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Friday, September 19, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Old Place
The old place - a family term casually applied but with layers of connotations. It was after we moved that we began to call it this - descriptive in more ways than one. One way of acknowledging what we had left behind. A way of saying that we have moved forward into another life. The place where I grew up, where my roots are, shortly to be mine no more. After owning this land for more than 30 years, my mother is selling. I don't fault her at all - but I want to take a few minutes to grieve a little, for the good and the bad. Stephan King once said a place is yours when you know where all the roads go. I know where all the roads go, even now.
I was two years old when we moved to this 19 acres of farmland set in the middle of a field. I was thirteen when I left it forever. It is the first home that I remember and when I dream, I dream I am in this place. My parents moved an old farm house on the property and there my soul was born. The land was flat and boundaried by trees, with only one being on our land. It was not a pretty place, at least not in my mind. It was green in certain seasons but the land was too flat and the dirt too black for beauty. Cotton growing dirt - the edge of an old plantation, divided and conquered long before my time. So much history that I will never know but lingers there even now. Rumors of an old slave cemetery just across the fence on the back forty. Black and white communities still segregated - both in churches, neighborhoods, and ways of life. Is it any wonder that I grew up with such a keen sense of the past when all I had to do was step outside my door to take it in?
The land I loved, the house I hated. The house was old and broken even then. When I left for good in the 1980s, I had no regrets - only eagerness to be gone. How was I to know then that we would be last family to truly live in this old place of high ceiling and window weights? It was an abandonment of not only a physical place but of dreams. My mother's dream to re-create her farm-living childhood, mostly. It was her dream and my prison and I could not wait to leave. My regrets have come with the years, seeing something so broken and unable to right it. When I was old enough and free enough to drive, I would occasionally visit this broken down place - sometimes to take a few meager belongings that were left, to remember where I had come from but mostly to remind myself that I could leave again. Never again would it be my prison but then again, it would never be my home.
This place is also my greatest bond with my siblings. Our ties begun here and perhaps were the strongest they would ever be. I loved my siblings in this place, I hated them in this place. Never again would we live so closely under one roof. I took my sister's Barbie apart here (sheer maliciousness, I confess) and hid the pieces. Then I forgot where I put the pieces. It was here that I, at the age of four, danced in sheer joy that I would have another baby brother or sister. Her name was going to be Mary Elizabeth if it was a girl (it was a boy and his name is Daniel). The relationships with my parents were also formed here - relationships so complex it has taken a lifetime to unravel the threads and be grateful for the ties that bind. It was here that my independent spirit was born and my mother's words and my grandmother's love were poured into me.
It was in this place that my beloved puppy Butterscotch was run over by a car and I forever became a cat person in my grief. It was here that I learned to be a farm girl - watching my father strip the cow's teats of the final drops of milk, finding where the chickens hid the eggs, passing the corn on the highway, growing tall and golden. It would only be later that I learned to despise the 'country girl' and forever more I would claim to be a city girl. It was also here that I discovered the magical world of books and realized that they could take you anywhere you wanted to go and then beyond. Books were my earliest escape from this place and my final place of refuge even now - always reminding me that there was a world beyond this and if I dreamed hard enough, I can get there.
In the last years, this place was seldom on my mind - I had too much to do and had lived too many years beyond its narrow confines to truly say I missed it. But during the last year or so that I was in the States, I began to research my father's maternal family line. I discovered to my surprise that they had taken abode in two neighboring counties - Brazoria and Fort Bend Counties. My father's family had lived near Damon's Mound in Brazoria County after immigrating from Germany in the 1840s. The second generation moved to Fort Bend County. These people were pioneers in the truest sense of the world, coming to a land rife with hardship, torn with slavery, clearing brush to eke out a meager living on small farms. The land we owned was on the border between Matorgorda County and Wharton County. Wharton County was my mother's birthplace and where her roots are, even now. Matorgorda County was the place of my birth. In the final analysis, I spent my childhood in the geographical center of where my family tree intersected. Perhaps that was more than conidence - perhaps God had a plan all alone and it was not just a random house plucked in the middle of an ugly field.
I think on my deathbed I will think of this place and call it my place of belonging. For better or worse, my roots are deep in this black soil. May it bring joy and peace to those who now hold the title deed to so much more than just a plot of ground. To those of you who hold history in your hand - mine, my family's and the history of those who have come before - honor it always. Selah.
