- Published on
...Otherwise known as - The Day the Pie Flew
It all began one Christmas long ago, back in the era of the 1980’s. I was single, pretending to be a cowgirl in Texas, near both brothers and their families. While we often made the journey to our parents’ home in Mississippi, we were known to stay in Houston some years. (Those trips to Mississippi are another story...)
This particular Christmas pulled on my heartstrings. I was teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant junior high students. It was a great experience, as my students were eager to learn and thankful to me for helping. Somehow, I also found myself volunteering as a Student Council co-sponsor for the 8th grade. Part of our “helping others” program that year was a collection of foods brought in by students to prepare Christmas Food Boxes and toys for families in need. It turned out that many of those in need were my students’ families. Yet, they brought in food to donate to others. Witnessing this was a lesson in grace and gratitude for me, but I had more to learn this particular Christmas.
I helped the vice-principal deliver the food boxes on the last afternoon before Christmas holidays. Many of the families lived in trailers, not really mobile homes, just small trailers that had seen much better days. There were holes in the floor of one; they had been carefully covered with a bit of wood and cardboard. Another family had a new baby; there was no room for a crib. The baby was nestled in blankets in a drawer that had been removed to use as a bed. The drawer was under the kitchen sink, where it was warm next to the stove. And yet – these families greeted us kindly and thankfully. They knew we were coming, and many had prepared food for us! It was another lesson for me: to appreciate what I had always taken for granted – a warm bed to sleep in and food on the table.
Somehow, I’m embarrassed to say, the lessons from this whole experience weren't learned immediately. Instead, I became impatient and slipped into a “bad mood” – thinking my own family's Christmas was excessive and needless. Those two words had never occurred to me during Christmas, but that year they were stuck both in my head and my attitude.
My parents traveled from Mississippi to celebrate with my brothers and me. Christmas Day was at my brother and sis-in-law’s (Jackie and Jane’s) house. I was told to bring not one, but TWO chocolate pies. This was not just any chocolate pie. It was Mama’s chocolate meringue pie, well-known during Thanksgiving and Christmas for its fluffy meringue top and its firm and creamy chocolate custard filling. I had tackled it before, but never on my own. Mama was always around to supervise. This year, however, during my time of need, she decided to spend quality time with her grandchildren instead of me.
I tried very hard to be patient and joyful, but that miserable mood was still hanging over my head and somehow transferred itself right into those two pies. I’ve always heard that the finest cooking ingredient is love and that our emotions transfer into what we are cooking. I was about to become a believer.
I didn’t give the famous chocolate pies quite enough love. Stirring endlessly is as necessary to any combo of hot milk and eggs, as it is to a gumbo roux. One must have either infinite patience, or a glass of wine to accomplish the deed. In hindsight, I should have poured an infinite glass.
I made the pies, and thought they looked runny, but decided they would firm up after being in the refrigerator overnight. Nope, on Christmas morning, when we packed up gifts and food to go to my brother’s, those darn pies were trying to slosh right out of their pie plates. They were neither firm, nor creamy. Mama, being a kind-hearted person, said they were fine and only needed to sit for awhile. I looked at her incredulously, as the pies had literally “sat” in a cold fridge all night. My miserable mood was back in spades.
Daddy and I put the pies on a dish cloth on the backseat floor of my NEW car. At the last turn onto my brother’s street, the pies slid into each other and sloshed chocolate filling all over the carpet of the new car. As a wise person likely said in times like this - that was the last straw!
I pulled my car over and jumped out like a wasp was after me. As luck would have it, my brother’s house was on a street with a huge drainage ditch running along one side of the road. I grabbed one of those pies. My miserable mood magically disappeared with one swing of my arm, as I hurled that famous chocolate meringue pie into the ditch.
Mama and Daddy just looked at me, probably wondering if was safer for them to walk the rest of the way to my brother’s. Daddy, never one to waste food, decided to play bodyguard to the second pie, before it could meet the fate of its pie sister. He grabbed the remaining pie and held it to his chest, protecting it from me and declaring that he would eat it no matter what.
