December Days

"The coming of the snow adds zest to my activities.  Now there will be time for a multitude of things that during the feverish moving about of summer and fall were denied me, leisure after the long and constant busyness.  To me that is the real meaning of the first snowfall – not a cessation of effort, but a drawing of the curtain on so many of the warm-weather activities that consume so much time.  The snow means a return to a world of order, peace, and simplicity."  – Sigurd Olson, from The Singing Wilderness

Olson has it partially right – he having lived up in the Quetico Wilderness, MN, surrounded by the grandeur of ice castle lakes and crystal cathedral pines (not to mention a naturalist by trade).  But for this family, although our bodies 

Mt. La Crosse Opening Day

might find some fun in the speeding dash over icy fields, our minds are firmly set on the sea to come.  

Sanibel, Fl. Lighthouse

The Sanibel and Captiva Islands are considered the top shelling destinations in North America, and people from around the world, attracted to the naturally occurring jewel like treasures permanently on display along the beaches, make pilgrimages to walk the white dusty beaches to perform what is called the "Sanibel Stoop," or the "Captiva Crouch," depending upon which of the twin islands you happen to be shelling.  

As one write-up boasts, "Sanibel Island and Captiva Island have earned their reputation as the Shell Islands honestly.  The Islands are actually made out of shells, like some magnificent work of shell art created over thousands of years.  When islanders dig gardens in their backyards, they find conchs, whelks, scallops, and clam shells often perfectly intact."  

It's the distinct geography of the islands – shaped in a curve along the coastline among a string of other more orderly, straight-and-narrow islands – that creates what is called an "east-west torque...serving like a shovel scooping up all the seashells that the Gulf imports from the Caribbean and other southern seas."  Shellers find themselves on daily scavenger hunts; seeking out new members for their collection for the sake of classification, beauty, or both.  

Old-Time Kitchens and Cooking

If modern conveniences and abundant food availability make it somewhat more difficult to find the 'thanks' in Thanksgiving, all it takes is a short step backwards into history and gaze onto the simple scene of a local La Crosse pioneer-era kitchen, and it should, one hopes, come back quickly.  What's difficult to decide when looking back there is whether we are to appreciate more the simplicity of hunger of the old days, or the exaggerated abundance of today.  Either way, there seems to be some reward in pondering the housewife of old setting a table with home-made gourd cups, or the idea of

using the gas from fish bladders for gelatin in "Calf's-foot Mange," a recipe calling for either a "pint of calf's foot jelly or isinglass along with beaten yolks of six eggs, sweetened and chilled."  In this, the sweetened part shouldn't be taken for granted, for sugar was scarce, to the point that when it did find its way into the cabin, mostly in lumps, it was stored in a bucket-like 'piggin,' or often "wrapped  

in felt-like paper and placed on the top shelf of the pantry...even hung from the attic rafters away from mice and children."  A local story goes that, "on the farm of a certain family sugar was very scarce.  When the son of this family helped the neighbor thresh his grain he was invited to dinner.  To his surprise, they had a sugar bowl of sugar on the table.  When he went home that evening he told his family about the sugar.  They all envied him.  Molasses was used commonly in place of sugar.  Rounds of cheese and firkins of butter were made for family use or exchanged at the market for other commodities."

A lust for spare sugar?  Trading to get a good slab of well churned butter?  My pig for your dried beef?  No doubt the concept of gratitude would be built-in to the year's end celebration of the

harvest.  Who could carve out a smooth wooden spoon had himself a side-trade; to tend to the iron kettle all day long that sat atop a wood stove which must be fired by the labor of axe hands would be

expected.  Food wasn't what you rushed, but what you did for the day.  Many old recipes give some idea of ingredients, but often didn't set out specific measurements, just "a coffee cup or tea cup," full, and cooking times and temperatures were, for obvious reasons, not included.  The skillet distance from the core of a coal might mean black or perfectly brown johnny cakes.  And all too eat on what?  "The early settlers had a very simple table setting, with flour sacking for tablecloths if any...A young bride had round dome-shaped woven wire covers over the food dishes on her table to keep off the flies; especially was this true of the butter dish."

Despite the flies and the work all day long, it must have come as some fine shock to the tongue to sit down to table, hunched over the potato bags, to taste even the most subtle sweet morsel of vanilla in a cold wooden bowl of Philadelphia Ice Cream:

Two Quarts of milk (cream if you have it)

Three tablespoons of arrowroot

The whites of eight eggs well beaten

One pound of powdered sugar

**Boil the milk, thicken with arrowroot, add the sugar, and pour the whole upon the eggs.  If you wish it flavored with vanilla split half a bean, and boil it in the milk

Talapia With Tomatoes and Leeks

Yes, it was back in Toulouse, I remember now, that we would stroll the Victor Hugo Market on a friday night in search of our Sunday fish.  We would never buy at night, of course, but it was then that we would ask the questions of the vendors as to what they might be bringing to market early the next morning.  One man, I remember him well, an Andalusian originally, said that it was he himself,

beginning on thursday morning at rooster call, who would take to the wild blue sea on his dinghy with two small nets to catch only enough Talapia that he could keep cold all the way to market the

next morning.  Once there, his wife sat in the back of their rented kiosk tending to their 'school,' as he called them affectionately as if they were family to the point of giving each of them names.  It gave us a new perspective on such fish, I can tell you this.  It was this man who pulled me aside one morning and with sweet smoky breath said that in his own homeland his aunt prepared the fish with tomatoes and leeks.  You must dice the leeks, she said, thin but not too thin so that they covered the bottom of her favorite baking dish.