I was two years old when we moved to this 19 acres of farmland set in the middle of a field. I was thirteen when I left it forever. It is the first home that I remember and when I dream, I dream I am in this place. My parents moved an old farm house on the property and there my soul was born. The land was flat and boundaried by trees, with only one being on our land. It was not a pretty place, at least not in my mind. It was green in certain seasons but the land was too flat and the dirt too black for beauty. Cotton growing dirt - the edge of an old plantation, divided and conquered long before my time. So much history that I will never know but lingers there even now. Rumors of an old slave cemetery just across the fence on the back forty. Black and white communities still segregated - both in churches, neighborhoods, and ways of life. Is it any wonder that I grew up with such a keen sense of the past when all I had to do was step outside my door to take it in?
The land I loved, the house I hated. The house was old and broken even then. When I left for good in the 1980s, I had no regrets - only eagerness to be gone. How was I to know then that we would be last family to truly live in this old place of high ceiling and window weights? It was an abandonment of not only a physical place but of dreams. My mother's dream to re-create her farm-living childhood, mostly. It was her dream and my prison and I could not wait to leave. My regrets have come with the years, seeing something so broken and unable to right it. When I was old enough and free enough to drive, I would occasionally visit this broken down place - sometimes to take a few meager belongings that were left, to remember where I had come from but mostly to remind myself that I could leave again. Never again would it be my prison but then again, it would never be my home.
This place is also my greatest bond with my siblings. Our ties begun here and perhaps were the strongest they would ever be. I loved my siblings in this place, I hated them in this place. Never again would we live so closely under one roof. I took my sister's Barbie apart here (sheer maliciousness, I confess) and hid the pieces. Then I forgot where I put the pieces. It was here that I, at the age of four, danced in sheer joy that I would have another baby brother or sister. Her name was going to be Mary Elizabeth if it was a girl (it was a boy and his name is Daniel). The relationships with my parents were also formed here - relationships so complex it has taken a lifetime to unravel the threads and be grateful for the ties that bind. It was here that my independent spirit was born and my mother's words and my grandmother's love were poured into me.
It was in this place that my beloved puppy Butterscotch was run over by a car and I forever became a cat person in my grief. It was here that I learned to be a farm girl - watching my father strip the cow's teats of the final drops of milk, finding where the chickens hid the eggs, passing the corn on the highway, growing tall and golden. It would only be later that I learned to despise the 'country girl' and forever more I would claim to be a city girl. It was also here that I discovered the magical world of books and realized that they could take you anywhere you wanted to go and then beyond. Books were my earliest escape from this place and my final place of refuge even now - always reminding me that there was a world beyond this and if I dreamed hard enough, I can get there.
In the last years, this place was seldom on my mind - I had too much to do and had lived too many years beyond its narrow confines to truly say I missed it. But during the last year or so that I was in the States, I began to research my father's maternal family line. I discovered to my surprise that they had taken abode in two neighboring counties - Brazoria and Fort Bend Counties. My father's family had lived near Damon's Mound in Brazoria County after immigrating from Germany in the 1840s. The second generation moved to Fort Bend County. These people were pioneers in the truest sense of the world, coming to a land rife with hardship, torn with slavery, clearing brush to eke out a meager living on small farms. The land we owned was on the border between Matorgorda County and Wharton County. Wharton County was my mother's birthplace and where her roots are, even now. Matorgorda County was the place of my birth. In the final analysis, I spent my childhood in the geographical center of where my family tree intersected. Perhaps that was more than conidence - perhaps God had a plan all alone and it was not just a random house plucked in the middle of an ugly field.
I think on my deathbed I will think of this place and call it my place of belonging. For better or worse, my roots are deep in this black soil. May it bring joy and peace to those who now hold the title deed to so much more than just a plot of ground. To those of you who hold history in your hand - mine, my family's and the history of those who have come before - honor it always. Selah.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Events
Dear Friends and Family,
I am not sure who all reads this blog but for those of you who do... I am going to deviate a little from my usual normal 'light' stuff here.
The situation in this country and especially my city is getting really tense. There are army planes flying overhead at all hours of the day and night, reportedly on their way to engagements in Swat, Bara, and other places. There was an attack on a high ranking US consulate person earlier this week (this incident happened in my neighborhood). There are rumors of the 'T' forces sitting in the hills just waiting to take the city. Other ex-pats are beginning to leave the city because of the situation here - we had one family go last week and another family will be leaving shortly. In general, the situation is deteriorating very rapidly
So what can I do? What can you do? Pray - it is that simple and that complex. I would ask first of all that you pray as the Spirit directs you. Secondly, I would ask for your prayers that if I have to go, it will be done in safety and with order - not with haste and in fear. Also, please pray that if I have to go, I can take Korban. The furniture, kitchen tools, books - all that can be replaced. The cat cannot. Pray that God will bring good out of this situation for these people and this country that I am just beginning to love. Long term, I would ask that you pray that the HS will overcome this city and there will a wind of the Spirit seen, in might and power.
