No Bananas In The Banana Pudding

A Rose remembered, and a banana pudding best forgotten.

My friend from California eats most of his meals out.  This morning he said he knew times in California where really tough, as the banana pudding he got off the dessert section of the buffet had no bananas in it, just some vanilla wafers and pudding.

This of course led to a “Tennessee” story.  One of those digging up memory times I love so dearly to hear.

My friends first banana pudding came from a woman named Rose.  This neighbor Rose lived up towards the top of the ridge.  Rose was a large old woman who wore an old worn out housedress that always looked like it had not been washed for weeks.  The big gold tooth taking the place of one of her two front top teeth was a point of fascination for my friend as he was a young boy.

It was a long steep walk up to Rose’s front door; people with cars drove up to the top of the ridge, parked and entered through the back door.  My friend eagerly made the walk to get offered a dish of Rose’ banana pudding.  His mother rarely cooked, and the children were left to feed themselves a good deal of the time if they wanted to eat.  How good was Rose’ banana pudding, who will ever know for sure as memory has the tender way of serving things up such as banana pudding memories that fall into the category of ‘some of the best ………. I ever ate.

Jessie

Jessie

I awoke this morning to the sound of the 3 o’clock train drifting through one of my opened transom windows.  The general name applied to this daily train sans several colorful adjectives also applied when referring to it allows an identifiable description.  The actual times may be as early as 1:30 am or as late as 4:30am.  In the case of two recent hurricanes, the train did not run.  This is Thursday and this morning the train reminded me that my yardman and newfound friend Jessie was coming to work for me today. 

The subject of the train came up as I drove Jessie home with many leftovers from our Thursday lunch together.  These leftover are intentional; I make enough food for four, we eat lunch, he takes leftovers home, and I have leftovers for supper.  The contents and the containers to hold them sometimes simply did not lend them selves to placement in the wire basket he places on his bicycle.  This bicycle being his only means of transportation other then by foot or friends.  As we drove across the railroad tracks and into his neighborhood, I asked him whether the 3am train woke him up very often.  “Ain’t nobody sleeps through that train.”  His answer led to a brief discussion of the respective ways we handled this daily occurrence. 

I love listening to and talking with Jessie.  He is on the other side of his mid-50’s and I am on this side of my mid-70’s.  We are of different races and cultures, our origins and backgrounds tie some simple things together such as the moving around we have done in our years, our love of funny stories arising out of experiences, and our ability to laugh at ourselves over some things we have done that have taken place over the years. 

Jessie calls our talks over lunch and at the end of his workday with me “socializing”.  I like that definition a lot.  Jessie has many interesting stories to tell, and a perspective on things that both firms up some of my own thinking or provides new insight and rethinking of my opinions on various topics we discuss.

I have decided to capture some of these stories and place them in this blog.  These stories will be as much in the manner in which he told them as possible.  Without that, they lose some of the wonderful spice, humor, and flavor he uses in his storytelling.

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Changing places, no more Windows Live Spaces

First Blog Post on Word Press.  I am feeling like I have just been evicted from a comfortable home.  This is a new place, to me anyway is where I will be blogging for the foreseeable future.  Good luck to me, good luck to anyone who tries to find me.

A Spring day, well in my heart anyway

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Today was a day I waged the dastardly effects of the Oak pollen in order to fill all my senses with the magnificent beauty of the abundance of spring offerings all around me. Afternoon coffee in hand I settled down on the glider housed in my screened in back porch and took it all in quietly and peacefully. The backdrop consisted of clear blue skies and brilliant sunshine, still reflecting some of the cold cast it takes on during winter months. The grass bears a haphazard multicolored combination of winters old and springs new, and the first tiny purple wild flowers stand brave and small awaiting for the first harsh cut of the mower. The still air is free for the moment of pollen and thus is sweet to the nose and provides better acoustics for my ears to capture the carefree laughter of the neighbor’s grandchildren next door playing outside. The trees are a riot of colors occurring only in spring, but hold the promises of richer hues to come. My neighbor across the road has a garden going, the content providing few surprises but the feast for the eyes of watching it grow will last for weeks if not months. These are the kinds of things I capture and hold in my heart to pull out in the few dark moments or times of my life to give my faith an additional boost, to pull up my bootstraps and carry on in spite of the challenge or burden at hand.