Sea salt and the crunch of peppercorn over the oiled leeks to roast over an open fire for two handfuls of minutes.  She said the seagulls circling the crested islands miles offshore would smell the leeks they were so sweetly earthly but luckily flock too late for the serving.  I cannot fully remember the witches brew of seasonings over the fish that she suggested but we covered our filets with crushed garlic and thyme and more oil off of the local branches.  Add cherry tomatoes then the filets for another two handfuls of minutes. Soon after the Talapia would begin to dance again.

White Bean Soup 

The ham hock had been placed inside the wood stove with only one piece of wood continuously burning since morning.  Grandfather ladled over it skillet juice from six oranges and white onions.  

When he pulled it out of the stove it had caramelized in a thick husk and all in the house at that point could no longer wait for soup and stood beside the cutting board waiting for stray bits of ham like the farm animals might themselves if they were allowed in the kitchen.

"There is no need to cut meat the way the books tell you.  You cut the meat the way your mouth tells you.  Here" he said, dicing up two pieces of ham from the hock, one large and without shape, and another small like a square disc. "You tell me, which one does your mouth prefer.  Assume that is the one that others might like as well."  There was nothing wrong with the small disc, but the awkward shaped piece felt like the beginning of a meal and was hearty and carried more of the orange and onion.  "Now you know what we must do now. It saddens me, of course, to discuss this part of the preparation, but sadness is just one more spice." He bore down with great concentration and revery now on the cutting of the ham.  "At the time of leaving the Great War, Casablanca was our first and only landing before we were off to the states.  It was disappointing, as I have told you before, to leave something as immense as ones homeland in France only to cross the channel to stop such a short distance away.  All was dangerous then.  It was there, where we waited for our visas to arrive, or hoped that they might, that I moved in among the great spice alleys, as we would call them, and where  

great pots of soup, much like what we are making here today, were stirred by boys who carried small monkeys on chains besides them.  The nose did not know what to do in Casablanca.  The sea and desert mingled with roasting lamb.  Cigar and pipe smoke rose from all corners....you know many

were not as lucky as I to leave Morocco. Great power resides in the herbs and spices from the lands of the Mediterranean."  Then, all in virtually one motion, he had wrapped sprigs of oregano, thyme,

parsley and a bayleaf inside two cut stalks of celery, placed them inside the pot along with stock, scraped the ham shreds and seeded tomatoes in, and covered it, as though a magician stuffing a rabbit back in.  Outside, DeGaulle, our ancient Australian

mutt of a sheepherder let out a rare wild yelp, no doubt catching the odor of a crosswind of ham from  the porch and out onto the entrance of the field.  "You know, you can hear hunger in the wind."

White Bean Soup

On the farm the chickens in the coop began to stir at four in the afternoon. The fields had become a checkerboard of sunshine and shaking crops.  Avocados seemed to ripen a golden green as if upon the demand of touch.  Grandfather left the door open so that the sun might gather and enter.  "Cook from morning until night on sunny days," he would say. "Each must be celebrated."  Fortunately the sun shone most of the year around in these great hill valleys.  It was said that this farm was blessed by the memories of Provence.  This day he had set aside a small station next to the stove for me.  Sister Elizabeth would come down later and ask, when the time had past, if she could help.  "Now, to handle a fine Roma, first, you must roll it around in the palm of your hand to feel if it has proper ripeness."

"Don't worry about the chickens, their eggs are most delicious when they stay a bit hungry." He reached over his chef hat, which flopped backwards and sagged like poorly constructed dough.  "De-seeding is nothing if it isn't fun, each a small adventure, you see; take time to cut out each core and then I want you to cut a small X across the end."  He shuffled the handle of the boiling water gently.  The sunshine coming in through the window caught an inner crescent of the pan.

"Dip the tomato into the boiling water with a slotted spoon for the count of 30, then as quickly let it sit in this bowl of ice water.  You will be able to see the sides begin to peel.  Take them off, but save them.  Maybe we will feed them to the chickens later, if they are lucky."  His was an ongoing battle with poultry.  So cute, he would say, and tasty, but a curse upon the farmer, always attracting trouble from the neighborhood. I had been cooking now since I was four and a half years old.  It was said that the wishes of grandmother had fallen on me when I was born.  She did not make the great flight to the states in the early 40's, but remained in her tiny French countryside village outside of Toulouse.  She

swore that she would defend her kitchen garden against the comings and goings of the German army with every spade and hoe she owned.  Grandfather was a wanted man and had to flee the country.  The regime had sited him as an insurrectionist because his cooking had become such an agent of gathering that his skills in the kitchen were mistaken for political.  Grandmother sent with her only daughter, Talese, three heirloom tomato seeds in a small pot covered in cheesecloth with instructions to keep them alive and thereby remember her French origin by tending to the vines as if a family
tree....