Blessings always,
Rebecca
I am not sure who all reads this blog but for those of you who do... I am going to deviate a little from my usual normal 'light' stuff here.
The situation in this country and especially my city is getting really tense. There are army planes flying overhead at all hours of the day and night, reportedly on their way to engagements in Swat, Bara, and other places. There was an attack on a high ranking US consulate person earlier this week (this incident happened in my neighborhood). There are rumors of the 'T' forces sitting in the hills just waiting to take the city. Other ex-pats are beginning to leave the city because of the situation here - we had one family go last week and another family will be leaving shortly. In general, the situation is deteriorating very rapidly
So what can I do? What can you do? Pray - it is that simple and that complex. I would ask first of all that you pray as the Spirit directs you. Secondly, I would ask for your prayers that if I have to go, it will be done in safety and with order - not with haste and in fear. Also, please pray that if I have to go, I can take Korban. The furniture, kitchen tools, books - all that can be replaced. The cat cannot. Pray that God will bring good out of this situation for these people and this country that I am just beginning to love. Long term, I would ask that you pray that the HS will overcome this city and there will a wind of the Spirit seen, in might and power.
Blessings always,
Rebecca
Pumpkin Pancakes
Pumpkin Pancakes
1 1/4 cups white flour
2 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon cloves
1 cup milk
6 tablespoons pureed pumpkin, fresh or canned
2 Tablespoons melted butter
1 egg
Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, ground ginger, salt, nutmeg, and cloves. In a separate bowl, stir together milk, pumpkin, melted butter, and egg. Fold wet ingredients into dry ingredients. Melt some butter in a skillet over medium heat. Pour 1/4 cup batter for each pancake. Cook pancakes about 3 minutes per side; serve with butter and syrup. Makes 8 to 10 pancakes.
My notes: I used 3/4 cup white flour and 1/3 cup wheat flour. I reduced sugar to 1 TB. I used fresh pumpkin, well drained and pureed in a food processor.
1 1/4 cups white flour
2 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon cloves
1 cup milk
6 tablespoons pureed pumpkin, fresh or canned
2 Tablespoons melted butter
1 egg
Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, ground ginger, salt, nutmeg, and cloves. In a separate bowl, stir together milk, pumpkin, melted butter, and egg. Fold wet ingredients into dry ingredients. Melt some butter in a skillet over medium heat. Pour 1/4 cup batter for each pancake. Cook pancakes about 3 minutes per side; serve with butter and syrup. Makes 8 to 10 pancakes.
My notes: I used 3/4 cup white flour and 1/3 cup wheat flour. I reduced sugar to 1 TB. I used fresh pumpkin, well drained and pureed in a food processor.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Korban
OK - for those of you out there who have been dying for another Korban story - here goes. Just as an update, Korban is now 10 months old, growing and thriving. However, he recently had a very upsetting experience and it was all Mommie's fault!
As a favor, I offered to keep another Siamese cat for some friends who are on vacation. This cat is female and hails by the name of 'Peshu' - Yep, you guessed it -that is 'cat' in Pushtu. I call her 'Bul Peshu' - the 'other cat' in Pushtu. As I was to learn, maybe 'Bull' wasn't such a bad name for her. I was assured (and was really convinced) that that she was a wonderful cat and very good with people. Well, all of that was true - it was other cats she wasn't so good with. My first clue came after I placed her litter bowl (FYI - we don't use boxes here) next to Korban's. Instead of using her own toilet, she waltzed over to his bowl and proceeded with business. This was not a good sign but I took it philosophically - after all, this is only a cat hotel - she will be gone in a few weeks. Surely we can endure until then.
The next altercation came about midnight several nights ago. Korban was my room, tending to cat business (IE... hanging out and napping). I mistakenly left the bathroom door open and Bul Peshu sidled in. A moment or two later, Korban sat up and gave the obligatory hiss. You know, the one where they open their mouth and an Arabic vowel comes out. Bul Peshu didn't take too kindly to this. With a single bound, she leapt on the bed and proceeded to engage in a simple assault (cat style). Korban was moving as fast as he could but there wasn't a whole lot he could do. Not wanting to put my hands in a cat fight (even if one cat was not fighting back) I grabbed a pillow and whacked where I could. That cooled things off for a minute and I was able to get Korban out of harm's way. He immediately ran downstairs and did not reappear until the well into the next day. Smart kitty.
A few days later, I was fixing breakfast for them and I heard (pardon the pun) 'cat'erwauling. I arrived just in time to see my baby flying down the stairs with his tail about the size of a bottle brush. Needless to say, he was conspisipsouly absent for quite a while after that.
