawling around was quicker, but more painful). There was always a contest to see who could pick up the most.<br /><br />After supper, everyone gathered to shell the nuts. The kitchen table was covered with newspaper. All the shellers were assigned a sack of pecans, a bowl and cracking and picking instruments.<br /><br />Unlike today's paper-shells, these pecans were hard to crack as hickory nuts. The going was long and tedious with lots of breaks to flex cramped fingers.<br /><br />The grown ups would start telling stories. Stories about the old hermit that lived on Deer Island ... the unfortunate boy whose head got squished like a watermelon between a piling and a passing boat ... the girl who wouldn't let the doctor remove the strawberry birthmark from her forehead and then bled to death when the blood vessels got caught in the teeth of her comb ... the champion swimmers that swam marathons out to the long-gone Isle of Caprice.<br /><br />Those colorful, sometime even lurid, possibly totally fabricated stories kept us going through the tedium , sore wrists and fingertips and that irritating pecan dust that settled into cuts and scrapes. Eventually, the last pecan was cracked, the precious nuts divvied up into little plastic bags, the errant shells swept up off the floor and thrown away.<br /><br />For days our fingertips would be tender and we'd see bags and bags full of pecans every time we closed our eyes.<br /><br />But it was the stories that always stayed with me the longest.<br /><br />* On Point Cadet (well in Mississippi in general) and in Louisiana, it is pronounced "puh-<em>cahn</em>" with the accent on the last syllable. Residents of Georgia and Tennessee adamantly insist the nut is a "<em>pee</em>-kan" -- accent on the "pee." I dunno -- sounds kind of unappetizing to me.<br /><br />However, you pronounce it, one of my favorite uses of pecans is in the use of that famously Southern candy, pralines. Again, how you pronounce the name is a matter of geography. Here they are "prah-leens" not "pray-leens." My favorites are rich and creamy, not overly sweet or gritty. This recipe is easy in that you can make it in the microwave. Like meringues and humidity, pralines are best made on a day with low humidity. Good luck with that.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Microwave Pralines</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div>1 lb light brown sugar</div><br /><div><br />2 T light corn syrup<br /><br />1 cup whipping cream<br /><br />2 T pure vanilla extra<br /><br />2 T butter<br /><br />2 cups whole pecans, toasted<br /><br />Combine brown sugar, corn syrup and whipping cream in an 8-cup microwave safe bowl. Microwave on high 13 minutes, stirring every 2 minutes. Add butter and stir until well-blended and creamy. Stir in toasted nuts and drop by tablespoonfuls onto waxed paper. After pralines have cooled and hardened, carefully remove them from the waxed paper and store between waxed paper in an airtight container.</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-2272479544259959502011-10-10T06:46:00.000-07:002011-10-11T06:49:54.594-07:00My French Connection<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I-SkisPdJKg/TpOT2jR_zsI/AAAAAAAAAv4/Jh_UfBSCY4o/s1600/DSCN0149.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662031721927790274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I-SkisPdJKg/TpOT2jR_zsI/AAAAAAAAAv4/Jh_UfBSCY4o/s400/DSCN0149.JPG" border="0" /></a> Last month, I went to Paris. I love that city. You would think that I must have some French blood in my veins, some atavistic instinct that draws me back there again and again.<br /><br />But nope, I'm all Croat on my mom's side, Irish/Scotch/English/Cherokee by way of Tennessee on my dad's. Not a Gallic drop in me.<br /><br />But I do have a French connection.<br /><br />Years ago my mom told me that her aunt Tonica, my grandfather's sister for whom she was named, had married an artist and lived in Paris. He died. She returned to Croatia. She had sent my grandparents a book of his paintings, but because these included a bevy of nudes, it went on a top bookshelf where the kids couldn't see the naked women. The Hurricane of '47 took care of that book.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div>In 2008, I came face to face with those paintings in a wing of a museum in the town of Stari Grad. And I felt an instant sense of connection to my great-uncle-by-marriage, Juraj Plancic.<br /><br />Like my grandfather, he was born into a family of fishermen on the island of Hvar. It became clear early on that he was born with natural artistic talent. Though he originally apprenticed as a barber, he eventually wound up in art school in Split and later studied under the noted sculptor Ivan Metrovic at the Academy of Fine Arts in Zagreb. He graduated in 1925 and earned a scholarship to study in Paris. He married his sweetheart, my great-aunt Tonica Soljan, and four days later, in November 1926, they arrived in Paris.<br /><br />Paris in the 1920s was the Paris of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Of Picasso and Salvador Dali. Was Juraj part of this crowd? I somehow doubt it. Though an incredibly talented artist, he was a Dalmatian boy through and through. Reportedly shy, sensitive and prone to illness, he was also a devoted family man with the strong work ethic of the humble fishing folk he came from.<br /><br />The early Paris years were lean ones for the young artist and his bride. Paris, so cold and grey in the winter, must have been a shock to them after Hvar with its turquoise waters, olive groves and rosemary scented sea air. Their living conditions were in a word squalid.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662032294771918242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2j8x1hIJ7-Y/TpOUX5SrhaI/AAAAAAAAAwE/W8vt3i9zjYo/s400/DSCN0146.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Inspired by his memories of home, he painted what was in his blood -- the boats returning from the sea, the vinters harvesting their grapes for wine. However, inspired by his new surroundings, he stretched beyond the pastoral scenes and still lifes of his training to experience the new colors which would become his trademark.<br /><br />His hard work paid off. He was invited to show at salons, including an exhibition in his honor at the exclusive Gallery de Seine in 1929. His paintings sold. He accrued patrons. He and Tonica moved from the suburbs into the center of Paris.<br /><br />But he never forgot where he came from.. He wrote home to a friend, "My greatest joy is when I paint our fishermen and our maritime world in general, which lives on land and sea My paintings are full of our merry sailors. These are stories I had heard as a child of my late grandfather, now I extract the fragments." *<br /><br />In April 1930, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Knowing he had limited time, he painted feverishly up until his death, just four short months later, two months shy of his 31st birthday. He is buried in Thiais cemetery on the outskirts of Paris.<br /><br />Tonica returned to Croatia with their infant daughter, Alice. She remained in Zagreb the rest of her life. My Aunt Dolores met her there, along with her daughter, grandchildren, two brothers and other family members in 1977.<br /><br />Juraj went on to achieve immortality as one of Croatia's best-known artists. His work was shown posthumously in Paris and Zagreb. In 1960, the Gallery of Art in Split mounted a retrospective of his work which was hosted in several cities around the former Yugoslavia. In 1963, Tonica donated several of his paintings to the Art Collection of Juraj Plancic (now Juraj Plancic Gallery) located in the second floor of the Palace Biankini in their hometown of Stari Grad. I would see them there 45 years later.<br /><br />And I was in awe.<br /><br />* I found this on the blog <a href="http://dicocroate2.over-blog.com/article-juraj-plan-i--39573806.html">http://dicocroate2.over-blog.com/article-juraj-plan-i--39573806.html</a></div><br /><br /><br /><div>** For more Juraj Plancic paintings, visit <a href="http://wiki.cultured.com/people/Juraj_Plancic/">http://wiki.cultured.com/people/Juraj_Plancic/</a></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-75425437043555708812011-07-04T17:34:00.000-07:002011-07-05T07:24:15.754-07:00I Scream, You ScreamHappy 4th! It's a rainy one here in the 'burg, but hotter 'n heck nonetheless -- as the 4th tends to be in these parts.<br /><br />Some years the family got together on the 4th, some years we didn't. Sometimes the picinic was on the shrimp boat, some years it was in the back yard, other years we dragged everything -- including the big old heavy ice cream maker -- up to Flint Creek Water Park in Wiggins.<br /><br />Homemade ice cream was the one constant (other than sparklers and bottle rockets) in our Independence Day celebrations. Ours was an old-fashioned hand-cranked monster that required a team of child laborers working in shifts over what seemed like several hours to crank out decent soft-serve. But, oh, was it so worth the sore arms.<br /><br />We didn't get exotic with our flavors. Our preferred ice cream was always vanilla, unless someone happened to pick up some good peaches at a farm stand.<br /><br />After we'd slurped it down (it always tended to be <em>soft </em>soft-serve, the kids hurried down to the Biloxi Small Craft Harbor and onto my uncle's motor boat so we could catch the fireworks display.<br /><br />The best place to watch the show was in the channel between Fishermans' Wharf restaurant and Deer Island. The fireworks exploded like giant chrysanthemums over our heads and hurtled down like shooting stars into the water around us, as the shore exploded into a panorama of bottle rockets, firecrackers and Roman candles. As hot as it always was, the sight always made me shiver.<br /><br />This year, it's been so dry (just not today) that most cities have called off their fireworks displays.<br /><br />But I still made ice cream. I've replaced the ancient behemoth with a nice little electric number that pumps out gourmet sorbet or gelato in less than half an hour.<br /><br />However true to my roots, on the 4th, I keep it simple. Plain ice cream flavored with farm-fresh peaches.<br /><br />You can't beat it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Perfect Peach Ice Cream</strong></span><br /><br />3 cups of fresh peaches, peeled and sliced *<br /><br />4 T fresh squeezed lemon juice<br /><br />1 -1/2 t pure vanilla extract<br /><br />1 -1/2 cups granulated sugar<br /><br />1 - 1/2 cups whole milk<br /><br />2 -1/2 cups heavy cream<br /><br />Mix the peaches with 1/2 cup sugar and the lemon juice let the fruit macerate in its own juices for @ 2 hours. Drain fruit, reserving juice and mash half of the peaches.<br /><br />Mix milk with the rest of the sugar in medium bowl until sugar dissolves (1-2 minutes). Add cream, vanilla, peach juice and mashed peaches.<br /><br />Pour into ice-cream maker per manufacturer's instructions. About 5 minutes before ice cream is done, add the rest of the peaches.<br /><br />My preferred way of eating the ice cream is nice and soft, right out of the machine, but if you like it a little firmer, pour ice cream into freezer-safe containers and freeze for about 2 hours (thaw about 15 minutes before you plan to eat).