Weekend Adventures, Part 2

2.  Adventures in eating, continued

We checked into our hotel and took a bit of rest before calling the elder brother of BBBH.  As usual, his son had to roust him from bed so he could take the call, but see how you do when you are 93.  We invited him to have supper with us and we agreed on a pick-up time of 7:30.  Glenn was ready when we arrived at his house.  We agreed on a location and away we went for the evening adventure!  His son drove along in his car, saying then we would not have to make the return trip to their house.

Where did we go?  We chose a very popular chain restaurant most often found hard by a major highway, you know, the one with rocking chairs on the front porch.  And two hundred thousand kitchy items for sale inside.  But again, I digress.

Following the wait in the store-- and we all know the design here: sign in, get suckered into buying stuff you don't need while you wait.  We were finally seated, orders placed.  After a w h i l e our server returned with the food.  BBBH got what she ordered.  Glenn's order looked to be essentially what he called for, but the scrambled eggs looked to be a scrambled egg.  "I said 'eggs,'" he said.  "Well, they gave you one egg."  John stated the obvious.

John got what  he ordered.  I got my turnip greens in a small bowl and my coleslaw in a small bowl and a biscuit on a full-sized dinner plate.  We started to eat, I thinking that my meal would arrive presently.  Finally after exhibiting entirely too much patience, I signaled the wait person and asked, "Where's my fish?"  "Hunh? she replied.  "I ordered fried catfish."  She turned and walked away.  I finished my green stuff, which was good, by the way, and still no fish.  I filed this complaint with a manager, young man very apologetic.  He soon had my fish delivered.  Good thing everyone else had eaten by then, for the aroma nearly sent all my dinner companions into the next room, and I was less than pleased.  I looked at the four sorry pieces of "fish" on the plate, managed to eat most of one of them and when the waitress brought the check she asked if I wanted a take-out box.  "Yes, please."
I carried the remaining three pieces out in the box, paid the bill.  The cashier, as  they are  all  instructed to do, asked, "Was everything okay!"  I said not a mumbling word as I handed her the cash.

I dumped the fish in a waste receptacle.

Friday had not been a good day for us in the comestibles department.

 The view from our hotel room.

Lettuce

Yes, I am writing about lettuce.  The vegetable kind, for though I have heard on occasion someone or other refer to money as "lettuce."  I never really ever had enough of that to write about.  But I am blessed in that I have always been able to obtain sufficient resources to provide food and shelter for those dependent upon me.

Lettuce.  Daddy used to plant "leaf lettuce" which then became the earliest provender from the garden.  In her turn, Mama made a dish she called "wilted lettuce."  She marinated the lettuce in a broth of vinegar and sugar and bacon grease, hot bacon grease, thus wilted lettuce.  I never cared for the stuff, but one seldom complained.  Food was food and "beggars cannot be choosers" and so on and so forth.  "Rather than whine about what you don't have, appreciate what you do have."  I could write a book.

As I became an adult and could within limits choose my own comestibles, I grew fond of iceberg lettuce.  I like the crisp, cool leaves, the crunch when masticated.  Spare me wilted, droopy lettuce.  While we are at it, spare me spiky, prickly lettuce.  My motto:  If it isn't iceberg, it isn't lettuce.
You may spare me the nutrition lessons and all that.  I want the leaf on my cheeseburger or the bed for my banana and Hellmann's® salad to provide the "crunch" which would otherwise be missing.

All this to register a complaint.  Complaint?  "Whatsoever your lot, therewith be content."  Okay for my lot, but not for my lettuce.  Recently the purchases of the luscious-looking heads have yielded floppy, droopy leaves lacking crispy crunch.  Reminds me of Mom's servings those many decades ago.  And useless on my hamburger.

I did it

croquignoles by vanilla

Pastries in the Early Morning

It started at 3:08 a.m.  It is not unusual for me to make a trip to the small room around this time of day.  Unfortunately getting cozy back under the covers did not lead to the immediate resumption of sleep.  Which my body craved.  But the mind.  Ah, the mind, she has a mind of her own.