The final staking of territory came, however, on Thursday night. Korban, being the smart and intelligent cat that he is, was staying safely out of harm's way downstairs in the basement. During the middle of night, Bul Peshu staged an ambush. She made her way downstairs, found Korban, and between the two of them, made enough racket to wake my neighbors. Well, lest we (Korban and I) become a stench in in the neighbors' nostrils (and you know my country has enough bad smells as it is), something had to be done. Korban was living in fear, afraid to even come upstairs to eat. I do have to say Bul Peshu was being really systematic about this - first she ran him out of the bedroom, then down the stairs, and then she went after him in the basement of the house. This cat definitely had a plan. What a general she would have made!
What to do, what to do??? I called a another friend who had offered to keep Bul Peshu. She came and got Bul Peshu this morning, much to Korban's relief. He is still walking rather tentatively, looking over his shoulder now and then. But overall, he has had a very peaceful afternoon and seems to be recovering nicely. OK, lesson learned - don't be too quick to take on other people's children (or their cats) - it just might be more than you bargain for!
As a favor, I offered to keep another Siamese cat for some friends who are on vacation. This cat is female and hails by the name of 'Peshu' - Yep, you guessed it -that is 'cat' in Pushtu. I call her 'Bul Peshu' - the 'other cat' in Pushtu. As I was to learn, maybe 'Bull' wasn't such a bad name for her. I was assured (and was really convinced) that that she was a wonderful cat and very good with people. Well, all of that was true - it was other cats she wasn't so good with. My first clue came after I placed her litter bowl (FYI - we don't use boxes here) next to Korban's. Instead of using her own toilet, she waltzed over to his bowl and proceeded with business. This was not a good sign but I took it philosophically - after all, this is only a cat hotel - she will be gone in a few weeks. Surely we can endure until then.
The next altercation came about midnight several nights ago. Korban was my room, tending to cat business (IE... hanging out and napping). I mistakenly left the bathroom door open and Bul Peshu sidled in. A moment or two later, Korban sat up and gave the obligatory hiss. You know, the one where they open their mouth and an Arabic vowel comes out. Bul Peshu didn't take too kindly to this. With a single bound, she leapt on the bed and proceeded to engage in a simple assault (cat style). Korban was moving as fast as he could but there wasn't a whole lot he could do. Not wanting to put my hands in a cat fight (even if one cat was not fighting back) I grabbed a pillow and whacked where I could. That cooled things off for a minute and I was able to get Korban out of harm's way. He immediately ran downstairs and did not reappear until the well into the next day. Smart kitty.
A few days later, I was fixing breakfast for them and I heard (pardon the pun) 'cat'erwauling. I arrived just in time to see my baby flying down the stairs with his tail about the size of a bottle brush. Needless to say, he was conspisipsouly absent for quite a while after that.
The final staking of territory came, however, on Thursday night. Korban, being the smart and intelligent cat that he is, was staying safely out of harm's way downstairs in the basement. During the middle of night, Bul Peshu staged an ambush. She made her way downstairs, found Korban, and between the two of them, made enough racket to wake my neighbors. Well, lest we (Korban and I) become a stench in in the neighbors' nostrils (and you know my country has enough bad smells as it is), something had to be done. Korban was living in fear, afraid to even come upstairs to eat. I do have to say Bul Peshu was being really systematic about this - first she ran him out of the bedroom, then down the stairs, and then she went after him in the basement of the house. This cat definitely had a plan. What a general she would have made!
What to do, what to do??? I called a another friend who had offered to keep Bul Peshu. She came and got Bul Peshu this morning, much to Korban's relief. He is still walking rather tentatively, looking over his shoulder now and then. But overall, he has had a very peaceful afternoon and seems to be recovering nicely. OK, lesson learned - don't be too quick to take on other people's children (or their cats) - it just might be more than you bargain for!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Random Acts of Kindness Received
I arrived back at home from Dubai last week. I want to tell you about the best day in Dubai. It was the last week of my stay there. A friend and I rented a car and drove to the beach in one of the other Emirates - Fujairah. I drove as the car was automatic and they drive on the CORRECT side of the road there. Fujairah was about two hours away and a pleasant drive. We hung out on the beach at the Hilton (for a small fee) and spend the day contemplating the waves, enjoying each other's company and just generally hanging out. After we had supper at the Hilton. It was such a perfect day!