The rites of Spring

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Slowly a little each day I am escaping from my winter hibernation. Unlike a bear, this long winter has not resulted in any loss of stored up weight. Once again, I am able to start my early morning ritual of coffee outside while sitting in my screened in porch. This morning this event took place a little after 3am, and I actually feel like I am coming home after a long absence. The various types of frogs down at the creek were very erratic in their vocal offerings indicating they were not alone in the creek area or the woods across the road. Every season has its beauty, but spring as always is my favorite, and fills my heart and soul with its beauty.

The last frost hasn’t occurred until the Pecan trees bud:

First things first, but feel free to jump immediately to the last paragraph if you wish to get the point of this piece; I tend to go around Cock-Robins barn to get where I intend to go. My local grocery store does three bring ‘em in to shop gimmicks on Wednesday. The first is the usual weekly ad section available in the store. The second is what they call “Senior Wednesday,” in which anyone over 65 gets a 5 percent discount on food items minus some store-imposed restrictions of some types of products. The third, one free doughnut within in the 59 cent range of doughnuts offerings. The store has a nice Deli area that includes some of finest representations of a true southern diet, and an adjoining section with four booths serving store associates and customers who wish to eat-in. Another free senior treat available anytime the store is open is a small cup of coffee.

The decision to venture out in 30-degree weather a little after 8am Wednesday had nothing to do with any of the above. I simply needed 1 item to complete my ingredient list in a Crumpet recipe, and to replace some bananas that should have been in my pantry the day before for a banana cream pie I then intended to make. I grabbed one copy of the weekly ad offering, headed for the Deli, passed on the free doughnut selection and instead purchased a glazed twist, poured a half a cup of coffee, took three packets of non-creamer to help thin out the murky dark product in my small Styrofoam cup and headed for one of the booths. Three regulars were already there, and I took fourth booth. A woman who belongs to my church was making a grocery list as she went through the weekly ads. The two men seated in the other two booths were engaged in a familiar routine in that area. One person has a newspaper, one or more people are there and willing to participate in the routine. The person with the Newspaper reads a bit, looks up and usually starts out with “I see where …” or some similar conversation starter. This wonderful event leads to homespun takes on other people, current events, sparks a few arguments, laughs, and animated movements of the face and hands, or actual shifting of the entire body. I occasionally participate in a few of these events myself, but find I learn more by keeping my mouth shut. By the time I sat down all I got of the current conversation was the statement “I wish I could get married again so I would have someone to argue with.” He continued on “we used to have some wonderful arguments almost every morning.” That was the extent of the newspaper routine as he uttered a small sigh and went to reading without further comment.

My friend in the booth opposite me soon started a conversation of cold weather and suitable plants to place in the soon to arrive Earth Boxes I purchased. This is what I learned from a woman who was born and raised in this town adorned with Pecan trees; “The last frost is not over until the Pecan tree starts to put out buds. Anything else around here may start to bud and then have to start over again because of a late frost, but never the Pecan trees." Another piece of southern wisdom bordering on Folklore, “and you don’t plant Caladiums until after Irish Day.” I figured calling St. Patrick’s Day – Irish Day was a dyed in the wool Southern Baptists way of acknowledging St. Patrick’s Day.

Opportunities Missed.

I woke up this am to the sudden sound of large splats of rain bouncing off my metal roof. Just got my ears tuned in to enjoy the sound and as I groggily got up to open up the drapes for my eyes to experience this hard rain as well, as suddenly as it came, it went.

Just a few minutes later I stood at the sink looking out one of the kitchen windows at the magnificent magenta color in the horizon in front of me that promised a great sunrise. With my first cup of coffee in hand I headed for the little room I call my studio. A few months ago, I turned it into a temporary storage area for some odds and ends while the living room, family room, and dining room were being painted, to make the painter’s job easier. I have not inspired myself to use this room of late and a shut door makes it easy to forget this was a temporary move. There was plenty of space to sit in the room in front of a large picture window and enjoy my coffee. Instead of opening the blinds and plopping me and my coffee down to enjoy this front row seat for the daily choice of wonders that mother nature comes up with to start a day I set about clearing clutter.