I started thinking about stuff, or rather I started mentally roaming the small realm which is my universe.  Unbidden and with no recall of the trail that led me there, I was thinking of croquignoles. Now I have eaten this delicacy at least once, perhaps twice in my lifetime.  In order to properly order my thinking, I attempted the spelling of the word.  (The time may now be about 3:42.)  I came quite close, dropping the "g" and endowing the word with a second "l" to make up for it.  Not too bad for morning's wee hours, but still sleep eluded me.

This part I have to relate, because it is true, and after you read a bit further you may think I made this up.  But no, it actually happened this way. I was thinking about the restaurant in which Maizie is employed, and decided, in the state I was in, to have the chef, or cook, or whoever controlled the kitchen, to make croquignoles.  When we enjoyed this gustatory creation, I found it to be wonderful beyond my memory of any other such confections.  Louie, I had named him "Louie" by this time, explained that the deep frying process was done in his French fry oil, thus imparting a vague potato flavor to the goodies. By now, I have decided that I can make my own little Frenchy donut thingies.

So there I am in my bathrobe, coffee brewing, I seat myself at the computer at 4:45. Search: "croquignole."  Now we account for the first picture.  The first couple of pages of results were all about hair styling.  Say what?  Hair styling?  There were even articles directed to wannabe cosmetologists on prepping for their state boards.  It seems that a croquignole is a certain type of wave, or the technique used in setting such curls in which the hair is wound on a rod from the tip toward the scalp.  Who knew?  Well, BBBH, for one, but she was still sound asleep at six in the morning.  And seven o'clock, and . . .

And finally! Voila! Recipes for croquignoles of the delicious variety.  The first one I clicked on was by Emeril Lagasse, which I chose mostly because I had heard of him.  And guess what he used as a primary ingredient?  Potatoes.  I kid you not.  Now connect that back to what I told you above.  I am a genius and did not know it.

Reading further, I found a critic, a lady who apparently is the world's authority on croquignoles, and she asserted that Emeril's recipe was unlike any she had ever encountered, and the product, she averred, should rightly be called a beignet rather than a croquignole.  Then she launched into an essay on the origin of the pastries in question.  When I tell you I found it interesting, you need to put things into context: the sun was not yet up.  So now I know the difference between Cajun cooking and Creole cuisine, and so on and so forth.

And I went back to bed, having decided that the manufacture of croquignoles, no matter how delicious, is beyond my pay grade.

And I slept!

Thaw!

The heat pump is running!  Snow is melting!

The courageous old people ventured out for

an evening on the town.

Beloved had the salad.  I snapped pix while 

awaiting the entree.

It was well worth the wait!

I had the seafood ravioli, marinara.

She chose spaghetti and meatballs.

We concluded the evening with a visit to Atlanta Music Hall.  Pasta for the palate, music for the soul.  A truly great night out.

The band segued into a waltz.  92-year old gentleman wearing a brown derby stood, bowed to his 89-year old wife, extended his hand.  She accepted, stood, and they waltzed across the front of the room, danced up the aisle!  I can only hope that when I am 92. . .

Found in the Cupboard

 I have no idea.  The can is still more than half full. The object is a solid metal can with a round flip out top like the old cocoa cans.  There is no UPC on the can.  Product was manufactured in Vermont by Bread and Chocolate, Inc. currently dba Burnham and Mills.  This item is apparently no longer available.

Wonder what it tastes like?  Personally, not likely to find out.  I mean, a milk product at least half my age?

Of Its Abundance

Of its abundance the crab apple tree yielded  its sweet flavor 

So that on our toast and waffles this ambrosia we might savor

Thank you, Lord, for this provision.

As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. --Song of Solomon 2:3

Dogwood Jelly

 When we arrived at our hotel last week, we parked as seen here.  I immediately spotted the pretty little tree behind the hedge, but I did not know it.  I asked the host what it was and he replied that it was some kind of dogwood.