Ok, I have to comment on the driving. Driving in Dubai was like coming home to heaven - Houston by name. The roads were filled with construction, the drivers were crazy, and the exit signs change by the day. Oh, how I have missed that place!!! I have not driven at all in my country - 7 months of smiling politely and saying thank you to friends, a myriad assortment of taxi and rickshaw drivers, and sometimes nice strangers who offer a ride - yes, I have taken a few of those. Ok, I am going to chase a rabbit here. It was December 24th and a friend and I were attempting to shop - me for Christmas presents (oh, oh, how the organized have fallen!) and her for - well, I don't remember. Anyway, we didn't know the way to a certain store - Jan's Arcade by name. The rickshaw driver was getting frustrated and we were beginning to feeling like stupid white women (no comments on that one, please!). So my friend goes in a store to ask the way to Jan's Arcade. Out she comes with a very -sweet Pakistani lady who was talking a mile a minute and playing 20 Questions x 100. Fortunely, all this was in English or I might still be playing 20 Questions. The upshot of all this was the lady felt sorry for us and offered to let her driver take us to our store of choice after he dropped her off at home. Without further ado I climbed out of the rickshaw and into the car with this woman whom I have never seen before or since. It was a very pleasant ride and we got where we needed to go. Perhaps she was an angel in disguise - I suppose I shall never know. In any case, I am grateful for that act of kindness. If I had my own car here and the measure of independence that I enjoyed in the States, I would never have experienced the kindness and generosity of this person.
Recently, while on vacation in Hunza, my friend Leah and I were hiking the two hours down the mountain to get something to eat in the village. A van with several people pulls up beside us and motions for us to get in. Again, without further prompting, we hop in. Something I would never do in America - I was always Miss Cautious and certainly Ms. In Control there! But here it is different - come visit me and we will go to the roof of the world and catch rides down the mountain with kind strangers! One of these days, I might even try hitchhiking! Humm, I wonder what it would be like to hitchhike in a burka???? Just kidding!!!
P.S. I will be posting some Smileboxes with pictures of the Dubai vacation shortly - stay tuned for sand and surf!
Ok, I have to comment on the driving. Driving in Dubai was like coming home to heaven - Houston by name. The roads were filled with construction, the drivers were crazy, and the exit signs change by the day. Oh, how I have missed that place!!! I have not driven at all in my country - 7 months of smiling politely and saying thank you to friends, a myriad assortment of taxi and rickshaw drivers, and sometimes nice strangers who offer a ride - yes, I have taken a few of those. Ok, I am going to chase a rabbit here. It was December 24th and a friend and I were attempting to shop - me for Christmas presents (oh, oh, how the organized have fallen!) and her for - well, I don't remember. Anyway, we didn't know the way to a certain store - Jan's Arcade by name. The rickshaw driver was getting frustrated and we were beginning to feeling like stupid white women (no comments on that one, please!). So my friend goes in a store to ask the way to Jan's Arcade. Out she comes with a very -sweet Pakistani lady who was talking a mile a minute and playing 20 Questions x 100. Fortunely, all this was in English or I might still be playing 20 Questions. The upshot of all this was the lady felt sorry for us and offered to let her driver take us to our store of choice after he dropped her off at home. Without further ado I climbed out of the rickshaw and into the car with this woman whom I have never seen before or since. It was a very pleasant ride and we got where we needed to go. Perhaps she was an angel in disguise - I suppose I shall never know. In any case, I am grateful for that act of kindness. If I had my own car here and the measure of independence that I enjoyed in the States, I would never have experienced the kindness and generosity of this person.
Recently, while on vacation in Hunza, my friend Leah and I were hiking the two hours down the mountain to get something to eat in the village. A van with several people pulls up beside us and motions for us to get in. Again, without further prompting, we hop in. Something I would never do in America - I was always Miss Cautious and certainly Ms. In Control there! But here it is different - come visit me and we will go to the roof of the world and catch rides down the mountain with kind strangers! One of these days, I might even try hitchhiking! Humm, I wonder what it would be like to hitchhike in a burka???? Just kidding!!!
P.S. I will be posting some Smileboxes with pictures of the Dubai vacation shortly - stay tuned for sand and surf!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Hunza Adventure
Below are some pictures of the recent trip to Hunza. It was an amazing trip with many adventures - I wish we could sit and chitchat for a couple of hours and I would tell you all about it! But as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words! Blessings be upon you!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
A Love Affair to Remember
Hello all. I have been cooking a lot lately (I think I said that in the last entry) and I wanted to share with you a little bit about this on-going love affair. Yes, it has been a consuming and steady passion of mind since I was a little girl. Frankly, I don't understand people who don't like to cook. I respect their decision not to indulge in this so pleasant enterprise but find them, in the words of my British friends - a little dodgy. Sometimes I even like them and we become great friends but, just between you and me, they are still a little strange. Are they just too impatient to take the time to create? Do they have a secret aversion to getting their hands dirty? Was it a childhood phobia that caused them to break in hives when they came within fifty feet of a mixing bowl? Or perhaps their mothers were such good cooks that they never tried to learn and consequently reached adulthood thinking boiling water was a culinary accomplishment.