At that moment, I snapped out of THE MOOD and my ridiculous sideshow. I apologized and we drove on safely for two whole minutes to my brother’s house. Jackie came out to meet us and to help carry gifts and food inside. He took one look at the pie in Daddy’s chocolate-covered hands and said, “What happened?” As one, Mama and Daddy answered, “Don’t ask.” By this time Daddy was licking his fingers and declaring the pie to be delicious. I felt like such an idiot, but my miserable mood had flown into the ditch with the pie. Lessons were finally learned from the best "teachers" standing in front of me: No gift was as great as having parents and family so patient and good-hearted. This was my lesson for that Christmas and remains so even to this day.
The moment we walked inside, my brother, Jackie, grabbed a spoon and dug into the pie. A big brother teasing grin was on his face that dared me to say something. The salvaged chocolate pie, soupy though it was, got eaten and enjoyed. By day’s end, we all had a good laugh over my “moody” pies. That wasn’t the end.
The story has been retold and laughed at over the decades by family and friends. During the holidays, I’m often asked, “Remember that pie? Are you going to make one this year?” I did go on to make more of those pies, patiently stirring, but always with a bit of trepidation. Have they ever turned out to be runny again? I’ll never tell; let’s just say I’ve never again hurled one into a ditch.
~~~Dedicated to my dear friend, Steve Wannamaker, who never lets me forget the day the chocolate pie flew into the ditch~
Mama's Chocolate Meringue Pie recipe on MissCookbook.com
It all began one Christmas long ago, back in the era of the 1980’s. I was single, pretending to be a cowgirl in Texas, near both brothers and their families. While we often made the journey to our parents’ home in Mississippi, we were known to stay in Houston some years. (Those trips to Mississippi are another story...)
This particular Christmas pulled on my heartstrings. I was teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant junior high students. It was a great experience, as my students were eager to learn and thankful to me for helping. Somehow, I also found myself volunteering as a Student Council co-sponsor for the 8th grade. Part of our “helping others” program that year was a collection of foods brought in by students to prepare Christmas Food Boxes and toys for families in need. It turned out that many of those in need were my students’ families. Yet, they brought in food to donate to others. Witnessing this was a lesson in grace and gratitude for me, but I had more to learn this particular Christmas.
I helped the vice-principal deliver the food boxes on the last afternoon before Christmas holidays. Many of the families lived in trailers, not really mobile homes, just small trailers that had seen much better days. There were holes in the floor of one; they had been carefully covered with a bit of wood and cardboard. Another family had a new baby; there was no room for a crib. The baby was nestled in blankets in a drawer that had been removed to use as a bed. The drawer was under the kitchen sink, where it was warm next to the stove. And yet – these families greeted us kindly and thankfully. They knew we were coming, and many had prepared food for us! It was another lesson for me: to appreciate what I had always taken for granted – a warm bed to sleep in and food on the table.
Somehow, I’m embarrassed to say, the lessons from this whole experience weren't learned immediately. Instead, I became impatient and slipped into a “bad mood” – thinking my own family's Christmas was excessive and needless. Those two words had never occurred to me during Christmas, but that year they were stuck both in my head and my attitude.
My parents traveled from Mississippi to celebrate with my brothers and me. Christmas Day was at my brother and sis-in-law’s (Jackie and Jane’s) house. I was told to bring not one, but TWO chocolate pies. This was not just any chocolate pie. It was Mama’s chocolate meringue pie, well-known during Thanksgiving and Christmas for its fluffy meringue top and its firm and creamy chocolate custard filling. I had tackled it before, but never on my own. Mama was always around to supervise. This year, however, during my time of need, she decided to spend quality time with her grandchildren instead of me.
I tried very hard to be patient and joyful, but that miserable mood was still hanging over my head and somehow transferred itself right into those two pies. I’ve always heard that the finest cooking ingredient is love and that our emotions transfer into what we are cooking. I was about to become a believer.