<br /><br /><em>* This recipe is also good made with fresh strawberries.</em>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-1862163938107850282011-05-08T09:45:00.001-07:002011-05-14T08:41:35.539-07:00Toni the Tiger<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ih6MUZOrWjo/TcdDUz7Ll2I/AAAAAAAAArc/1u1UgmUd5Aw/s1600/First%2Bphoto%2Bof%2Bme%2Bwith%2BTone.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604522286100748130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 312px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ih6MUZOrWjo/TcdDUz7Ll2I/AAAAAAAAArc/1u1UgmUd5Aw/s400/First%2Bphoto%2Bof%2Bme%2Bwith%2BTone.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><em>My mom, Toni, and I on the day it all began.<br /><br /></em>I lost my mom nearly eight years ago -- if it is possible to "lose" someone I think about every day, whose mannerisms and expressions I often glimpse in the mirror and whose words and voice, right down to that faint Point Cadet accent, tumble out of my mouth with amazing regularity.<br /><br />My mother grew up in the middle of large boisterous family in a small, boisterous working class neighborhood in the middle of the Great Depression. Is it any wonder she turned out to be one tough cookie as they used to say?<br /><br />She was witty, sassy and fierce. Her imagination was vivid and fertile; she spun the most wonderful stories and adventures for my sister and me out of thin air. She could have been a Hollywood screenwriter.<br /><br />She loved to cook, and could work miracles in a matter of minutes with even the most spartan ingredients. She could have been an Iron Chef contestant.<br /><br />She had an unerring eye for color, accessories and silhouettes. She could have been a fashion designer.<br /><br />She had only to lay her hands on a fretful baby to turn it into a cooing angel. She could have run a nursery school (and she did keep children in her home for many years).<br /><br />She approached life with that clear-eyed, hard-nosed, unyielding Point Cadet pragmatism that could be a little daunting if you weren't from there. She knew when you were trying to pull something over on her -- and she let you know about it with a look out of the corner of her eye that spoke volumes. She could have been a school principal or an admiral in the Navy.<br /><br />She instinctively knew what to do when bones broke, noggins knocked and stomachs soured. She could have been a doctor.<br /><br />She kept a cool level head during emergencies. When barely out of her teens, she single-handedly interrupted and foiled a robbery in progress after hours at the Keesler Air Force Base exchange. She could have been a police officer.<br /><br />She could have been any number of things. But what she chose to be was a mother. A nurturing mother who turned feverish, sniffley nights into opportunities for midnight picnics.<br /><br />And a fiercely protective mother who went by the name Toni the Tiger. One night she startled a Peeping Tom hanging around outside our bedroom windows. My sister and I stood watching open-mouthed in shock, horror and admiration as she darted out of the house into the night, barefoot and bare-handed, bellowing "I've got you now, you son of a bitch," in a hoarse unrecognizable voice.<br /><br />What exactly she had him with was not then, and is not now, apparent. But there was no doubt in her mind, nor his, that she did indeed have him, and if she got her bare hands on him, the consequences would be dire.<br /><br />Because you just didn't mess with Toni the Tiger.</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-16098014123616273742011-04-24T17:32:00.001-07:002011-04-24T18:21:06.344-07:00Going "Eastering"I must preface this post by noting that I am -- and always have been -- a girly girl. The kind who had a pink frilly canopy bed, every Barbie ever made by Mattel, a pet toy poodle AND a Persian cat.<br /><br />I also loved getting dressed up -- even when it wasn't necessary.<br /><br />Easter was a thrilling event -- for the goodies the Easter Bunny left in my basket and because I got to go shopping for a "dressy" dress.<br /><br />Easter 1964 found my family living in Edgewater Park, the subdivision adjacent to the enclosed shopping mall that had opened just the year before -- Edgewater Plaza Shopping City.<br /><br />It was like living next door to heaven. There was so much to do and see there. That year we found two prospective Easter dresses for me: a pale pink chemise with a delicate, scalloped collar and embroidered pink rosebuds on the placket from Goudchaux and a puffed sleeve whisper of a dress in pale, pale yellow voile with a sash at Gayfers'. After much agonizing, we went with the pink.<br /><br />But I couldn't get the yellow dress out of my head. Two days before Easter, my daddy came home with Gayfer's signature shopping bag. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper was the yellow dress.<br /><br />Mama scolded him. I was already spoiled, and I had no where to wear both dresses. Obviously, we couldn't save one as I was sure to be up a size by the next Easter. She urged him to return it.<br /><br />Nothing doing. I already had worked out the perfect solution: I would wear the pink dress to church and to Nona and Grandpa's house for Easter dinner, and he yellow dress for "going Eastering."<br /><br />Noting my parents' perplexed expressions, I patiently explained that Eastering was the springtime equivalent of trick or treating (a gig I had just discovered the autumn before). Instead of wearing costumes and carrying plastic jack o'lanterns door to door, children dressed up in their Sunday best and carried their Easter baskets around the neighborhood collecting chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, robins eggs and marshmallow peeps.<br /><br />Believe it or not, they indulged me (probably because in a few short months I would no longer be an only child). My mother gave the relatives and few neighbors a "heads up" phone call and I, wearing my yellow dress, went Eastering.<br /><br />I got a pretty good haul, but I never went Eastering again. Surprisingly, my idea did not sweep the Nation. I can't imagine why. I still maintain that it's a darned good idea.<br /><br />I get one every 20 years or so.<br /><br />Happy Easter!Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-76295261094305558882011-04-15T18:12:00.000-07:002011-04-16T09:37:02.017-07:00What He Knew About the Restaurant Business and Its SecretsOne of the most treasured items on my bookshelf is a 40-year-old brown leather tome with faded gilt lettering. The cover is scratched, the binding warped, the pages water-stained. Most of my books that went through Katrina had to be discarded and replaced. This one, however, is irreplaceable. <br /><br />The title: <em>What I Know About the Restaurant Business and Its Secrets.</em> The author: my dad, Jerry Willis. <br /><br />The pages are completely blank. <br /><br />A colleague gave him the book as a birthday present. My father, the eternal joker, adored it. He placed it at eye level on the shelf behind his desk at the restaurant so that any visitor, whether the mother of a bride discussing reception catering options or a distributer on a sales call, had to look right at it. <br /><br />The scenario always played out the same way: Eyes idly skimmed the titles on the shelf, performed a quick double take, then hungrily zeroed in on the bait. Daddy would make some excuse to leave the room, then after a suitable, yet briefer than expected pause, returned and caught ‘em red-handed. It always got a laugh.<br /><br />It is, perhaps, appropriate that the pages are blank. Fact is, Daddy did know quite a bit about the restaurant/hotel business – and more than a few secrets which he discreetly kept mum. Movie stars hooked up at raucous on-location parties. Prominent businessmen and politicians entertained voluptuous clients and constituents in hotel suites.<br /><br />A now-well-known female country music star threw a hissy fit when asked to vacate the ballroom she had appropriated for a practice session. Daddy gently, but firmly stood his ground. He needed to set up for a wedding reception, and no diva, however talented, was going to ruin a bride’s big day. <br /><br />Not all celebrities behaved badly. He had nothing but praise and respect for evangelist Rev. Billy Graham -- who he said was warm, sincere and truly charismatic. <br /><br />American film icon John Wayne also proved to be a great guy when he and Daddy shared an early morning coffee or two during filming of <em>The Undefeated</em> in Baton Rouge. Mr. Wayne, who then had young children himself, admired the school photos my proud papa showed off and provided not one, but two, autographs. <br /><br />Years later, “the book” still reels in the unsuspecting. My father, who would have turned 90 this week, would be delighted. <br /><br />Happy Birthday, Daddy! Hope you’re still having fun. And if you and “The Duke” ever meet up for coffee again, tell him I’ve gotten over his misspelling my name with a “K.” Story of my life.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-3165464032226888632011-04-12T07:56:00.000-07:002017-07-14T13:08:53.063-07:00Mermaids, Tigers and Elephants -- Oh My Each of my parents was blessed with a well-developed sense of whimsy which could turn even the most mundane event into an adventure. <br />
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When nightfall found us stranded on a dark country road with only a full moon to light our way (as happened often given my father's love of shortcuts and aversion to asking for directions and filling up the gas tank), we weren't lost but looking for "Spookyville" the mythical village that was home to witches, ghosts and goblins after Halloween (my all-time favorite holiday). <br />
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Fireflies in our garden were fairy lights. The eggs we dyed at Easter were laid in our baskets by "The Good Hen." Power plant structures were castles under construction for princesses like me. To this day, I can't view one without envisioning how it would look with turrets and a moat. <br />
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Occasionally the attempt at fantasy backfired as it did the day my mother coaxed me to try homemade candied apples for the first time. First tactical error: She called them "Snow White's Apples," and to illustrate, she took a bite, then dramatically fell to the ground in a swoon. I ran, shrieking and screaming, to the neighbor's house with my mother, dusting herself off, in hot pursuit. It took a while for her to calm me down and to convince the neighbor that she really hadn't fainted and hit her head. We both learned important lessons that day: She that there is such a thing as too much whimsy, me that candied apples, no matter what you call them, are damn good eats. <br />
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On another memorable occasion, a family excursion to Ship Island, my mother entertained my young cousins and me during the long boat ride over with stories of the magic we would find on the island's shores. Her story started out with mermaids cavorting in turquoise waves and, no doubt inspired by her captive, wide-eyed and, it must be said, gullible, audience, Ship Island soon morphed Dr. Doolittle's Island, a tropical paradise inhabited by monkeys, tigers, elephants and rhinos. We could not wait to get there. <br />