My first dish (at the age of 4) was scrambled eggs. As the years progressed, I migrated to that 1970s heavier than cast iron, old faithful - the casserole! I learned to make pie crust about the age of 10 or 11 - the first recipe I tried was an oil pastry and it was a dismal failure (yes, I have had my share of those - I just don't take them to parties!) I finally tried a basic betty crocker (good ole Betty!)crust and have used that ever since. As a teenager, I did Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners - my brother Danny still remembers those meals with fondness or so rumor has it.
Now Danny - he's another story. There was the time when I came home from college and arrived to find basically nothing in the house (food wise, that is - there were still a few sticks of furniture lying around). Now there was a family reunion on the calendar for the next day. Heaven forbid one should show up at a Walker/Baker/whatever, whatever, family reunion without GOOD food and PLENTY of it in tow. So I scrounged around and came up with butter, flour, milk and bananas. Well, being the creative and talented cook that I am, I made a banana cream pie. Proceeding to the next day - the six Walkers packed in a car on the way to the family reunion (wouldn't you like to be a fly on that wall) - we stop at Wal-Mart. I leave the pie in the backseat of the car. Having concluded our business at Wal-Mart, we proceed to return to the car. Danny sits down - you guessed it - right in the pie!!!! Cheers, Danny!!!!!!!!!! That was not the only time he sat in something of a similar nature but we will save that story for another time.
Proceeding in the cooking history - the next great milestone was California. Yep, you heard right - the state. Now some of you know this place to be a heathen and godless land. One of my cousins, who shall remain unnamed, even wished it to fall into the sea. Fortunately, she made this statement when I was no longer living there. Be as it may, they do know how to eat. California changed my taste buds and my cooking habits forever. There was a Whole Foods very close to where I lived. As an unripe 23 year old, I would wander in just to look. I didn't buy very much but I sure liked to read the names on the packages. Things like Italian Gorgonzola,
corn tamales (oh, those were heavenly), biscotti, and more pasta than you can shake a stick at. I ate my first Chinese food and my first Indian food during this time in CA. From the first bite, I fell in love with Indian food. The spices were so familiar but used in such different ways - and then cool, soothing yogart to mellow out the spices.
So my premise has always been if I can eat it, I can cook it. Slowly, I began to learn to do things a little differently. Along the way, there was a move back to South Texas - Mex-Tex capital of the world. Throw in a little chili powder and some cheese on top and - voila!!! The best Mexican food in the world.
Currently, I am on a dessert kick. My dessert making had stayed stuck somewhere in the 1950s - pound cakes, boring (but homemade) pies, cobblers, just same old, same old. So now I am scaling new heights. Most lately I have tried a recipe for lemon raisin scones. The next week I changed the recipe and made chocolate chip scones with a hint of orange flavor. And just yesterday, I made a cherry crostata. It tasted great but I call it the ugly baby - loved and worked on but still a little wrinkled. Well, it was supposed to look rustic, ok. Let me know if you want the recipe - I would be glad to pass it along.
My first dish (at the age of 4) was scrambled eggs. As the years progressed, I migrated to that 1970s heavier than cast iron, old faithful - the casserole! I learned to make pie crust about the age of 10 or 11 - the first recipe I tried was an oil pastry and it was a dismal failure (yes, I have had my share of those - I just don't take them to parties!) I finally tried a basic betty crocker (good ole Betty!)crust and have used that ever since. As a teenager, I did Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners - my brother Danny still remembers those meals with fondness or so rumor has it.
Now Danny - he's another story. There was the time when I came home from college and arrived to find basically nothing in the house (food wise, that is - there were still a few sticks of furniture lying around). Now there was a family reunion on the calendar for the next day. Heaven forbid one should show up at a Walker/Baker/whatever, whatever, family reunion without GOOD food and PLENTY of it in tow. So I scrounged around and came up with butter, flour, milk and bananas. Well, being the creative and talented cook that I am, I made a banana cream pie. Proceeding to the next day - the six Walkers packed in a car on the way to the family reunion (wouldn't you like to be a fly on that wall) - we stop at Wal-Mart. I leave the pie in the backseat of the car. Having concluded our business at Wal-Mart, we proceed to return to the car. Danny sits down - you guessed it - right in the pie!!!! Cheers, Danny!!!!!!!!!! That was not the only time he sat in something of a similar nature but we will save that story for another time.