I didn’t give the famous chocolate pies quite enough love. Stirring endlessly is as necessary to any combo of hot milk and eggs, as it is to a gumbo roux. One must have either infinite patience, or a glass of wine to accomplish the deed. In hindsight, I should have poured an infinite glass.
I made the pies, and thought they looked runny, but decided they would firm up after being in the refrigerator overnight. Nope, on Christmas morning, when we packed up gifts and food to go to my brother’s, those darn pies were trying to slosh right out of their pie plates. They were neither firm, nor creamy. Mama, being a kind-hearted person, said they were fine and only needed to sit for awhile. I looked at her incredulously, as the pies had literally “sat” in a cold fridge all night. My miserable mood was back in spades.
Daddy and I put the pies on a dish cloth on the backseat floor of my NEW car. At the last turn onto my brother’s street, the pies slid into each other and sloshed chocolate filling all over the carpet of the new car. As a wise person likely said in times like this - that was the last straw!
I pulled my car over and jumped out like a wasp was after me. As luck would have it, my brother’s house was on a street with a huge drainage ditch running along one side of the road. I grabbed one of those pies. My miserable mood magically disappeared with one swing of my arm, as I hurled that famous chocolate meringue pie into the ditch.
Mama and Daddy just looked at me, probably wondering if was safer for them to walk the rest of the way to my brother’s. Daddy, never one to waste food, decided to play bodyguard to the second pie, before it could meet the fate of its pie sister. He grabbed the remaining pie and held it to his chest, protecting it from me and declaring that he would eat it no matter what.
At that moment, I snapped out of THE MOOD and my ridiculous sideshow. I apologized and we drove on safely for two whole minutes to my brother’s house. Jackie came out to meet us and to help carry gifts and food inside. He took one look at the pie in Daddy’s chocolate-covered hands and said, “What happened?” As one, Mama and Daddy answered, “Don’t ask.” By this time Daddy was licking his fingers and declaring the pie to be delicious. I felt like such an idiot, but my miserable mood had flown into the ditch with the pie. Lessons were finally learned from the best "teachers" standing in front of me: No gift was as great as having parents and family so patient and good-hearted. This was my lesson for that Christmas and remains so even to this day.
The moment we walked inside, my brother, Jackie, grabbed a spoon and dug into the pie. A big brother teasing grin was on his face that dared me to say something. The salvaged chocolate pie, soupy though it was, got eaten and enjoyed. By day’s end, we all had a good laugh over my “moody” pies. That wasn’t the end.
The story has been retold and laughed at over the decades by family and friends. During the holidays, I’m often asked, “Remember that pie? Are you going to make one this year?” I did go on to make more of those pies, patiently stirring, but always with a bit of trepidation. Have they ever turned out to be runny again? I’ll never tell; let’s just say I’ve never again hurled one into a ditch.
~~~Dedicated to my dear friend, Steve Wannamaker, who never lets me forget the day the chocolate pie flew into the ditch~
Mama's Chocolate Meringue Pie recipe on MissCookbook.com
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The author, Pam, and her two brothers
Our family always went crazy over Thanksgiving. Our family never ate at a restaurant for our Thanksgiving meal, unless on vacation. The fun was cooking and eating together at home. It was a day to share our food and home with family and friends. There was always extra room at the table, in case someone knew of a friend who had no place to go for Thanksgiving.
My two older brothers and I always remember waking up on Thanksgiving morning with the delightful smells of celery and onions cooking. Mama always woke up early to start cooking her dressing for the meal. People up North call it “stuffing,” but in the South, we call it dressing. Dressing doesn’t get cooked inside the turkey. It’s a side dish make of cornbread, onions, celery, and chicken broth. Additions like pecans, oysters, or shredded chicken are popular. Mama added chicken to hers. (Here's the link to Mama's Chicken Cornbread Dressing.)