I believed that could be so, as I am familiar with three or four dogwood varieties, but this one was different.

Note the knobby texture of the rind of the fruit. Interesting.  To the internet!  Easily found.  It is a kousa dogwood.  It was recommended that one grab the fruit before the wild things consume them!

With permission from the hostess, we brought a small bucketful of them home with us, and thus it was that we found ourselves in another jelly-making project.

The yield was but three half-pints, but yum yum!  

The fruit is tasty, if interesting, eaten directly from the tree.  Sort of an applesimmon flavor, contains one cherry-pit size seed; but it also has some teeny tiny gritty seeds(?) .  The rind really needs to be spit out-- too tough to eat.  A less-than-fully-ripe fruit has a bit of an alum-quality, but the ripe ones are quite pleasant.


 And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food. . . Genesis 2:9

Crabapple Products

The crabapple tree atoned for the paucity of last year's crop by providing abundantly more than expected this year.  Picked apples.  Got the ladder; picked more apples.  Filled a box.  BBBH did stuff with the apples, then we started processing them.

Burbling away!

 We got a bunch of crabapple butter!

Then we canned a gob-lot of crabapple jelly!

Then we cleaned the kitchen.

The end.

Heresy

America's favorite cookie was produced in lower Manhattan.  It was introduced on March 6, 1912.  Over a century later, the Oreo is America's best-selling cookie..  It is not my favorite cookie. There.  I said it.  If you offer me an Oreo, I will eat it with thanks and gratitude, but if I am buying cookies for myself, they will not be Oreos.  Better yet, I may buy a jar of peanut butter and make my own cookies!

Possibly a little known fact is that Oreo was introduced to compete with Sunshine Bakery's Hydrox cookies which had been on the market for a few years.  The popularity of the Hydrox doubtless impelled the people at the National Biscuit Company, later Nabisco, to horn in on the market.  Perhaps this demonstrates two truths.  One, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; and two, an imitation good enough and backed by deep enough pockets can drive the original from the market.

In keeping with the fanaticism of the health nuts, Oreo recently changed their recipe to eliminate trans fats.  I mean, there is nothing America needs more than a "healthful" cookie.  Of course, any benefit could be offset by the introduction of Oreo Double Stuf.  But I don't know that for sure.

The original Oreo Biscuit, as it was called at the time, sold for twenty-five cents a pound and came in a decorative tin.  The company has expanded the product line greatly, offering numerous variations on the original.

Statistical data from Wikipedia.

Nashville; Little Nashville, that is.

" Let's go to Little Nashville," Beautiful said.
"Sure.  But you'll have to get up and be ready to go early in the morning."
And she was.  She was ready to go by 11:10, so we started our outing on a lovely, sunny morning.

 I selected the quickest route which entailed a good bit of interstate driving.  We got to Columbus about 12:30 and I said, "Do you want to eat here, or go on to Nashville, which will take about twenty minutes.?"
"I'm really hungry," BBBH replied, "and there is a Denny's just ahead."
"Nah," I said, "I didn't drive all the way down here to eat at a Denny's.  Let's go on into Nashville."  And we did.*

 This was the middle of the week, perfect timing, for we would have the place to ourselves.  Well, with everyone between the Rockies and the Smokies.  Otherwise, we were by ourselves.

I should probably relate that I was doubtful about the "color" for our trees at home are quite splendid, so why a 200 mile round-trip to look at trees?  It is the thing one does in October.  Brown County is noted far and wide for its fall display.

We walked through the touristy downtown, selected a restaurant, a nice not-Denny's cafe, white tablecloths, and so on.  Decent lunch, touristy price. Following lunch, we walked a few more blocks, then came the promised rain, not hard, you understand, but enough to wet the shoulders.  We hiked it for the vehicle.

We drove the three or four miles to Brown County State Park.  The rain stopped and we started our Color Tour.
After the Park, we drove home, but by a more leisurely back roads route, much longer but not so nerve-wracking.
 Tomorrow will be a Wordless Wednesday in which the posting will show a few of the many snapshots we collected in the park.