Proceeding in the cooking history - the next great milestone was California. Yep, you heard right - the state. Now some of you know this place to be a heathen and godless land. One of my cousins, who shall remain unnamed, even wished it to fall into the sea. Fortunately, she made this statement when I was no longer living there. Be as it may, they do know how to eat. California changed my taste buds and my cooking habits forever. There was a Whole Foods very close to where I lived. As an unripe 23 year old, I would wander in just to look. I didn't buy very much but I sure liked to read the names on the packages. Things like Italian Gorgonzola,
corn tamales (oh, those were heavenly), biscotti, and more pasta than you can shake a stick at. I ate my first Chinese food and my first Indian food during this time in CA. From the first bite, I fell in love with Indian food. The spices were so familiar but used in such different ways - and then cool, soothing yogart to mellow out the spices.
So my premise has always been if I can eat it, I can cook it. Slowly, I began to learn to do things a little differently. Along the way, there was a move back to South Texas - Mex-Tex capital of the world. Throw in a little chili powder and some cheese on top and - voila!!! The best Mexican food in the world.
Currently, I am on a dessert kick. My dessert making had stayed stuck somewhere in the 1950s - pound cakes, boring (but homemade) pies, cobblers, just same old, same old. So now I am scaling new heights. Most lately I have tried a recipe for lemon raisin scones. The next week I changed the recipe and made chocolate chip scones with a hint of orange flavor. And just yesterday, I made a cherry crostata. It tasted great but I call it the ugly baby - loved and worked on but still a little wrinkled. Well, it was supposed to look rustic, ok. Let me know if you want the recipe - I would be glad to pass it along.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Walnut Raisin Scones
Hello all. I have been a baking mood the last few weeks. It is not so much that I like eat (which I certainly do!) but more for the creativity of the thing. Also, it seems that I have tons of people in and out of my house on a daily basis (house help, language teacher, language coach, friends, neighbors) and I like to have something on hand to serve them. The other day I made scones for the first time and they came out very well. I am going to post the recipe below. Also, I plan to try these with chocolate chips and orange zest instead of the raisins and lemon zest. If anyone gets there before I do, let me know how yours turn out. Bon Appetite!
Walnut Raisin Scones
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons white sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
1/2 cup butter, cubed
3/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup raisins
3/4 cup buttermilk
2 tablespoons buttermilk
2 tablespoons white sugar
2 tablespoons chopped walnuts
Powerdered Sugar
1.In a large bowl combine flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt and lemon peel.
2.With a pastry blender or 2 knives, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Mix in all but 2 tablespoons of the nuts and the raisins. Mix in buttermilk with fork.
3.Gather the dough into a ball and knead for about 2 minutes on lightly floured board.
4.Roll or pat out 3/4 inch thick. With a chef's knife cut into 3 inch triangles. Place, spaced 1inch apart, on a greased baking sheet. Brush tops with remaining 1 tablespoon buttermilk; sprinkle with the remaining sugar and the nuts.
5.Bake in center of 425 degree F (220 degrees C) oven about 15 minutes or until nicely browned. Dust with powerdered sugar if desired. Serve warm with butter or jam.
Walnut Raisin Scones
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons white sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
1/2 cup butter, cubed
3/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup raisins
3/4 cup buttermilk
2 tablespoons buttermilk
2 tablespoons white sugar
2 tablespoons chopped walnuts
Powerdered Sugar
1.In a large bowl combine flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt and lemon peel.
2.With a pastry blender or 2 knives, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Mix in all but 2 tablespoons of the nuts and the raisins. Mix in buttermilk with fork.
3.Gather the dough into a ball and knead for about 2 minutes on lightly floured board.
4.Roll or pat out 3/4 inch thick. With a chef's knife cut into 3 inch triangles. Place, spaced 1inch apart, on a greased baking sheet. Brush tops with remaining 1 tablespoon buttermilk; sprinkle with the remaining sugar and the nuts.
5.Bake in center of 425 degree F (220 degrees C) oven about 15 minutes or until nicely browned. Dust with powerdered sugar if desired. Serve warm with butter or jam.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Pomp and Circumstance
Hello all! I have been in Lahore for the past week and just got back. It was a good trip - I went for an orientation to the country I am currently living in. We covered such diverse topics as cooking, politics, and culture.
