Divertisement

 

When unable to write, my first impulse is to eat, drink a cup of coffee, or at least think of food. The following recipe will not satisfy “writers block”, but it is delicious, nutritious, and rather inexpensive (once you have purchased the ingredients.)

Ingredients

1 – One point of high quality, vanilla ice cream

2 – One or two jiggers of Grand Marnier Liquor

3 – One pint of fresh strawberries

Procedure

In your favorite dessert serving bowl, allow the pint of vanilla ice cream to melt at room temperature. When the ice cream has melted, stir it so as to remove any remaining lumps. Take half of the berries and place them into the ice cream. Mix them gently. Now place the serving bowl into the refrigerator and remove just prior to serving. When dessert times arrive, put the remaining berries into the ice cream. The initial berry group may have dropped beneath the surface of the ice cream. The latter berries will float until you mix in the one or two jiggers of Grand Marnier. The amount of liquor used depends upon your taste. Serve the dessert in individual cups. The recipe serves at least four, more likely six persons. More often than not, your guests will not guess the basic ingredient, and they will insist that the cream is unique, delicious and tres chic!

Home Cookin!!

 

Oh boy, I just can’t wait,

To sit in my kitchen and salivate.

After eating that hospital slop,

And sometimes puking – hey, get a mop!

I almost forgot that food had a taste,

All food seemed made with hospital waste!

All I wanted was something edible.

Is that a request so incredible?

A little sugar, a little spice,

Some lox and eggs would be so nice.

But all that came was low fat jello,

No egg white, just the yellow.

Maybe there’s more to my cure,

But I’ve had it with their plat du jour.

They tried to fool us with foreign names.

But with food, I don’t play games.

I know that lamb is not yet mutton

I can’t be fooled by crusted cotton.

I know they fed outdated Spam

I’m an expert on Green Eggs and Ham.

But now I’m home and my fridge is loaded,

I can eat at will, until I’m bloated.

I can fill my gut with fat and lean,

And every item in between.

I can start my day with hot sausage and fries,

And end my night with Entemanns pies.

I can pour on the spices till my mouth burns bright

So I’ll suffer heart burn throughout the night.

Bacon, shrimp, hot-dogs, and spaghetti,

Home cooking, home cookin, I feel better already.

Divertissement

When unable to write, my first impulse is to eat, drink a cup of coffee, or at least think of food. The following recipe will not satisfy “writer’s block,” but it is delicious, nutritious and rather inexpensive.

Ingredients:
1. One pint of high quality, vanilla ice cream.
2. One or two jiggers of Grand Marnier Liquor.
3. One pint of fresh strawberries.
Procedure:
In your favorite dessert serving bowl, allow the pint of vanilla ice cream to melt at room temperature. When that ice cream has melted, stir it so as to remove any remaining lumps. Take half of the berries and place them into the ice cream. You can cut the berries in half if you would like. Mix them gently. Now place the serving bowl into the refrigerator and remove just prior to serving. When dessert time arrives, put the remaining berries into the ice cream. The initial berry group may have dropped beneath the surface of the ice cream. The latter berries will float until you mix in the one or two jiggers of Grand Marnier. The amount of liquor depends upon your taste. Serve the dessert in individual cups. The recipe serves at least 4, but more likely six persons.

More often than not, your quests will not guess the basic ingredient, and they will insist that the cream is unique, delicious and tres chic!

Outrage on the Express Line

When the woman removed the can of Draino from her shopping cart my blood boiled. She had purchased 11 items. The sign above the register clearly stated, “Express Lane Eight Items Only.” Even if I accepted the three cans of corn niblets as one item, she was two items over the limit.

I stared at the nape of her neck, her left ear, and her left cheek. I stared at the store clerk. I couldn’t stare hard enough to satisfy my rage. My eyes were shouting, but no one was listening to them.

I wanted to call everything to a halt. I thought of pulling the plug on the store computer cash register. Didn’t the clerk see the injustice of it? The letters on the sign were printed in bold, bright red paint. The message was unmistakable: “Express Lane Eight Items Only.”

In my desperation I sought some explanation for her callousness. I needed a way to excuse her behavior. She was not aged, nor did she seem crazed. Perhaps she was on her way to the hospital, or perhaps she left several unattended infants at home in front of a defective kerosene heater. There had to be a reason for her utter disregard of the social order.

Why was I so helpless? I couldn’t speak. My tongue curled in my mouth, and my clenched jaw muscles ached. The screams were just behind my lips. The curses recirculated from my mouth to my brain and back again.

I turned to look at the woman behind me. She smiled politely, but she couldn’t , or worse, she wouldn’t help. Maybe she didn’t notice the felony,. I tried to convey my torment with my face, but words were needed and I couldn’t produce any. I thought of mumbling to myself, just loud enough to be heard but not enough to be seen as hostile or rude. I think I did say, damn, or darn it, or some derivative. Whatever I did say, was the most feeble expression I could muster.

The woman was finished. She paid her bill, grabbed her bags and left the store.

I put my quart of milk on the counter and said, “boy, oh boy.” Another enfeebled exclamation. The clerk looked right through me. She asked for my ninety-eight cents, and proceeded to package my milk. I left the store and headed for my car with my feelings were still under siege.

Suddenly, I turned and ran back to the store. I needed revenge. I rushed to the managers booth. I told him that I had just been on the Express Lane and that I needed to report a…a what??? What was I to report? An outrage? A lewd act? A stupidity – a what? The culprit was gone. Only the clerk could be faulted. Did I want to turn the clerk in? I told the manager that in addition to the sign he now had over the Express Lane, he ought to list the punishments for violating the Express Lane rule. He looked at me as if I was crazy. He asked me what I meant. The moment of truth. I couldn’t tell him – I just couldn’t.

I told him that I would call with some suggestions. I felt so awkward – so childish. Why didn’t I go to the 7-11 in the first place.

 

RECIPE ???

The shower water was getting too cool so I turned up the hot faucet. I was shampooing my hair with more vigor than usual, and trying to recall Suzanne’s recipe for Rillette. I remembered the pork butt, and duck fat, and crushed hot pepper and nothing else. I scrubbed my hair even harder in an futile attempt to recall the rest of the recipe. Perhaps if I massaged my scalp, the ingredients would be revealed. I could not recall anything else. I rinsed my hair, and bagged the conditioner treatment. The forgotten recipe had my total attention.

For many years since her death I have planned to make the Rillette, and at one time I thought I recalled the entire recipe. With the passage of time, each ingredient has slipped into  the fog of memory. As I was drying myself, I felt a sudden  sense of relief. A complete sense of comfort. I stopped reaching for the recipe recall. I felt so pleased – so at peace.  I realized that I did not need the recipe. I did not need to make Suzanne’s Rillette. I will never make the Rillette, and I had no need to revive the recipe.

I knew the Rillette. I knew how it looked in the bowl. I knew the color. I certainly knew the unique taste. I could see the cornichon at the edges of the bowl.  The Rillettes was mine forever, and what is more I saw Suzanne preparing the Rillette. I saw her face, hair, and apron covering her dress. I heard her voice while cooking. I could see her mashing the pork, and mixing the elusive ingredients. And then, the taste, the bread, the wine, and the joy of having lived through the experience. I knew I could never – no not ever reproduce the Rillette, and certainly not that moment in our life.  Our memories are unique, precious, and so private. I am very pleased they are private. They cannot be shared, nor recreated. What a treat!