*I've nothing against Denny's; I rather like them.  But given a choice of a Mom 'n Pop over the chain, I'll take the Mom 'n Pop.

Pallies' Palaver

 From three different points of the compass three bloggers drove certain distances to join the fourth member of this quartet in his beautiful corner of the world.
Our Blogfest began with a really great picnic in the park along with the members of Sylvia's ham radio club.  From the park we adjourned to the home of Chuck and Sylvia for much talk and a great good time!

David (vanilla), with BBBH, came from Perfect to the south, Joan (Sharkey) came from the shores of the Great Lake, and Lin with her husband, Joe, came from Weirdville in the west.  Chuck and his wife, Sylvia, hosted the event.

The four of us have been reading one another's blogs for about three years, but none of us had met in person.  Lin was the sparkplug who got the ball rolling, Chuck and Sylvia jumped right in with the invitation to their digs, and vanilla and Shark were just as excited as they about the prospects of meeting.  So it was.

And this begs the question, were these people anything like you had imagined from reading them?  In a word, yes.  Our visit together made it clear to me that these are real people who in no way misrepresent themselves via their blogging efforts.  They are every bit as interesting, and more so, as they are on the pages of the internet.

The fact that the spouses helped make this happen is a testimony to their devotion to their mates, and to their patience with the bloggy pastime they have chosen.

The disappointments were few but here they are.  Lin and Joe did not bring Em or Colin with them, nor did they bring Hobbes and Grace.  Om was unable to attend with Sharkey; and the hours flew by all too swiftly!

Notwithstanding that Chuck and Sylvia  had fenced their beautiful and abundantly productive garden, ostensibly to keep the deer away, the fence nevertheless did not keep my dear out.  She hopped the fence and immediately started raiding from the bounty!

It was a weekend long to be remembered and cherished.  Thanks to you all who made this a special time, and especially thanks to Chuck and Sylvia for their hospitality.

Indiana's Best

The day was bright, sunny seventy-two degrees and we had been reclusive for about long enough. "Want to go to the coffee house for lunch?" I asked. "Sure," replied BBBH.

Our first stop was at Mier.  Mier (pronounced "mere") is merely a wide spot in the road, so to speak; except that the road now bypasses the town via a viaduct.  The purpose of the stop was to get a couple of pictures of the schoolhouse, for it was here that my two middle children began their public education.

 The school corporation is to be applauded for repurposing this fine old building to use as the central offices.

 This is the viaduct over which the highway passes.  I am standing on a county road, the main east-west thoroughfare in Mier, and State Roads 13 and 18 pass overhead.  These roads diverge a few hundred yards north of this point.

To the right of the viaduct is this shaded bower with a fine set of steps someone has constructed to elevate pedestrians to the roadway above, though I can't imagine a valid reason for going up there via this route.

 A mere seven miles beyond Mier we arrive in Marion, the home of Midwest Coffee Roasting Company.  BBBH is greeted on the deck by daughter, granddaughter and customers.  Bob, a friend of the Boultbees did the landscaping.  Very nice.

Once inside, Shari served us the soup-of-the day (yes, I know the French expression, but this is Marion) which was potato-broccoli with cheese and, I shall add, with deliciosity.  I also had the baked oatmeal with apple/cinnamon syrup on one
side and peach/mango syrup on the other.  The oatmeal bar is a granola-like concoction with nuts and berries.  Also delicious.  I liked the apple/cinnamon syrup better.

The coffee of the day was Peruvian, a full-bodied single-origin and very good.  BBBH had a latte, whatever that is.  I drink coffee.

When you are in Marion, Tuesday through Saturday, do not miss brunch or lunch at this venue!

BBBH and granddaughter Jenn visit on the deck.

La Pesca

We do not make it a habit to do restaurant reviews here at STSTT, primarily, perhaps, because we eat out so seldom. Beautiful is an outstanding cook, and we both like to eat in.