Lahore was very cosmopolitan and quite classy. There were nice restaurants, great places to shop, and lots of history to take in. I did several touristy type of things, including seeing the ruins of one of the Mongol palaces. This place is called the Royal Fort and has tons of history. It was constructed by the great Mongol king, Akbar the Great. It is mostly in ruins now but if you let your imagination soar, you can imagine all the grandeur and pomp of the ancient East. What captured my attention the most was what our guide politely referred to as 'the women's quarters.' Another words, the king's harem. In the mind's eye, I could see beautiful dancing girls, dark men with flashing white teeth lounging on opulent cushions, and smell the exotic foods, fit for a king. There was also a private entrance for the family and a parking area for the elephants.
We also did the border ceremony at Wagua - the border between India and Pakistan.At sunset every evening the guards lower their respective flags of India and Pakistan. There is a cermony that goes with it and people of each nation fill the stands to cheer their country on. It was a good show, including a great deal of posturing and gesturing between the guards (the countries really don't like each other and it shows!). I think, all things told, this was Pakistan at it's best - full of extravagant gestures, pomp, and cleaner than I had ever seen it.
Lahore was very cosmopolitan and quite classy. There were nice restaurants, great places to shop, and lots of history to take in. I did several touristy type of things, including seeing the ruins of one of the Mongol palaces. This place is called the Royal Fort and has tons of history. It was constructed by the great Mongol king, Akbar the Great. It is mostly in ruins now but if you let your imagination soar, you can imagine all the grandeur and pomp of the ancient East. What captured my attention the most was what our guide politely referred to as 'the women's quarters.' Another words, the king's harem. In the mind's eye, I could see beautiful dancing girls, dark men with flashing white teeth lounging on opulent cushions, and smell the exotic foods, fit for a king. There was also a private entrance for the family and a parking area for the elephants.
We also did the border ceremony at Wagua - the border between India and Pakistan.At sunset every evening the guards lower their respective flags of India and Pakistan. There is a cermony that goes with it and people of each nation fill the stands to cheer their country on. It was a good show, including a great deal of posturing and gesturing between the guards (the countries really don't like each other and it shows!). I think, all things told, this was Pakistan at it's best - full of extravagant gestures, pomp, and cleaner than I had ever seen it.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Mother to Son
Mother to Son
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
Langston Hughes
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
Langston Hughes
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
A Corbin Tale
OK folks. I have a Corbin tale for you. Just as an update, Corbin got fixed (ummmm...I am not going to explain that one for all you non-animal lovers out there) on Sunday. I think they gave him too much anesthetic and he was extremely groggy and throwing up (who says I've never been a mother???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). Yes, yours truly cleaned it up. On Monday he was draggy and not his usual self. I was very worried about him and wondered if his personality was permanently altered. Ha! Have no fears - he is now back in full Corbin form. I rather suspected that he was feeling better yesterday when he tried to bit my hand at his usual ungodly hour (about 7:00 am). So he bites the hand that feeds him - he doesn't really care - he knows he will get breakfast anyway.
However, this morning, he reached new heights of peshu badness. I was sitting quietly in my living room, minding my own business when I hear a commotion going on downstairs. The mother from downstairs and one of the daughters come dashing up the stairs, Peshu in the lead. The mother was chasing Peshu with a broom and he was moving rather quickly for a cat who had surgery two days ago. Now the family downstairs is very good and they NEVER do this sort of thing - so I knew something was up. It turns out Peshu had a baby bird in his mouth. Broom or no broom, he was not going to let go of this bird. After being chased up the stairs, into my store room, and out of the store room, he was finally persuaded by the broom (with the mother behind it) to drop the baby bird. As an addendum for all you bird lovers out there, the bird did survive the ordeal and appears to be recovering nicely. Actually, the bird will probably fare better than Peshu when I get aholt of him - that's country talk for getting my hands on his scrawny little body. He is still hiding out at the moment but I am sure he will emerge shortly - after all, lunch is pending and he missed his morning snack - feathers and all.
However, this morning, he reached new heights of peshu badness. I was sitting quietly in my living room, minding my own business when I hear a commotion going on downstairs. The mother from downstairs and one of the daughters come dashing up the stairs, Peshu in the lead. The mother was chasing Peshu with a broom and he was moving rather quickly for a cat who had surgery two days ago. Now the family downstairs is very good and they NEVER do this sort of thing - so I knew something was up. It turns out Peshu had a baby bird in his mouth. Broom or no broom, he was not going to let go of this bird. After being chased up the stairs, into my store room, and out of the store room, he was finally persuaded by the broom (with the mother behind it) to drop the baby bird. As an addendum for all you bird lovers out there, the bird did survive the ordeal and appears to be recovering nicely. Actually, the bird will probably fare better than Peshu when I get aholt of him - that's country talk for getting my hands on his scrawny little body. He is still hiding out at the moment but I am sure he will emerge shortly - after all, lunch is pending and he missed his morning snack - feathers and all.
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