November

"Likewise for Tita the joy of living was wrapped up in the delights of food. It wasn't easy for a person whose knowledge of life was based on the kitchen to comprehend the outside world."
         – from Like Water for Chocolate





BLT & Poached Egg Salad

1Tbsp Dijon Mustard
1 tsp minced shallot
1/4 tsp sugar
Salt and freshly ground pepper
4 Tbsp white wine vinegar
3 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
6 slices thick-cut bacon, coarsely chopped
6 heads Little Gem lettuce
2 cups halved cherry tomatoes
4-6 large eggs

Preparation:


The most important thing when poaching eggs is to take care to drop the egg in the boiling pot slowly and be sure to aim for the sides.  Too many eggs boiling in the middle of the pan will begin to join together and before you know it the water is very inedible white foam.  Do not become too attached to the success of any one of these eggs for one will surely disappoint you.  I know this from trying to poach in a previous kitchen in which I was quite certain that one of mine that I dropped in the not hot enough water might hatch to a small chick and fly up across the small herb garden outside the door and disappear in the corn.  Try to remember that the perfect little incandescent bulb of a successfully poached egg will, as soon as you poke it with your fork, turn to soup anyway, a bit like the magical trick of now you have it, now you don't.  Grandfather used to toss his poached eggs in the air to test their 'durability' as he called it.  If they rose two feet in the air, then back into the palm without breaking, he gave a wide grin then curled his lips under his profound mustache and bent over to save them in his secret poaching bowl as if they were found gems.

Grandfather was indeed much a magician in the kitchen as he was not any sort of trained chef.  It was said that Grandpa was born only capable of speaking French language.  He had been raised, it was true, in Soldiers Grove Wisconsin on a small dairy farm but he was born on a warplane in the

Great War years in flight somewhere over the Atlantic between Toulouse France and New York.  It was only at seven years old, the family story goes, that he became bilingual and could say his name in English. Each day he was known for leaving the counter tops and sinks clinking with tipping stacks of uneven dishes, pots and pans two and three thick.  Flour dusted in every corner of countertops, vegetable knives and granules of tossed salt found in the cracks near warped wooden cutting boards.  There were, as we remembered, pockets of extraordinary smells in various parts of his kitchen.  Onion stations merged in with day old broth simmering under the fat hood of the old stove.  He had planted a wood burning stove in the opposite corner where he might be heating black bean and

parsnip stew.  How could one interrupt such necessary concentration?  Grandmother might display dishes on the table or Marie might turn the wooden spoon in the lemonade as if by automatic instruction.  This is how I learned to cook – there were no lists of severe rules. Every item had its life and feel.  It knew, itself, when it was to be done.  It was only in the imagination of the cook that decided to communicate with the components of each dish.

Background: Casablanca, WWII


If General Eisenhower or any other American commander would have been asked in the years leading up to the Allied invasion at Normandy where a likely attack might be staged to initiate American involvement in the Great War,  Casablanca, the largest city in Morocco North Africa, would not have

Casablanca, originally called Anfa

been mentioned on the list.  Late to enter WWII, the Americans under President Roosevelt's charge finally offered its true weight, beyond the famous Lend Lease Program, and joined Britain in plans to form an alliance that would attempt a 'Cross Channel' attack against Axis powers.  Many American strategists, new to this war, not yet fatigued as much of the rest of Europe, and still holding onto previous century military philosophy, wanted to move onto western Europe directly.  But looking at the problem from a wiser perspective, Eisenhower and others decided that first there must be a period of time not only to militarily stage what eventually became D-Day on the French beachheads, but to politically stage this first of its kind unified front against the spreading Nazi Regime. The city of Casablanca, primarily known to modern Americans as a classic movie title starring Bogart and

Bergman, happened to be the most critical port in Africa and at the time Vichy France's chief military port outside of Toulouse.  It's important to remember that France at this point had been divided into two regional powers by force: northern France, having been taken and claimed by Germany under an aggressor-style armistice negotiation, and southern Vichy France, which was, in name only, still under control of France, but influenced on all levels by Nazi Germany.  This included all North African colonies under French rule such as Casablanca and Algiers (Recalling the great movie Casablanca, this would be best understood by the complicated political relationships between Rick, the American expatriate 'gun runner' and owner of Cafe Americain, the French military captain Louis, the newly arrived German commander, and the Czech Resistance leader Victor Laszlo.)

The Allies progressed toward Operation Torch, which was to secure critical ports, airfields, resources, and political headquarters in Northern Africa.  What would later be named the North African Campaign, spanning between June 1940 and May of 1943, is not always recognized as significant as later episodes of the War, but it was in these years that the likes of Eisenhower, Churchill, Stalin, DeGaulle, Patton and Montgomery would learn how to lead a world wide force that would not seek to

Churchill and DeGaulle 1944

later take over power of the countries to be liberated, but to give it back.