Sometime about two o'clock Sunday afternoon, BBBH and I decided lunch would be in order. We scootered over to 524 W. University here in Edinburg. We have passed this establishment numerous times without so much as a second glance. To have overlooked this place was a big mistake.

We entered the dining room and were greeted pleasantly by the proprietor. We were seated, and immediately the waitress took our drink order and returned with chips and salsa, accompanied by a small glass of the most wonderful concoction, which I can only assume was the stock from the pot in which the goodies had been cooked.

Our host advised us of the "special" which was a fish and shrimp combo, grilled or deep-fried. I chose grilled; BBBH selected fried. We consumed chips and salsa, along with the drink. The salsa was excellent, spicy and fresh. It was hot, but not too hot, for even Beautiful found it appetizing. As the little cup of broth disappeared, the proprietor directed our waitress to bring us another.

The platter came, artistically arranged with a small salad to one side, the rice, in my case, and the french fries for BBBH on the other end with the beautifully done fish lying between them, the shrimp, butterflied, on top. A nice slice of Texas toast accompanied each dish, and the fried fish had with it an additional three hush puppies.

All this food was every bit as tasty as we could have hoped. Our host, Markus Villarreal, sat at the next table and visited with us while we dined. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon experience. Tab for the two of us was $17.30 including Texas State tax.

For a great lunch or dinner choice, we very much recommend la Pesca, open seven days a week. Take a look at their website.

http://lapescaseafood.com/

Sunday in Orange Grove

Park Church service is at 8:40 on Sunday morning, and while this is a bit early for our taste, we both managed to be there in plenty of time with happy smiles on our faces!

The choir was in fine voice, the minister gave us an uplifting message from Paul's first letter to the Thessalonians, chapter five. Our friend Arnie played a medley of great songs on the concertina, including Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. It was a service worth getting up for.

On the way out of the hall, we were stopped by friend Linda who wanted to take our picture. Later in the day, she stopped by to deliver a copy of it to us. I decided it would make a great profile picture, especially since the previous one was now three months old; we have aged since then!
Thanks, Linda.

Arnie and Arlene asked us to go with them to Denny's for a slam, or whatever happened to be our brunch choice. This was a great thing on several levels, the first being that we had the pleasure of visiting with these friends for a nice long time. The second notable item was the food itself, for it was abundant, tasty, and served just right. The coffee was good, too. And finally, the restaurant gave a fifty percent discount to residents of Orange Grove and the two of us ate for under ten dollars. Hallelujah!

The afternoon was spent reading and dozing. Ah, Sundays!

Then there is ice cream at the activities center in a few minutes, and BBBH has baked a beautiful cake which is just asking for a good slicing.

Oscar Mayer Entertains

The heart within the boy within me leaped with excitement when we drove into the super market parking lot Saturday morning.
These old eyes beheld a wonderful sight and transmitted the message to the boy. There directly in front of the store was the Wienermobile! On two different occasions in the past, I have passed, or been passed by, the Wienermobile as we traversed one of America’s interstate highways. But this is the first time I ever had an opportunity to view the vehicle up close and personal, so to speak.

Present were three wholesome and attractive young ladies, smiling, greeting the crowd and handing out mementos, trinkets by which the happy people might remember their visit. The side-door of the vehicle was open so that we could stick our heads inside and look around. There was a strap across the door suggesting that to tread within was not permitted.

This particular Mobile is in celebration of the 75th anniversary of the Wienermobile, and of course, it is not the same vehicle with which Oscar Mayer started this advertising ploy. In fact, the Wienermobile has gone through numerous permutations, and there was a display bulletin board on which pictures of a dozen of these traveling billboards were displayed.

I came away with this pretty little sticker and a Wienermobile whistle! Yet I regretted that I had forgot to fasten my camera on my belt this morning.