Mama cooked most of the meal, but Daddy always got up early on Thanksgiving morning and made a fruit salad with bananas, oranges, and whatever other fruits were available. My older brother, Charles, loved to help him. Mama decided to be competitive one year and established another fruit salad tradition, otherwise known as that salad with the little marshmallows". Bless her heart, only Michael Young (my 2nd mom's son), Mama, and I really liked it! But everyone always ate some.
Mama was famous for her pies at Thanksgiving. She cooked a complete variety of them: lemon meringue, chocolate cream meringue, pecan, coconut meringue, and sometimes pumpkin. Friends showed up after our Thanksgiving meal to just eat pie! Those Ford sisters (Susan and Chrissy) used to come over and rave over the pies, making Mama so happy! The counter was full of them, plus a pound cake or German chocolate cake, as well. (Links to pie recipes and Mama's German Chocolate Cake are below the story.)
I considered Lynne, my sis-in-law’s sister, as my Second Mom. She was also famous for her pecan pies. She always made two, as she claimed not to know how to make just one! Needless to say, no one ever lacked for a dessert choice at Thanksgiving.
When I was in high school and college, my older brothers had long since married and lived in other states. They often came back home for Thanksgiving, but some years our big house was fairly empty.
When I was in high school and college, my older brothers had long since married and lived in other states. They often came back home for Thanksgiving, but some years our big house was fairly empty.
My parents started at new Thanksgiving tradition. Three of Mama’s sisters (Aunts Bernice, Annie Belle, Bessie) and their husbands would come to stay for a few days of Thanksgiving.
They filled the house with laughter and stories. The night before Thanksgiving, they would play Bingo. Mama would spend days searching for little prizes for the Bingo winners! I still have one of mine – Daddy won a cup with Miss Piggy on it and gave it to me because I collected pigs! Dancing was also popular – it was the 70’s and one year,
They filled the house with laughter and stories. The night before Thanksgiving, they would play Bingo. Mama would spend days searching for little prizes for the Bingo winners! I still have one of mine – Daddy won a cup with Miss Piggy on it and gave it to me because I collected pigs! Dancing was also popular – it was the 70’s and one year,
Mama made matching caftans for her sisters and for herself. They all danced around the room wearing those colorful caftans. Another year it was floral skirts! It was during this era of caftans and floral skirts that Aunt Annie Belle (second from left) introduced her recipe for Sinful Pie!
After I moved to Houston, I took a plane home to Mississippi for Thanksgiving. Once my flight was delayed and I thought I’d never get there. Some very nice travelers on the plane bought me drinks (I was not used to drinking much) and I landed at the Mobile airport just as tipsy as could be. No matter, Daddy and Uncle Julian were there to meet and greet me with hugs and laughs.
My uncles were special. Uncle Shel was married to Aunt Bessie; they married late in life, after losing their spouses. Uncle Shel gave Aunt Bessie the most beautiful diamond ring that he had made for her.
One Thanksgiving, a few years after his death, Aunt Bessie, Mama, and I were sitting around the dinner table talking after the Thanksgiving meal. Aunt Bessie suddenly presented me with her beautiful ring, the ring I had always loved from the time I was a little girl. She said she wanted me to have it and enjoy watching me wear it while she was still alive! We all burst into tears, as it was a sweet and sentimental moment filled with love. Daddy came into the dining room and found all three of us crying. He was shocked and said, “What the heck happened here?” I held up my hand with Aunt Bessie’s ring on it and he immediately understood and gave us all a big hug.
One Thanksgiving, a few years after his death, Aunt Bessie, Mama, and I were sitting around the dinner table talking after the Thanksgiving meal. Aunt Bessie suddenly presented me with her beautiful ring, the ring I had always loved from the time I was a little girl. She said she wanted me to have it and enjoy watching me wear it while she was still alive! We all burst into tears, as it was a sweet and sentimental moment filled with love. Daddy came into the dining room and found all three of us crying. He was shocked and said, “What the heck happened here?” I held up my hand with Aunt Bessie’s ring on it and he immediately understood and gave us all a big hug.