I moved into the kitchen a wicker picnic-basket containing a small collection of interesting empty glass jars containing metal lids I someday planned to decoupage and fill with something I had not yet decided on. I took a peek into the basket and I pulled out an interesting olive oil bottle and decided I would fill it with cooking oil and set it in a handy spot near the stove. A small clear glass jar with a white metal top I decided I could use to store some finely ground kosher salt ahead of time, instead of stopping my baking process to grind salt. As I placed the salt grinder back on the counter next to the stove I noticed I had missed a grease spot during last nights cleaning, so set about applying stovetop cleaner and all the mess that involves.

Finally, I picked up my cup of coffee, now cold, and scurried to the studio, too late; the color was burdened down with heavy grey and black clouds. Whatever joy I anticipated was not going to be realized.

Technorati Tags: opportunities missed

Short trip surprises.

A 50+-mile trip to the bookstore yesterday brought abundant rewards. Clear blue skies, brilliant winter sun, some bright green fields to help heal my eyes from staring at the effects of winter these past few months. These things will happen again at different times, different places, and only bound by the limitations of my mood as I pass through them. Yesterday provided a rarer occasion, one that will mark a particular place with a fond memory on that very familiar road each time I pass over it.

In addition to the major product in these parts, timber this is cattle and horse country. There seemed to be several additions of herds along the way in places usually vacant of livestock. In one of those herds, I beheld a thing of beauty and joy, a few late winter births by Brahma cows. One in particular stood with legs spread bracing itself against the gravity that so desired to pull it down. This tiny shaky creature was wobbly, and determined to move toward the mother who ever so slowly, almost painfully moved away from her calf. It was in the process of learning of the first lessons of life that all creatures that do not slither or live in water must learn the ability to rise up and walk.

I missed this site coming home, I took a road I had not traveled before, because it was there I guess and because there is always a promise on a new road yet untraveled of some new adventure or thing of beauty that has to be discovered.

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How Pancake Day turned into Biscuit Day in my house.

First of all, happy Shrove Tuesday whatever that means to you. If Shrove Tuesday means nothing to you, be happy today about something else. My particular thrust of my life towards religion skips this particular celebration, I do not, and in fact, I try not to miss-out on anything that celebrates or gives me an opportunity to indulge in the pleasures of food.

I planned this day’s breakfast to coincide with the other popular name given to this observance, Pancake Tuesday. The pancakes I make on this day are small delicate golden brown beauties crowned with the best sweet butter I can get my hands on. A thin sprinkling of extra-fine sugar, a thin coating of Lingonberry preserves, a quick fold of two side into the center and I am ready to indulge in a bit of eating heaven. That was my plan yesterday.

Insomnia moved in last night, took over and during the course of using up excess calories, tossing and turning and before finally resorting to playing on POGO, I changed the plans for today’s breakfast and decided on homemade flour tortillas. Coming off the griddle fragrant, hot, just enough brown spots to get them done, just puffy enough to make them tender I could almost taste them as I thought about them simply adorned with butter and a light sprinkling of kosher salt and tightly rolled into a thin cylinder. I rush to the kitchen sink and stand over it to catch the melted butter that always drips out as I eat this treat.

Today I awoke and found the temperature outside stood at 28 degrees. Cold weather has numerous negative effects on my disposition towards doing even things I dearly love, in this case making breakfast. I thought about the careful process needed for the pancakes, the careful process needed for the flour tortillas, and decided on a breakfast treat I can almost make blindfolded and dancing a jig, drop biscuits made in a cast iron Lodge Biscuit pan. The recipe makes exactly enough dough to place in the seven round 3 and 1/2 “across 1” high holes. Each step carefully carried out to insure a very thin crispy golden brown outside crust of that part of the biscuit trapped in the hole, and a craggy golden brown top befitting the image of a good drop biscuit. Hot, fluffy, tender, and aromatic these biscuits await the adornment of sweet butter, and either the mild golden acacia honey or the darker, thicker local honey. Whatever chosen the result is the arising from within the sweetest part of my disposition to join me in the feast and forget the cold weather and at least for the rest of the day ward off any threat of driving my sweet disposition back into hiding.

I pay homage to Pancake Tuesday with but a memory of what today’s breakfast might have been, I paid homage to the substituted intentions of flour tortillas, and I raise my biscuit laden hand to salute in utter content and satisfaction the final choice for this Pancake Tuesday, a delicious drop biscuit.

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