Rabbit Hunting, 1945

Several of the old fellows sitting on the patio got onto the subject of hunting. Somehow rabbits hopped into the discussion. Most of the talk had to do with edibility of rabbit in general, and certain ones in particular. I drifted off into my own world, which is to say I found myself transported back more than sixty-five years, and in a locale 1000 miles away.

When I was a sixth-grader, my best buddy, also a sixth-grader found himself removed from town some forty-five miles and living on the high plains with his mother. Wes’s mom had taken a school in a Czech community farther away in culture and lifestyle than it was in distance from their home. Understand that this was a one-room school. However, the building itself had a second room which was outfitted as living quarters for the teacher, who in addition to teaching responsibilities for thirty-five students spread over eight grades, was also the janitor upon whom devolved the responsibility of keeping the premises heated with the wood-burning equipment. She decided she needed her son to live with her during this school year.

And so it was that I was invited to visit them during a break in the school activities which was occasioned by a community cultural festival. I could not believe sitting at table with people who were so bountifully blessed that they could serve more than one meat at a meal. Three, in fact: poultry, beef and lamb.
.
But back to the rabbit. The day before I was to head back to the city and home, Wes and I went rabbit hunting. Now understand that “rabbit” in this locale pretty much means “jackrabbit.” With the exception of one shot, the day was quite void of opportunity to shoot game. I was carrying a single shot .22 rifle. As we scuffed along through the yucca flat, a rabbit jumped up and headed straight away from me, except of course for the bobbing from side to side as it ran. I pulled down on it and fired when it was probably twenty yards ahead. The rabbit dropped instantly. Examination of the carcass revealed no blood, no wounds; but a careful study revealed that the bullet had struck the animal in the back of the neck, breaking it cleanly as it ricocheted off without puncturing the skin! What a shot! What a lucky, improbable, and never-to-be-repeated shot.

Yet there is more to the story, for Wes and I took our trophy home, cleaned it, cooked it, and ate it, because the parents hadn’t the heart to tell us eating jackrabbit just wasn’t done.

Citrus and Vinyl

Oh, the birds and the bees in the citrus trees tempting me to juicy fruit (Wrigley’s does not own that term!). We have sampled oranges and grapefruit from outside our window; and today BBBH came in wagging a hatful of tangerines from the north end of the park. As you can see, these particular fruit are very small, about an inch-and-a-half in diameter, but oh, what juicy flavor is contained within!

Later in the day in the south end of the park, I plucked a lemon, one of the smaller ones on the tree, which is almost perfectly spherical and just a bit over three inches in diameter.


A trip to the flea market at DonWes netted me two vinyl albums, one by Bonnie Raitt, the other by Cat Stevens. Not a bad haul for an hour of roaming through the aisles of stuff. As I was standing in front of the junk pile that was actually the one where I found these albums, I remarked to Don that it would be a real favor to everybody if the entire pile of stuff were given a home in a landfill. This elicited laughter from passers-by, from the vendor not so much, and then I found these treasures there. Who knows what languishes in a heap of trash? The vendor knows!

Mac's

Here we sing the praises of one of our favorite places in Rockport. We have never failed to stop at Mac's at least once each time we visit this village. One year, our plan to travel on southward without a stayover at Rockport, we actually drove several miles out of our way to lunch here.

Our schedule calls for departure Thursday, and Wednesday we realized that we had yet to frequent this place. So we fired up the scooter and traveled the short distance to a wonderful meal.

Domingo serves a great brisket plate, the meat abundant and melt-in-your-mouth tender, two sides. Today, BBBH chose potatoes and green beans, I selected potato salad and peach cobbler. You have your choice, with sauce or without. We recommend "with."

Our next report will be filed from somewhere near the southern-most tip of Texas.

Good Friends, Good Food, Good Day

Thanksgiving Day roses, chez vanilla, Perfect, Indiana,

Black and white dog, and would you believe black and white shoes.

The turkey and all its wonderful gustatory accompaniments have been "put away."

Fun, games, good conversation completed the perfect day!

We are Thankful!