A near-disaster occurred the year Mama got a bit tipsy on the wine. Now mind you, she never imbibed except on holidays or when on vacation! We must have all been tipsy, because no one noticed when she placed a huge turkey on a cookie sheet for baking! Turkeys produce quite a bit of juice, so before not too long, the smoke alarm alerted us to juices dripping down into the oven! Turkey was rescued and everyone was safe. No more wine before turkey cooking! After my dad died, we still had lots of Thanksgivings at Mamas – tipsy turkey and all.
Some years, we celebrated Thanksgiving at my brother, Jackie’s house in Houston. We started a tradition of the females going for a ride after the big meal. The men and boys, of course, were watching football games on TV. One year we all piled into my sister-in-law’s van with my niece driving.
She wasn’t old enough to drink, so she drove. We drove around the neighborhood and somehow, making one turn, she hit a parked car. The damage was minimal to the other car and nonexistent to our van. She pled innocent to the owners, because she was dodging a squirrel. Huh?? The owners were a bit tipsy, and settled for a hundred dollars we all scraped together. Needless to say, it was quite a while before we made it home. The men? Well, they hadn’t even noticed we were gone!
She wasn’t old enough to drink, so she drove. We drove around the neighborhood and somehow, making one turn, she hit a parked car. The damage was minimal to the other car and nonexistent to our van. She pled innocent to the owners, because she was dodging a squirrel. Huh?? The owners were a bit tipsy, and settled for a hundred dollars we all scraped together. Needless to say, it was quite a while before we made it home. The men? Well, they hadn’t even noticed we were gone!
After my other brother, Charles, moved to Houston, we had a very special Thanksgiving. Charles and and Pat were married on Thanksgiving day. It was joyful time and we still got to eat turkey while feeling all the love! This was definitely a first for the family.
Both of my brothers moved to the U.K. for several years, so I ended up hosting Thanksgiving as a single woman in Houston, Texas. I inherited nieces, nephews, and even my brother's neighbors and friends for Thanksgiving meals. I added my hairdresser and any lonely soul who didn't have a spot to spend the day. Whew!
I had NEVER cooked a turkey in my life! Every year I hosted, I ended up bribing someone else to bring a turkey. One time I bought a pre-cooked one - not so good!
I had NEVER cooked a turkey in my life! Every year I hosted, I ended up bribing someone else to bring a turkey. One time I bought a pre-cooked one - not so good!
The most memorable Thanksgiving I hosted in Houston was the one my late friend and hairdresser, Kurt, attended. Kurt was a true Texas character and a free spirit. He derived joy from the most unexpected things! On that Thanksgiving, after the meal, Kurt, other guests, and I all piled into my van and headed for the movie theater! On the way, Kurt spotted a parked car with a giant Oscar Meyer wiener on the top. He demanded that we pull over, find the owner, and buy that wiener. We ended up with a giant plastic wiener for the sum of $25! We held it atop the van and sang the Oscar Meyer Wiener song as we headed to the cinema. Once there, we carried the wiener inside and down the aisle of the theater singing our song. (I cannot believe they let us bring it in. Kurt gave them some sob story about how his uncle gave it to him as an early Christmas present and it wouldn’t fit in the car for safekeeping.
Once I was married, my husband and I moved to the Hill Country of Texas. We went to Mama’s in Mississippi for Thanksgiving for a few years, but after she moved close by, it was up to us to host Thanksgiving again. Our son, Tom, our niece and her family, and Austin friends were included! We started a new tradition of including the recipe for Red Cabbage from my husband's grandmother and one for homemade cranberry sauce, from his Aunt Giesla.
The tradition of inviting those who didn’t have family nearby also continued, which is cause for my expression and Tom's in the photo above.
The tradition of inviting those who didn’t have family nearby also continued, which is cause for my expression and Tom's in the photo above.