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If you have ever been to Ship Island, you know what a whopper she told. Our disappointment was bitter and absolute. Over the years, we have returned many times and learned to appreciate our barrier islands for the many charms they possess. <br />
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However, now we know that mermaids, tigers and elephants are not among them.<br />
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<strong>"Snow White's Apples"</strong><br />
<br />
10 medium apples <br />
<br />
3 cups sugar<br />
<br />
2/3 cup water <br />
<br />
1 t lemon juice<br />
<br />
1/4 t cream of tartar <br />
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15 whole cloves <br />
<br />
2-3 drops of red liquid food coloring <br />
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Wash and dry apples, remove stems. Insert a wooden skewer into the stem end of each apple. Set aside. Combine sugar and remaining 5 ingredients in a heavy saucepan, stir well. Cook over low heat, stirring gently, until sugar dissolves. Cover and cook over medium heat 2-3minutes to wash down sugar crystals from the sides of the pan. Uncover and cook over medium heat, without stirring, to hard crack stage or until candy thermometer registers 300 degrees. Discard the cloves. <br />
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Quickly dip apples into syrup. Allow excess to drip off. Place on lightly buttered baking sheets to cool. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap. Store in a cool place.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-63260020279485051032011-04-01T18:18:00.000-07:002011-04-01T19:19:43.090-07:00Easter Trees<span style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffff00"></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-axVNobQsPmI/TZaGwA3oUeI/AAAAAAAAArE/4POCykXuf3A/s1600/kim%2Bat%2Beaster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590804146852221410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 399px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-axVNobQsPmI/TZaGwA3oUeI/AAAAAAAAArE/4POCykXuf3A/s400/kim%2Bat%2Beaster.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>My sister Kim at Easter circa 1967. Unfortunately, you can't see the Easter tree in this photo. I know we used to have one somewhere, but I think the hurricane got it.</em> <br /><br />When I think back on it, my mom was really was out there ahead of Martha Stewart. Long before it became commonplace to decorate for EVERY SINGLE HOLIDAY, Mama came up with creative ways to make every day magical for my sister and me. <br /><br />Back in the mid-1960s, for Easter most people just dyed eggs and put them in a basket with the fake straw and marshmallow peeps and called it a day. Not at our house. <br /><br />We had an Easter tree that was more elaborate than many Christmas trees. Now I admit I have seen one or two of these in recent years, but prior to 1965, no one I knew had ever laid eyes on such except the one that graced the top of our Zenith television set. We should have charged admission. <br /><br />The "tree" was actually a bare branch, whitewashed with shoe polish and hung with tufts of pale green net "leaves" and lots of delicate hand-blown dyed eggs festooned with ribbons, sequins and lace. It was a beautiful thing. <br /><br />Dying and decorating the eggs took all day. First, Mama stuck pin holes into each end of the eggs, and my sister and I would gently blow the contents into a bowl. Then Mama carefully dipped the delicate shells into vats of custom made dye with original Mama names like "Easter Hibiscus" and "Luscious Lilac" (these actually do sound like Martha Stewart paint chips, don't they) and let them dry before gluing on the gee-gaws. <br /><br />Our favorite eggs were those she decorated to resemble storybook characters like the Ugly Duckling. When she really wanted to pull out the stops, she cut a hole into the side of the egg and created a miniature diorama inside. <br /><br />Our Easter baskets were also works of art with carefully arranged Elmer's Gold Brick Eggs, Heavenly Hash and Pecan eggs, guarded by a platoon of foil-wrapped chocolate marshmallow bunnies lined up like soldiers around the perimeter of each basket. <br /><br />I was well into my 30's before I realized that Elmer's confections were regional treats, made in Ponchatoula, La. Maybe you can find them everywhere now, but you couldn't in Boston in 1998. I know. I tried. <br /><br />I felt so sorry for those Bostonians -- growing up not knowing the pleasures of an Easter Basket by Elmer. I'll bet they didn't have Easter trees either. <br /><br /><strong>Easter Egg and Potato Skillet</strong><br /><br /> The day we put up the Easter Tree, we always knew what we were having for dinner: Easter Egg and Potato Skillet. I guess today people would call this a frittata. My nona used to make these a lot, too, although as far as I know she never put up an Easter tree. <br /><br />6 eggs <br /><br />1 cup chopped onion <br /><br />2 large potatoes, peeled and diced <br /><br />3 Tbsp. vegetable or corn oil <br /><br />1/4 cup milk <br /><br />salt and pepper to taste <br /><br />In a large skillet saute onion and diced potatoes and fry. Beat eggs well; add milk. Pour into the skillet, tilting to cover the bottom of the pan. When cooked on one side, flip the frittata onto a plate and slide back into the skillet to cook the other side. Cut into wedges and serve. <br /><br />Note: If you want a heartier, dish you can add cooked crumbled bacon to this recipe or dice up smoked sausage and fry with the potatoes and onion.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-13120454454193524562011-02-25T05:34:00.000-08:002011-02-25T11:07:49.505-08:00The Little House at 1804 East Howard Avenue<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1VbRPgKJLvQ/TWfvIRgUIOI/AAAAAAAAAqI/ac63-fO9ISs/s1600/1804%2BEast%2BHoward.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577689588938580194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1VbRPgKJLvQ/TWfvIRgUIOI/AAAAAAAAAqI/ac63-fO9ISs/s400/1804%2BEast%2BHoward.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>Photo: The family gathered outside 1804 East Howard Avenue, 1963. Front row from left: Uncle Michael Soljan, Nona (Mary Rosetti Soljan), Grandpa (Mato "Mike" Soljan), Aunt Marie (Soljan Sullivan). Back row from left: Mama (Antonia "Toni" Soljan Willis), Daddy (Jerry Willis), Uncle Steve (West), Aunt Dolores (Soljan West), Uncle Raymond (Soljan), Aunt Peggy (Gore Soljan), Aunt Selema (Soljan Castle), Uncle Russ (Castle).<br /></em><br /><div>Nona and Grandpa's house on East Howard was a simple 1940s wood frame and brick bungalow, fairly typical for the neighborhood, but it was the most wonderful place in the world to me.<br /><br />When we camped out in the darkened living room to watch TV, the lamp, shaped like a covered wagon with a team of horses galloping across the the top of the TV set, cast a reassuring ruddy glow.<br /><br />From opposite corners of the room, studio portraits of my Aunt Marie and Uncle Michael -- she in a teased bouffant with spit curls and a black velvet shoulder drape, he in studious horn rims and graduation cap and gown -- smiled down like beatific angels. The living room furniture was always draped with crocheted afghans, sheets and other fabric to protect it from daily use, except on holidays and other "good" occasions when company was expected.<br /><br />The dining room was full even when empty of food. The sideboard was taken up by exotic Oriental figure vases and decanters brimming with green colored water -- a decorating fad that no one seemed to realize had become passe. The wall next to the kitchen door was dominated by grandchildren's photos arranged like a family tree. I think the grandparents needed it to keep track of which kid belonged to whom. The corner built-ins burst with cut glass, candy dishes figurines and souvenirs from Alaska, Germany and Bellingham Washington.<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577689767940929298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 333px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-akqAFDaiysc/TWfvSsVzNxI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/hl3JJ1f6EDw/s400/BROTHER%2B%2526%2BSISTERS%2BjULY%2B1969.jpg" border="0" /><br /><em>The siblings gather in the dining room. This photo was taken sometime after Camille, probably in the mid 1970s. Seated: Uncle Raymond and Aunt Dolores. Standing from left: Uncle Michael, Aunt Selema, Aunt Marie and Mama</em>.<br /><br />On frosty winter nights, nothing felt better than coming in out of wind and standing on the floor furnace grate until our stockinged soles couldn't take it anymore.<br /><br />A popular kid hang-out was the front guest room with its "good" lavender flowered bed spread that we grandchildren sat on at the risk of getting our <em>guzicas</em> (pronounced guh zitz ahs) beaten. I swear Nona could hear a squeaky bed spring from around the block.<br /><br /><div>One couldn't help but feel safe from every possible bogeyman when sleeping in that house. Crucifixes hung in every bedroom; dried palm fronds and prayer cards were tucked into the edges of bureau mirrors (the tops were always dressed with frilly hand-made doilies); jars of holy water rested on every bedside table.<br /><br />For extra insurance, a framed dime store print of the Guardian Angel oversaw our slumbers, just as did in every bedroom on the Point.<br /><br />The guest bedroom had a cedar chest filled with sheets, embroidered pillow cases and, lacy frilled doilies -- all starched, ironed and neatly folded for the next use.<br /><br />The well-worn, soft, pilled flannel shirts in Grandpa's closet were redolent of tobacco and Old Spice cologne. At least he wore the dime store cologne we dutifully delivered as dual Christmas/birthday presents each December. On Nona's bureau, a collection of barely used Avon bottles jockied for space with the cheap plastic religious figurines that we sold for parochial school fundraisers.<br /><br />As in any Point home, the kitchen was the heart of Mike and Mary's with its Barq's bottle opener mounted to the wall, the lingering smells of drip coffee and grilled "boat bread" from breakfast and always a pot of soup, beans, daube or pasta i fazol on the stove, the multi-colored aluminum pitcher and tumbler set (although I confess I did not love the iced tea Nona served in it), and the slightly dented aluminum cake stand cover that usually contained a pound cake.<br /><br /></div><div>The screened porch was a great place to visit or people watch when we weren't walking on the old fishing bridge (but only as far as our mamas could see us from the house). We all fought over the gliders. The yard though small provided wonderful spots to play hide and seek. My cousin Joey could camouflage a team of five kids in that tiny yard so well that even their mamas would have a hard time finding them. Nona loved flowers and always kept her plant beds in beautiful condition.</div><br />Hurricane Camille took out much of what I loved in the original house -- which itself was a replacement for the house lost there in the Hurricane of 1947 -- but the somehow the portraits of Aunt Marie and Uncle Michael were still hanging in their corners; waves had crashed through the house, ruining everything else.<br /><br />After my grandparents passed, Aunt Marie lived in the house for a while, then sold the property to a retired Catholic priest who bought it for himself, his mother and sister recently come from Vietnam to live in. Occasionally, my mother and aunts would stop by the old place to say hello.<br /><br /><div>Every morning when Father said Mass, he included blessings for all of us -- the many generations of Soljans sheltered and nourished for so many years in that kitchen in the little house at 1804 East Howard Avenue.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><strong>Beef and Baby Pasta Soup<br /><br /></strong></span>I can't think of my grandparents' kitchen without thinking of soup, <em>juha</em> in Croatian. Beef soup with baby pastina was a favorite, especially when served with a heaping side plate of <a href="http://mikeandmaryskitchen.blogspot.com/2009/10/nonas-chicken-soup-with-sauerkraut.html">sauerkraut</a>, boiled potatoes and mustard, pickled onions and sweet gherkins. Nona always made this with large piece of bone-in chuck. I find that beef today just doesn't taste as "beefy" as it used to and doesn't make a good beefy broth. If you find your cheaper cut of meat just ain't making the broth, substitute canned beef broth for some or all of the water in the recipe. When I made this after Christmas with the remnants of a standing holiday rib roast (with the bones still in), the soup tasted similar to what I remember. But I don't recommend buying a rib roast just to make the soup (unless your name is Rockefeller).<br /><br />2-3 stalks of celery, diced</div><br /><div>1 large onion, peeled and diced</div><br /><div>3-4 potatoes, cut in large-ish chunks (you may one to dice one, but you want the chunks to dip into the mustard later)</div><br /><div>3 -4 carrots, peeled and diced</div><br /><div>1 large can whole tomatoes</div><br /><div>2 1/2 quarts of cold water or canned beef broth.<br /><br />Approx. 8-oz package of small pasta (I like the baby pastina beads, but use whatever type of pasta you like).<br /><br />Place meat and water and broth in a large soup pot. Add salt to taste (about 1 tablespoon). let come to a boil. Skim off foam and boil until the meat stops foaming. Add celery, onions, potatoes, carrots and tomatoes. Boil until meat is tender. Remove meat. Add pasta. Cook until pasta is tender.</div><br /><div></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-8423028129541115102011-02-13T17:49:00.000-08:002011-02-13T18:03:42.641-08:00The Kitchen At the Old Slavonian Lodge, 1956<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LIKupAX8mkk/TViKbHkxuWI/AAAAAAAAApw/U-qCRZSH3Z0/s1600/CCTexHamillCollectionMGCCCLadiesofSlavonianLodge1956.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573356737365391714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 396px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LIKupAX8mkk/TViKbHkxuWI/AAAAAAAAApw/U-qCRZSH3Z0/s400/CCTexHamillCollectionMGCCCLadiesofSlavonianLodge1956.jpg" border="0" /></a> Now here's a blast from the past. Who knows what they were making? My guess is pusharates. Yes, that's my nona, Mary Rosetti Soljan, holding out the plate in the front row. Does anyone know who the four "unknowns" are in the photo? Charles Sullivan, archivist for Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College, who kindly let me repost the photo here, wants to know. This is to be one of the photos in an upcoming book that will be published by the college.<br /><br />Photo from Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College, C.C. "Tex" Hamill <em>Down South</em> Magazine Collection<br /><div></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-61789802648436691962011-01-27T10:28:00.000-08:002011-01-29T06:11:30.612-08:00It Ain't Fancy But It Sure Is GoodSome of my favorite dishes fall into what is now popularly known as "rustic" (ie: peasant) cuisine: Loaves-and -fishes-feeds-as-many-people-as-it-needs-to recipes that can be made cheaply ( or could back in the day ) using fresh ingredients from the garden, the sea, the market place.<br /><br />While rustic food has gone upscale these days, you can still find it in its simplest (and I think best) form in hole-in-the wall osteria and trattorias in Venice's back alleys or just about anywhere in the Dalmatian region of Croatia. Often it's a big plate of spicy shrimp spaghetti with crusty bread on the side, a carafe of no-name house wine, with a simple custard dressed in honey for dessert. This type of food was often seen on the tables (and out on the boats) of Point Cadet.<br /><br />What makes Venice's (and Dalmatia's) rustic food different are the exotic spices they use in their tomato gravy. Yes, oregano and basil grow in profusion in kitchen gardens and window boxes here as they do all over Italy, but that <em>je ne sais quois</em> piquancy in their shrimp spaghetti may well come from shreds of lemon peel, hot peppers, strands of saffron, freshly ground nutmeg or even a pinch or two of cinnamon.<br /><br />After all that spice you want something cool for dessert to cleanse the palate and temper the heat. Gelato is my dessert of choice, followed closely by panna cotta, a simple custard often dressed simply with berries in season or, as in this case, a drizzle of honey. If you want to make it extra-special, toast a few hazelnuts, chop them and sprinkle on top.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Spaghetti With Shrimp and Tomato Sauce*<br /><br /></strong></span><br />1 lb of diced bacon or pancetta<br /><br />3-4 large onions chopped<br /><br />1/2 head of garlic chopped<br /><br />1 cup minced flat-leaf parsley<br /><br />1 cup chopped celery<br /><br />1 cup chopped green onions<br /><br />2 cans tomato paste<br /><br />1 can Ro-Tel tomatoes<br /><br />2 strips of lemon peel, chopped fine<br /><br />3-4 lbs of shrimp, peeled<br /><br />1/2 teaspoon cinnamon<br /><br />1 T sugar<br /><br />salt and pepper to taste.<br /><p><br />1. Fry the bacon or pancetta in a skillet until crisp. Drain on paper towels. </p><p>2. Saute onions in the bacon drippings over medium heat until golden. </p><p>3. Add in tomato paste and stir until mixture is brown, but not burnt. </p><p>4. Add tomatoes, cinnamon and salt. Stir well, scraping the sides and bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Simmer for 45 minutes. </p><p>5. Add parsley, celery, green onions and lemon rind. stir well. </p><p>6. Add the bacon and garlic. Stir and simmer for 30 more minutes. </p><p>7. Add 1 cup of water, stirring constantly. </p><p>8. Cook shrimp separately in boiling water just until pink (about 3 minutes). Drain shrimp and add to the tomato mixture and continue simmering for another hour. Stir occasionally to keep the mixture from sticking. </p><p>9. Remove from heat and let cool and refrigerate. After grease has congealed, spoon off. Reheat before serving over cooked drained pasta of your choice. This may also be served over rice.</p><p>* There are several variations on this dish: </p><p>1.) Add sliced smoked sausage and/or diced ham to the recipe at Step 2. Saute in the bacon drippings and remove before adding the onions, then add back to the pot with the bacon and garlic in Step 6.</p><p>2.) Substitute 3 pints of shucked oysters for the shrimp. Parboil the oysters separately until the edges curl and drain before adding to the gravy.</p>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-26991120512099065292011-01-12T18:22:00.000-08:002011-01-12T18:54:38.183-08:00Sniffles for the New YearHappy New Year! I hope <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">everyone's</span> holidays were pleasant. I truly enjoyed mine, but, as usual, I was ready for them to be over when they ended.<br /><br />I started 2011 off with a horrendous head cold which has now worked its way into my chest<br /><br />My mama used to say, "Be careful of what you get into on New Year's Day because that's how you'll spend every day for the rest of the year."<br /><br />I think she was right (and she just loved being right). This crud gives every indication of keeping me phlegm-ridden at least until spring. Lovely.<br /><br />Fortunately, when my mother handed down aphorisms, she also handed down some recipes and remedies, at least one of which is helping with my current situation.<br /><br />There weren't too many illnesses that Mama felt couldn't be helped (or warded off altogether) with a hot milk toddy -- a mixture of egg yolk, sugar, hot milk and a little vanilla (or whiskey for adults). It's like hot egg <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nog</span>.<br /><br />Even if you're not sick, it's a great way to cope with the chill of freezing January night like tonight.<br /><br />And if I'm destined to drink one of these every night of 2011, well, I'm sure there are worse ways to while away an entire year!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Hot Milk Toddy</strong></span><br /><br />1 egg yolk<br />1 teaspoon sugar<br />Hot milk<br />1 tsp of whiskey or vanilla<br /><br />In a coffee cup or mug, stir and egg yolk and sugar together until thick and lemon-colored. Slowly add the hot (but not scalding) milk whisking with the egg to prevent it from cooking on the spot. Add whiskey or vanilla. Add a sprinkling of nutmeg if desired (my touch).Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-2975700625776704432010-12-20T05:23:00.000-08:002010-12-20T18:10:16.661-08:00Christmas Time in the City<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TRAJr9QceDI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/bj_XIict4vM/s1600/Kolbsign.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552948991330383922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 177px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TRAJr9QceDI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/bj_XIict4vM/s400/Kolbsign.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>Nona's favorite Christmas song was "Silver Bells." When I was a little girl, I thought "the city" in the song was New Orleans. It was the biggest (and only real) city I knew and my favorite place on Earth -- especially at Christmas.<br /><br />Some four decades later, I've traveled much farther to much bigger cities. But New Orleans still is most dear to my heart -- well, except maybe for Paris.<br /><br />My most treasured New Orleans memories date from December 1968 when we lived in the CBD.<br /><br />My father was then the food and beverage director for Kolb's restaurant on St. Charles, a New Orleans institution, and the lunch spot for the city's downtown businessmen and shoppers. We lived upstairs on the third floor.<br /><br />That old building was a den of curiosities, the type any eight-year-old dreams of exploring. Though the restaurant sold as much remoulade and red snapper as it did schnitzel and bratworst, the vibe was definitely Old Bavarian with a pulley style fan system operated by a giant Ludwig, a glass case filled with vintage beer steins and a china cabinet of delicate Bavarian china figurines, including an 18th century card game and a young courting couple.</div><br />But it was the restaurant's downtown setting that really provided the Christmastime magic that helped me forget that I didn't live in a house with a yard in a neighborhood full of kids.<br /><br />In addition to the wonderful Mr. Bingle marionette shows and toy department at Maison Blanche department store on Canal Street, there were the ornate window displays at MB's rival , D. H. Holmes, the equal of any I've seen in New York or Paris.<br /><br />That year, one window recreated an animated London Christmas straight out of Dickens, complete with an elderly lady roasting chestnuts, a roguish street urchin picking pockets and a Gothic cathedral that swung open its doors to reveal a golden Nativity scene against a red velvet back drop.<br /><br />In the opposing window, opulent masked 18th century revelers garbed in pale blue, white and silver brocade, satin and fur, promenaded endlessly through arched white columns in a recreation of a Venetian Twelfth Night Ball.<br /><br />A giant Santa Claus graced the facade of the downtown Sears at Common and Baronne where I jonesed over a jewelry box shaped like a Swiss chalet. A windmill wound up the music box to make the little ballerina inside twirl to the tinkling melody of "Fascination." A secret velvet-lined drawer under the windmill was the perfect place to hide my only piece of "real" jewelry, a birthstone ring.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552948996241384210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 324px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TRAJsPjUYxI/AAAAAAAAAlY/Q836uZb_Zvk/s400/rooseveltlobby3.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>On Sunday mornings, my mother and I attended eight o'clock Mass at the Jesuit Church of the Immaculate Conception on Baronne and afterward peeked in at the infamous lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel, then officially called the Fairmont though everyone still called it the Roosevelt.<br /><br />We shopped for Christmas treats at the only grocery store near us -- the tiny A&P in the French Quarter, and in spite of the winter chill, enjoyed chocolate or strawberry sodas at the Walgreen's lunch counter.<br /><br />While the rest of New Orleans headed to Kolb's after a busy day of shopping, our favorite downtown dining spot was the old Morrison's cafeteria on Gravier, the most beautiful cafeteria dining room I have ever seen. It was like eating in the square in Old Mexico with Spanish tiled floors, a twinkling "starlit" sky, and the facade of an old tiled-roof village with grille-work balconies and candlelit windows. I believe there was even a fountain.<br /><br />We moved from New Orleans early in 1969, and though I have been back to the city many, many times since then, until this past weekend, I had never been back at Christmas time.<br /><br />Most of my old haunts -- Maison Blanche, D. H. Holmes, the downtown Sears, Kolbs and the Morrison's ain't dere no mo'.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552948995957068898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 340px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TRAJsOfiFGI/AAAAAAAAAlg/JqoMlfGl9bE/s400/rouses.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>However, our little A&P, little changed, still operates down in the Quarter as Rouse's. The Fairmont is now officially restored to its former glory and called the Roosevelt once more. Its Christmas lobby is still a treat to behold. Across the street, the Jesuit church has also been spiffed up. The Walgreens, too, still stands, and for all I know still sells the world's best chocolate sodas.<br /><br />However, these days, my shopping break libation of choice is a Sazerac in the Roosevelt's Sazerac Bar.<br /></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552948986826426882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 274px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TRAJrsenigI/AAAAAAAAAlI/nWRQicfgCa0/s400/Kolb%2527s%2Bmenu.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Turtle Soup</span></strong></div><br /><div>Perhaps Kolb's most beloved dish was their turtle soup. I remember one salesman ordered a big bowl of it every time he made a sales call and bought a gallon to take home. I haven't been able to find Kolb's recipe, but <a href="http://www.nolacuisine.com/2005/10/20/creole-turtle-soup-recipe/">here's</a> an authentic Creole turtle soup recipe from the blog Nola Cuisine</div></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-10562507166860558452010-12-12T07:19:00.000-08:002017-07-14T13:12:54.521-07:00The Feast of St. Lucy Tomorrow is the Feast of St. Lucy, one of the two December celebrations that helped children growing up in Croatian households on Point Cadet take the edge off waiting for Christmas to arrive.<br />
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Like the Feast of St. Nicholas which is celebrated on Dec. 6 (read my St. Nicholas post <a href="http://mikeandmaryskitchen.blogspot.com/2009/12/st-nicholas-my-favorite-saint.html">here</a>). St. Lucy's day is a relatively simple, yet much anticipated, occasion honoring one of Europe's most beloved virgin martyrs.<br />
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Sveta Lucia, as we called her, lived in Sicily during the late third century, early fourth century. Despite the Roman emperor Diocletian's ban on Christianity, Lucy converted after her prayers to God apparently cured her mother of a bleeding disorder. Lucy pledged to stay chaste and devote her life to Christian acts rather than marry the rich pagan to whom she was betrothed.<br />
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Her would-be suitor was so incensed by her rejection, he turned her in to the authorities for bringing food and drink to Christians hiding in caves and tunnels (she allegedly lit her way through the dark with a candle-studded wreath on her head)<br />
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After attempts to drag Lucy to a brothel and force her into a life of prostitution failed, as did efforts to burn her at the stake, her frustrated captors finally gouged out her eyes and stabbed her through the neck with a sword.<br />
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She was canonized by the Catholic church and today is best known as the patron saint of the blind.<br />
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Her feast day is widely celebrated in Sicily, Northern Italy, Croatia, Bosnia as well as Sweden, Finland, Norway and Denmark and several other European countries. Though Scandinavia today is largely Protestant, natives of these countries have loved Lucy ever since Christian missionaries convinced them she was a worthy substitute for the Norse goddess Freya in 1000 AD. Many of Scandinavia's traditional St. Lucy customs of today are actually ancient Norse traditions reattached to our girl Lucy.<br />
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Families in Hungary and Croatia sow wheat seeds on the Feast of St. Lucy (or sometimes on the Feast of St. Barbara on Dec. 4) which sprout by Christmas Day and are placed near the Nativity creche. My family never did this. I think this was more of a northern Croatian custom.<br />
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My family's St. Lucy's day celebrations unfolded much as they do in northern Italy where Santa Lucia delivers treats to children on the back of a donkey. We left out a bowl with carrots and lettuce for the donkey. St. Lucy left the bowl filled with candy -- and what candy -- fancy imported treats filled with jellies, liqueurs and flavored creams, molded into fantastic shapes and wrapped in beautiful foils.<br />
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We also lit candles in a tribute to St. Lucy's symbolic association with the Feast of the Lights -- lighting the way through the darkness of Advent to the joy of Christmas.<br />
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There are many regional recipes associated with St. Lucy Day celebrations -- hot buns in Sweden, <em>cuccia, </em>a kind of porridge-y dessert, or biscotti in Sicily. I don't remember my mother making a specific St. Lucy Day treat, but if I were to pick a traditional recipe to celebrate the day, it would be biscotti (also called <em><a href="http://mikeandmaryskitchen.blogspot.com/2010/05/matriarch.html">biscutine</a></em>) or perhaps this Venetian <em>frico</em>, fried cheese wedges<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><strong>Santa Lucia Frico (Fried Cheese Wedges)</strong></span>Approximately 3-4 oz. shredded or grated hard cheese depending on the size of the skillet. Parmesan, Machengo Romano or cheddar work best. Semi-soft cheeses like mozzarella and Monterey Jack also work but will make a chewier frico. Very soft cheeses like brie or Camembert will not work and should not be used.<br />
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Spread the cheese in a thin, even layer in a 12" non-stick skillet. Some cheese varieties will require more cheese than others to completely cover the bottom of the skillet.<br />
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Place the skillet over medium heat and cook until the cheese releases all of its moisture and looks oily and bubbly over its entire surface. The cheese will melt together and form one large cheese pancake.<br />
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Use a spatula to lift one edge of the frico - the bottom should be well browned and the cheese should hold together firmly. It shouldn't be stringy or goopy.<br />
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Flip the frico and brown the other side for a minute or two, then remove from the pan and place on paper towels to drain. It will firm up and become very crisp as it cools.<br />
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Cut into wedges and serve.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-52528220201340566502010-12-03T11:20:00.000-08:002010-12-04T18:31:12.458-08:00Jingle, Jangle, Jingle ... Here Comes Mr. Bingle!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TPLDrk2myLI/AAAAAAAAAkI/xV02nylAxKM/s1600/BingleInTheOaks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544709244641003698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TPLDrk2myLI/AAAAAAAAAkI/xV02nylAxKM/s400/BingleInTheOaks.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>If you grew up in what is now known as "Who Dat Nation" (ie: New Orleans area and the Mississippi Coast) your Christmas included Mr. Bingle as surely as it included pusharates, fig roll, Christmas Eve gumbo or oyster dressing. The little snowman with holly wings and an ice cream cone hat remains so beloved by folks of a certain age, that sometimes it's easy to forget that he was just once just a marketing gimmick for Maison Blanche, one of the late, great New Orleans department stores.<br /><br />When my daddy loaded up the Chevy Impala and took us on our annual Christmas shopping trip to downtown New Orleans (he loved the hustle and bustle of the city this time of year), the day was not complete without a stop by Maison Blanche's Canal Street window to await the raising of the red velvet curtain on the Mr. Bingle marionette show. Then you went upstairs, browsed the toy department, a Bingleland extravaganza with elaborate toy displays and Bingle dioramas, and had your picture taken with Santa Claus.<br /><br />Of course, we didn't have to go to New Orleans to see Mr. Bingle. In Biloxi, if you had a good antenna, you could pick up WDSU-TV, one of the local New Orleans TV stations, and get the televised 15-minute Mr. Bingle show, which was part of their midday show, right in your living room. Afterwards, we'd walk around imitating Mr. Bingle's high-pitched voice and singing his little jingle -- which would drive the folks crazy -- all day long. (I have a theory that Mr. Bingle and <a href="http://www.mrbill.com/">Mr. Bill from Saturday Night Live</a>, were twins separated at birth. Strong resemblance, same voice. You decide.)<br /><br />Sadly, for better or for worse, times do change. Maison Blanche was sold a few times, most recently to Dillards, and the flagship store closed in the late 1990s.* I truly believe that in a few years no matter where you go in the world there will be only Dillards and Belks department stores, Regions banks and CVS drugstores. And the world will be a much lesser place.<br /><br />It is a testament to the New Orleans community, so famously resistent to change, and their lawyers, most of whom were raised on Mr. Bingle, that the sales contracts always contained a "Bingle clause" that covered the legal rights to Mr. Bingle.<br /><br />Mr. Bingle survived. Thank God for those Sazerac-sipping lawyers in their seersucker suits!<br /><br />Every year at Christmas time, you can still buy a stuffed Mr. Bingle doll, Christmas ornament or other memorabilia, at a handful of Dillards stores. And if one of these Dillards isn't in your neighborhood, you can always buy them online. This year's retro edition is on sale now through December 12!<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544805158520790706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 339px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TPMa6f5inrI/AAAAAAAAAkg/Mdnz7BL7itg/s400/Mr.%2BBingle.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br />If you don't know (or just don't remember), the Mr. Bingle back story, the folks at Dillards have provided an <a href="http://www.dillards.com/MrBingleAssets/">"official Mr. Bingle web site" </a>with the little guy's history, some recipes and craft projects and even an audio clip to one of those shows. Click at your own risk. You won't be able to get that jingle out of your head for days.<br /><br />For a more nostaglic, non-corporate take, on Mr. Bingle, visit the <a href="http://www.mrbinglefans.com/index.shtml">Mr. Bingle fan page</a> where you can share your memories with other fans and collectors. This page is not affiliated with Dillards.<br /><br />And if you're still feeling the need to share with other MB devotees, there is even a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=226738039107&v=wall">Mr. Bingle Facebook group page</a>.<br /><br />For more on the Mr. Bingle mystique, read <a href="http://www.bestofneworleans.com/gambit/in-search-of-mr-bingle/Content?oid=1243658">this 2004 article</a> about his never-ending appeal.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Bingle Food<br /><br /></strong></span>Back in the day, after you'd done your shopping in downtown New Orleans, sat on Santa's lap and watched the Mr. Bingle show, you couldn't head back to Biloxi until you'd had chocolate or strawberry soda from the Walgreen's soda fountain -- and picked up a sack of jellied orange slices from the candy counter -- and a plateful of hot beignets, loaded down with powdered sugar from Cafe du Monde.<br /><br />If this little trip down Memory Lane is making you nostalgic, and you don't have time for a holiday road trip to New Orleans, you can fake it using one of those packaged Cafe du Monde mixes almost every grocery store sells. Or you can make them from scratch using this <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/paula-deen/french-quarter-beignets-recipe/index.html">Paula Deen recipe</a> or the one on the Mr. Bingle web site.<br /><br />If you're more of a Rice Krispies treat fan, you might prefer to make <a href="http://www.dillards.com/MrBingleAssets/recipes/forkids.shtml">Mr. Bingles</a> from one of the (now out of print) Mr. Bingle cookbooks.<br /><br />* The New Orleans Ritz-Carlton hotel stands in the former Maison Blanche location today.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-33531385991765732652010-11-28T11:47:00.000-08:002010-11-28T19:20:31.612-08:00Advent CalendarsToday is the first day of Advent, the religious season leading up to Christmas. In our house and in the classrooms of the Catholic schools I attended, there was always an Advent calendar to mark the progression of the season, day by day.<br /><br />Some of the calendars were cardboard, like a regular wall calendar, others were shadow boxes with cubicles covered by numbered doors. Others were felt wall hangings with pockets, like hanging shoe trees.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544802260639106354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 357px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TPMYR0ctRTI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/EEtxNZVI-PA/s400/Chocolate%2BAdvent%2BCalendar.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br />Each one of them held a season's worth of treasures -- pieces of candy, pretty pictures, tiny Christmas ornaments or toys -- to be discovered each day. My favorites were the calendars imported from Germany with their festive foil-wrapped chocolates. I still buy those for my niece.<br /><br />The Recurring Gentleman Caller has kept the tradition going for me. Every year, he buys me a beautiful Advent calendar fashioned like a famous cathedral with windows that open to reveal beautiful stained glass windows -- Notre Dame, San Marco. This year's calendar is a row of Venetian villas.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544802276454898002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 142px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TPMYSvXfGVI/AAAAAAAAAkY/ttv8gctNIDY/s400/Venice%2BAdvent%2BCalendar.jpg" border="0" /><br />I love this tradition.<br /><br />Advent, like Lent, is really supposed to be about fasting and deprivation, but since it leads up to Christmas, and includes the feast days of St. Nicholas and St. Lucia, there is a certain sense of joy and celebration. This was traditionally the start of cookie baking in our household. One of the cookies we always made this time of year was Nona's recipe for Chinese Chews. I'm not sure where she got it -- probably a ladies' magazine from years ago. It may not be original to the Point or even Biloxi, but it sure is a keeper.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Nona's Chinese Chews<br /></span><br /></strong>The dates in these moist cookies make them chewy, but to this day I'm not sure why they're considered "Chinese." They are one of the easiest cookies I know, and they keep well.<br /><br />3 eggs<br />1 cup sugar<br />1 cup chopped dates<br />1 cup chopped pecans<br />1/4 tsp salt<br />1 tsp vanilla<br />1 tsp baking powder<br />3/4 cup all purpose flour<br /><br />Cream together eggs and sugar. Mix in vanilla and pecans and add the remaining ingredients and beat well. Bake in an ungreased 9 x 9 or 10 x 10 pan at 300 degrees for 30 minutes. Cut into small pieces and sprinkle with confectioners sugar.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-38530963176088545242010-11-20T10:55:00.000-08:002010-11-21T14:04:26.389-08:00Pub Crawling in Venice<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TNcR60baNuI/AAAAAAAAAkA/dqDhyJMiYjI/s1600/bacarro.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536913969079006946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TNcR60baNuI/AAAAAAAAAkA/dqDhyJMiYjI/s400/bacarro.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><div>My 50th birthday splurge wasn't what you might think. In fact, it wasn't much of a splurge at all, being the Venetian equivalent of the happy hour buffet we all used to hit in college.<br /><br />And it's some of the best food in Venice.<br /><br />Venice ain't an "eat cheap" kind of place.<br /><br />Restaurant meals -- four courses including a separate one for pasta -- can set you back 60 euros or more -- which is a lot to pay to discover that you do not like cuttlefish pasta cooked in its own black ink. I didn't try that by the way. I'd rather wear black than eat it.<br /><br />However, if you're on a budget, and want to sample the local cuisine beyond pizza and panini along with a genuine Venetian experience that does not involve Carnavale masks, gondolas or yet another medieval basilica or 15th century masterpiece, it can be done.<br /><br />Every <em>sestiere</em> in Venice is full of tiny <em>bacari</em> -- little hole in the wall wine bars -- selling wine by the glass, local beer on draught and, beginning around mid-morning and on into the night, a selection of appetizers known as <em>cicchetti</em>. The concept is like Spanish <em>tapas</em>. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536913623499326578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 257px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TNcRmtCyxHI/AAAAAAAAAj4/SwDVmHE3yz0/s400/cichetti.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><div><br /><div>Some offerings are familiar: meatballs, fried cheese, finger sandwiches and roasted potatoes with dipping sauces. Some were, ummmm different -- bites of marinated squid and octopus with pickled onions on a square of congealed polenta come to mind.<br /><br />Most <em>bacari</em> have few tables. Unless you plan to stay a while, you're better off bellying up to the bar or standing outside. Most places charge to sit whether at one of their tables or in their restroom stalls (and if you're really curious about the whole bathroom abroad experience, read it about mine at <a href="http://thehousewheretheblackcatlives.blogspot.com/2010/10/here-be-dragons-restroom-adventures.html">this post on my my other blog "The House Where The Black Cat Lives.")<br /></a><br />You can load up a plate of <em>cicchetti </em>for about 4-10 euros per person or sample as you go for a euro or two per pick. After a bite and a glass, move on down the street -- there's sure to be another little place offering a whole new selection of tasty tidbits. Each <em>bacaro</em> has its own vibe -- some are fancy, some dives. All are fun.<br /><br />When the bar tender at one place learned it was my birthday, he threw in a bunch of freebies. Well, he did try to extract a kiss.<br /><br />But, hey, if a young, good looking guy wants to flirt with me on my 50th birthday, you know what, I think I'll let him.<br /><br />By the way, the meatballs there were so good, I wanted to kiss the cook!</div></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Venetian Style Meatballs<br /><br /></strong></span>The meatballs you find in most <em>bacari </em>tastes like mini-meatloaves.</p><p>2 tbsp Worcestershire Sauce<br />1 tbsp horseradish<br />1 Tsp Dijon mustard<br />1 1/2 lb ground beef<br />1 lb russet potatoes, peeled and cubed<br />1 onion, minced<br />2 eggs, lightly beaten<br />3 cups plain breadcrumbs<br />1 1/2 cup cooking oil<br />Salt and pepper<br /></p><br /><p>Put peeled and cubed potatoes in a pot of salted water, and bring to a boil. When soft (after about 15 minutes), drain, mash and set aside. While the potatoes cook, saute onions with 1 T of oil and 1/2 tsp of salt over medium high heat in a large nonstick skillet. When the onions are soft (about 10 minutes) set them aside in a bowl. Wipe out the skillet, add the meat and 1 tsp of salt, breaking up the meat with a wooden spoon until evenly browned. Drain the meat, place into a large bowl, season with Worcestershire, horseradish, mustard, and pepper. Add mashed potatoes and onion to the meat. Roll the meat mixture into small balls ( about 1 to 1-1/2 oz), then roll in the egg, then the breadcrumbs. Heat remaining oil over high heat. Cook the meatballs in three batches, browning on all sides. Drain and serve hot or at room temperature. </p></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-32972321277898580882010-10-31T01:01:00.000-07:002017-07-14T13:25:56.903-07:00Sea Bass in Olive Crust: To Die For (But I'm Glad I Didn't)<br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;">You know those food magazine interviews that ask famous chefs and cook book authors what they would like to eat as their final meals?</span></div>
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Have you given yours any thought?</div>
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Last Sunday night I seriously believed my last meal on this Earth was going to be sea bass roasted in an olive tapenade crust. Not because that's what I finally decided on, but because it was what I had just polished off when dying in a fiery inferno seemed imminent.</div>
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OK. I'm exaggerating a little. But not by much. Here's what really happened.</div>
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Carlo -- the super-helpful night desk guy at my hotel -- suggested a nearby <em>osteria</em> for good Adriatic seafood. Great place, but could have done without the tableful of loud, Midwestern senior citizens. I don't know what they were celebrating (or not, they complained constantly), but from the looks of them I'm going to say that their 50th birthdays were some time ago. </div>
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Trying to tune them out, I enjoyed prosciutto with pineapple (good), seafood risotto (shrimp were overdone) and sea bass in olive tapenade with roasted tomatoes, fennel and peppers on the side (to die for -- okay, okay I'm getting to that part).</div>
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Finally, the seniors left (still complaining) and I was able to peruse the dessert menu in peace ... until I smelled something burning -- and not from the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a thin ribbon of smoke and then leaping flames. One of the departed tourists had thrown his discarded cloth napkin a little too close to the lit candle!</div>
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The wait staff were nowhere in sight. I was in that little back room reserved for Americans and Brits -- you know the one with no exterior door and grill work over the one window? Yeah, that one. Apparently, Italy's fire codes are not as strict as ours are. Oddly enough no one else in the room seemed to notice the conflagration threatening to annihilate all of us.</div>
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I threw my napkin over the flames, slapped at them frantically and doused the smouldering remains with my carafe of water. Finally the folks at the next table roused themselves from their discussion about global economics and, with typical British reserve, congratulated me on a job jolly well done.</div>
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Disaster averted, I REALLY enjoyed dessert (and not just because it was on the house ) of biscotti dipped in sweet dessert wine.</div>
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Now about that sea bass: tender, moist, flaky with the olives providing a tangy, salty complement to the delicately flavored fish It's definitely going onto my short list of prospective last meals.</div>
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I'm just glad it didn't have to be this one.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><strong>Sea Bass Roasted in Tapenade<br /></strong></span>I'm not sure how close this is to the osteria's recipe. I adapted this from Bon Appetit, and they got it from Joe's Crab Shack in Miami. If you can't find Atlantic sea bass, red snapper or halibut should work as well. Some people also claim haddock is close.</div>
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1/2 cup fresh breadcrumbs made from soft white bread<br />
1/3 cup Kalamata olives or other brine-cured black olives, pitted<br />
1/3 cup roasted red peppers from jar, drained (again, roast your own peppers if that's an option. Much sweeter. Make extra to serve alongside.)<br />
3 tablespoons purchased pesto ( if you grow your own basil, make your own by blending some leaves in a foold processor with olive oil, toasted pine nuts and a few cloves of garlic; it tastes way better)<br />
3 1/2 tablespoons olive oil<br />
6 6-ounce sea bass fillets<br />
Lemon wedges<br />
Fresh parsley sprigs (optional)<br />
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Combine first 4 ingredients in processor. Add 2 tablespoons oil and puree until almost smooth. Season to taste with salt and pepper. (Tapenade can be made 3 days ahead. Cover and chill.)<br />
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Preheat the oven to 400°F. Heat remaining 11/2 tablespoons oil in heavy large skillet over high heat. Sprinkle sea bass with salt and pepper. Working in batches if necessary, add fish to skillet and cook 2 minutes per side. Transfer to rimmed baking sheet. Spread 2 tablespoons tapenade atop each fish fillet. Bake fish until opaque in center, about 8 minutes. Transfer to plates. Garnish with lemon wedges and with parsley sprigs, if desired.<br />
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The osteria served this with roasted tomatoes, fennel and colored bell peppers on the side.</div>
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Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-13971915229201420782010-10-28T05:00:00.000-07:002010-10-28T08:14:58.937-07:00Venice: Land of Liver Lovers<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TMmH8QyuPSI/AAAAAAAAAho/pXIKyUEK8Bg/s1600/grandcanal3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533103086570978594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 260px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TMmH8QyuPSI/AAAAAAAAAho/pXIKyUEK8Bg/s400/grandcanal3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I am that rare person who loves liver. When I was growing up, this made my mother very happy because she loved it, too. The two of us often happily chowed down on pan-fried liver with sauteed onions while my father and sister wrinkled their noses at us.</div><br /><div>Despite my fondness for offal, I rarely eat liver now that my mother is gone. I've never mastered the art of preparing it properly. Very few American restaurants offer it on their menus. We seem to have become a nation of buffalo wings. Last week, I almost wept with joy when I learned that <em>fegato</em> -- calf's liver with onions -- is a classic, and affordable, Venetian osteria and trattoria menu staple.</div><br /><div>In <em>Fegato alla Veneziana</em>, thinly sliced calf's liver (which is more tender and milder tasting than beef liver) is pan fried, and served with slow-cooked sliced onions and a sauce of pan drippings deglazed with red wine or beef broth and a splash of balsamic vinegar. It is usally served with polenta, the preferred carb of the Veneto region.<br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Fegato alla Veneziana<br /><br /></span></em></strong>Pan-frying the liver tends to overcook and toughen the tender liver in the blink of an eye if you're not careful. This recipe is adapted from Mario Batali. It's really easy.<br /><br />4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil<br />4 tablespoons unsalted butter<br />5-8 onions, very thinly sliced *<br />Salt<br />1 pound calves liver, thinly sliced<br />1/3 cup red wine or beef broth<br />A few drops of balsamic vinegar<br /><br />Heat the olive oil with 3 tablespoons of the butter in a large, heavy saute pan over a medium flame. Add the onions and cook them over low heat until they are very soft but not colored for about 1 hour.<br /><br />Salt the onions and remove them to a warm platter. Add liver to the pan, salting and cooking for 30 to 45 seconds on each side. Work in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding the pan. When done, place the liver over the onions and keep warm.<br /><br />Add wine or broth the pan and scrape the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon to dislodge any browned bits. Add the remaining tablespoon of butter and pour it over the liver and onions. Drizzle with vinegar and serve immediately along side cooked or grilled polenta. Also good over rice or mashed potatoes.<br /><br />* NOTE: The original recipe calls for 8 onions; I find this many onions imparts a very sweet taste to the dish so I use fewer onions, but some people prefer it sweet. Go with whatever floats your boat. </div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-53324916266794823712010-10-26T16:55:00.000-07:002010-10-27T06:31:20.259-07:00Venetian Cuisine: Deja Vu All Over Again<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TMgcX2gV6sI/AAAAAAAAAhY/HRS2cHRa58g/s1600/tavernaciardi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532703338318392002" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 281px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TMgcX2gV6sI/AAAAAAAAAhY/HRS2cHRa58g/s400/tavernaciardi.jpg" border="0" /></a> When I travel, I am always up for a new adventure, but then I am also fond of places with a tinge of the familiar.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Venice, with its meandering alley ways, peaceful piazzas and decaying architecture, put me in mind of my grandparents' native island of Hvar in the Dalmatian region of Croatia, and not a little of New Orleans.</div><br /><div>Likewise the tiny trattorias dotting the back alleys far away from the tourist joints around San Marco, serve up food strongly reminiscent of Point Cadet: stuffed sardines, fried anchovies, pasta i fagoli, baccala, calf's liver with onion, seafood spaghetti and fried seafood platters. This really did not surprise me. For centuries, Dalmatia was ruled by the Republic of Venice and, years later, Dalmatian immigrants "ruled" the very eastern tip of Biloxi.</div><br /><div>One of my favorite meals in Venice was my last dinner at Taverna Ciardi, a little restaurant/bar in the Cannaregio neighborhood. The menu was small, but market-driven, the mood relaxed with lots of locals (always a good sign). It was almost like eating at home -- in more ways than one. </div><br /><div>We started with polenta topped with tiny baby Adriatic shrimp -- a Venetian version of shrimp and grits. Polenta really is just good old-fashioned stone-ground grits, the kind you so rarely get here anymore now that everybody has gone the "instant" route. These shrimp are so teensy -- much smaller than anything I've ever seen come out of the Gulf -- yet so sweet and flavorful. </div><br /><div>Baby shrimp made their appearance again in the Spaghetti Taverna Ciardi -- which changes every day depending upon what they find at the market. Lucky for me, the market that particular day offered clams and mussels which together with garlic and white wine made for a simple, but delicious, pasta course. </div><br /><div></div><div>For dessert, I had the taverna's signature cake studded with pears and apples and flavored with nutmeg and lemon zest. It looked like pound cake and tasted like bread pudding -- another familiar taste!</div><br /><div></div><div>So what's the point of leaving home, you might well ask. As familiar as it was in many ways, Venice offers up many sensory delights you won't find anywhere else. Read all about them on my other blog, <a href="http://thehousewheretheblackcatlives.blogspot.com/2010/10/house-where-black-cat-lives-goes-to.html">"The House Where The Black Cat Lives."</a></div><br /><div></div><div>Until you can go yourself, here's a recipe for Taverna Ciardi-inspired shrimp with polenta, seafood spaghetti and apple-pear <em>torta</em>. Pour yourself a nice glass of Pinot Grigio (preferably from the Veneto region), pull up a chair to your dock (or your swimming pool or bird bath) and pretend you're sitting alongside a Venetian canal.</div><br /><div></div><div><em>Salute</em> and <em>buon appetito</em>!</div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Garlic Shrimp with Grits<br /><br /></strong></span>The Venetians call this classic dish <em>schie con polenta</em> but it's okay if you just call it shrimp and grits -- that's what it is. I adapted this from a recipe in Food and Wine magazine.<br /><br />6 1/2 cups water<br />Salt to taste (I like a lot; polenta can be kind of bland on its own)<br />1 3/4 cups white polenta (10 ounces). (If you can't find polenta in your neck of the woods, substitute stone-ground grits. Do not, repeat do not, use instant or quick grits. You want the kind your maw-maw used to cook.)<br />2 tablespoons unsalted butter<br />Freshly ground pepper<br />1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil<br />2 pounds shrimp, shelled and deveined<br />2-3 large garlic cloves, very finely chopped </div><div><br />In a large saucepan, combine the water with a large pinch of salt and bring to a boil. Add the polenta in a thin stream, whisking constantly.</div><div><br />Reduce the heat to low and simmer, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the polenta is thick and the grains are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in the butter, season the polenta with salt and pepper and keep warm. </div><div><br />In a very large skillet, heat the olive oil until shimmering. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper. Add them to the skillet and cook over high heat until they are lightly browned on one side, about 2 minutes. Add the garlic, turn the shrimp over and cook until cooked through, about 1 minute longer. </div><div><br />Transfer the polenta to shallow bowls. Top with the shrimp and some of the garlic oil from the skillet. Serve immediately.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Spaghetti a la Taverna Ciardi<br /><br /></span></strong>1/4 cup dry white wine<br />2 dozen mussels, scrubbed<br />2 dozen littleneck clams, scrubbed<br />3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil<br />4-8 garlic cloves, minced (depends on how much you love garlic. It's Halloween so I like to keep the vampires at bay and add all of them)<br />1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper <br />1 pound spaghetti<br /> 1 pound of small shrimp or 3/4 pound medium shrimp--shelled, deveined and halved crosswise<br />Salt and freshly ground black pepper<br />2 tablespoons chopped parsley </div><div> </div><div><br />Bring the wine to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the mussels, cover and cook over high heat until they open, about 2 minutes. Using tongs, transfer the mussels to a bowl. Add the clams to the saucepan, cover and cook until they start to open. Transfer them to the bowl with the mussels. Pour the cooking liquid into a glass measuring cup (discard the grit if you can). Shell the mussels and clams and return to the bowl.</div><div><br />Heat the olive oil in a medium saucepan. Add the garlic and cook over low heat until golden, being careful not to burn. Add the red pepper and cook over moderate heat. Add the reserved shellfish cooking liquid and simmer over moderate heat until slightly reduced, about 3 minutes. </div><div><br />Cook the spaghetti in a large pot of boiling salted water, stirring occasionally, until al dente. Meanwhile, bring the sauce to a simmer over moderate heat. Add the shrimp and cook for 1 minute. Add the reserved mussels and clams and simmer briefly to heat through. </div><div><br />Drain the spaghetti and return it to the pot. Add the seafood sauce and toss to coat. Season with salt and black pepper and transfer to a warmed bowl. Sprinkle with the parsley and serve immediately.</div><div> </div><div>Note: As far as I could tell, there were no tomatoes in Taverna Ciardi's sauce; however, I have had seafood spaghetti on Hvar tossed in a very light tomato-spiked seafood broth that was extremely tasty. If you would like that version, add a pint of cherry or grape tomatoes to the skillet when you add the red pepper and cook for four minutes, crushing the tomatoes with a wooden spoon as they soften, just before you add the seafood stock.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Torta with Apples and Pears<br /><br /></strong></span>This recipe makes a very dense, rustic cake. I've also seen it made with figs. Add a pinch of cinnamon if you crave more spice.<br /><br />2 1/2 cups flour</div><div>2/3 sugar</div><div>3 eggs</div><div>2/3 melted, unsalted butter</div><div>grated zest of 1 lemon</div><div>1 teaspoon baking powder</div><div>pinch of freshly ground nutmeg</div><div>1/3 cup milk</div><div>3 apples or pears or a combination. Use ripe, firm fruit.</div><div> </div><div>Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all ingredients except the fruit. Mix until batter is smooth.</div><div><br />Butter and flour a 9″ springform pan. Pour in the batter. Peel and core fruit, then slice thinly and arrange in a circle pattern on top of batter. Fruit may sink slightly into the batter.</div><div><br />Bake the cake until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 1 hour.</div><div> </div><div>Remove from oven and let cake cool slightly on wire rack. Remove the pan sides and slip the cake onto a serving plate. Serve at room temperature.</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450083199407841936.post-38078024873471033102010-10-03T03:39:00.000-07:002010-10-03T15:32:24.725-07:00French Dressing on "Piece-a Pie": A Biloxi Classic<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TKkDFoBeEmI/AAAAAAAAAeo/AnsVtDnYhoQ/s1600/BBQ+pizza.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523949813124436578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 356px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CTixBHaIFvw/TKkDFoBeEmI/AAAAAAAAAeo/AnsVtDnYhoQ/s400/BBQ+pizza.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>If you grew up in Biloxi, a slice just ain't a slice without a healthy squirt of French (or Catalina) dressing on it. It's as necessary as the extra grated Parmesan or red pepper flakes. It is now so ubiqitous that even the chain pizza joints, put it on the tables and ask their takeout customers how many dressings they want.</div><br /><div>But that wasn't always the case. The phenomenon allegedly started at Biloxi's premier pizza spot, Hugo's Pizza on Division Street . </div><br /><div>When my mom worked at Keesler Air Force Base's exchange in the 1950s, she and her work pals hung out at Hugo's after a night of bowling. High school students from Biloxi High, Notre Dame, Sacred Heart and D'Iberville piled into Hugos after football games. It was a popular hangout for the KAFB crowd. People drove from all over the Coast just to sample one of Hugo's famous "pizza pies." </div><br /><div>My Croatian-born grandfather thought it was called "piece-a-pie" and always referred to it as such. Ironically I had some of the best pizza this side of Hugo's in his hometown of Starigrad on the Croatian island of Hvar.</div><br /><div>Early Hugo's regulars don't remember the French dressing being on the pizza. It started making its appearance sometime in the 60's and was a permanent fixture by the end of that decade. Nor is anyone sure exactly how it started. It was a probably an accident. Hugo's served some incredible salad as well as great pizza. It may simply have been one of those flukes of the salad getting onto the pizza. Happy accidents like that create classics all the time -- like Toll House cookies.</div><br /><div>Hugo's changed hands sometime in the 1970s, and the pizza was just never the same after that. But by this time French dressing on pizza was firmly entrenched on Biloxi's collective palate. </div><br /><div>When I went to the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg in 1979, even the local Pizza Hut there was routinely putting French dressing on the tables to satisfy their students from Biloxi. And from there it went viral. </div><div><br />Now, if you're not from Biloxi, and this sounds weird to you, don't knock it until you try it. French dressing adds a extra flavor dimension to mediocre takeout or frozen pizza. It was the only thing that made that crappy "Tony's Pizza" that the USM Commons served edible. I don't know that I would add it to a gourmet wood-fired pizza with exotic ingredients like goat cheese, kalamata olives or grilled lamb. But it's a great topper for the classics -- pepperoni, cheese and sausage.<br /></div><div>Any brand of bottled French or Catalina dressing works. Use whichever one floats your boat, although I personally find the fat-free versions too sweet (and, really, if you're eating pizza are you really THAT worried about the fat. Go for it). And as for the difference between French and Catalina dressing -- there is none. Different names, same product.</div><br /><div>Obviously, the best dressing is the kind you make yourself. I like the following recipe. It's a little extra trouble, but doesn't your "piece-a-pie" deserve the very best?</div><br /><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homemade French Dressing</span></strong></div><br /><div></div><div>Now I have no idea what French dressing recipe Hugo's used. This doesn't claim to be their recipe. It's just one I came across that I like. It's a "red" dressing with a little "bite" to it. If you find it's too sweet for your taste, decrease the amount of sugar. While it calls for white wine vinegar, feel free to substitute red wine vinegar or balsamic (which adds a nice touch) if you prefer or if that's what you have on hand. And, after you drizzle it on your pizza, be sure to save some for your salad. It's great just on plain iceberg lettuce.</div><br /><div>2/3 cup ketchup<br />3/4 cup white sugar<br />1/2 cup white wine vinegar<br />1/2 cup vegetable oil<br />1 small onion, quartered<br />2 teaspoons paprika<br />2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce </div><br /><div>Prepare the dressing by combining the ketchup, sugar, vinegar, oil, onion, paprika and Worcestershire sauce in a blender or food processor. Blend until the onion is well chopped. Chill and serve. </div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11738333926103689220noreply@blogger.com1