That year we had recently met a single guy who lived in the area. As he had no family nearby, we invited him for Thanksgiving dinner. What a fiasco that was! We were crowded at the dinner table and so I skipped giving everyone a bread and butter dish at the place settings. We had no sooner sat down for the meal, preparing to say grace and share our thankfulness, when he piped up and said, “Where’s my bread and butter plate?”
Really, dude? After a couple of gasps, silence ensued as family and friends waited with baited breath for what I would say. (I’m sometimes noted for speaking my mind.)
I politely asked him to put his bread and butter on his dinner plate, as everyone was doing. When he started to argue and whine, I shut him down with my best “teacher look.”
After the meal, everyone went outside to our vegetable garden to pick the last of the tomatoes. I stayed inside to clean up and was glad I did. Apparently, he pissed off my niece – who is even better than I at speaking her mind. She told him to go on home to his goats, because he was acting just like them. (He did own goats, as do many people in the Texas Hill Country!) We never did see that “old goat” again.
Really, dude? After a couple of gasps, silence ensued as family and friends waited with baited breath for what I would say. (I’m sometimes noted for speaking my mind.)
I politely asked him to put his bread and butter on his dinner plate, as everyone was doing. When he started to argue and whine, I shut him down with my best “teacher look.”
After the meal, everyone went outside to our vegetable garden to pick the last of the tomatoes. I stayed inside to clean up and was glad I did. Apparently, he pissed off my niece – who is even better than I at speaking her mind. She told him to go on home to his goats, because he was acting just like them. (He did own goats, as do many people in the Texas Hill Country!) We never did see that “old goat” again.
One year, we spent Thanksgiving in California with my brother and sis-in-law , Charles and Pat, before we moved from the Hill Country. It was my first Thanksgiving at a restaurant - a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner at a hotel in San Francisco!
The next year, 2013, was my very first Thanksgiving to be away from the United States, and I was in Uruguay. My husband was in Texas, so it was also my first Thanksgiving to be with no family or close friends present. However, when life gives you opportunities, make blueberry cobbler! Several new friends and I went blueberry picking at a farm. The blueberries were as big as grapes and the sweetest I've ever eaten. I was over enthusiastic and picked 8 kilos - great until I got all those berries home and had to decide what to do with them. Turns out champagne is very good with frozen blueberries floating in it! (See my blueberry recipes below!)
Thanksgiving is, of course, nonexistent in Uruguay. Not to be deterred, a group of our friends from the States (and we even let the Canadians in) got together for several Thanksgivings at our friends' ranch, surrounded by good food and new friends.
We expats somehow managed a Thanksgiving meal complete with everything but the turkey. (Turkey is not a popular dish in Uruguay. You can find small frozen ones imported from the States. However, they are very costly - around $75. Um, nope!) Chickens were on the menu instead. My pumpkin cheesecake and my gluten free cornbread dressing were popular with this crowd!
We expats somehow managed a Thanksgiving meal complete with everything but the turkey. (Turkey is not a popular dish in Uruguay. You can find small frozen ones imported from the States. However, they are very costly - around $75. Um, nope!) Chickens were on the menu instead. My pumpkin cheesecake and my gluten free cornbread dressing were popular with this crowd!
Our hosts were always so gracious to have us. Every year was a treat. One year I met a baby donkey! Another year, I rode on a mule. (Not a live mule, but an all-terrain vehicle!) I sat in the back seat drinking wine from a sippy cup, eating chocolate chip cookies, and laughing while our host drove through streams, up and down hills, and all around the countryside. Sometimes new traditions are unforgettable too.
Here are links to the recipes mentioned in the story.
They're all on my Miss Cookbook cooking website!
They're all on my Miss Cookbook cooking website!
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Hot Artichoke Dip has a long and varied history with me. It's truly delicious and I love it, but it took years to develop that affinity.
I was in my late twenties, single, and looking forward to my teaching faculty's Christmas Party. It was being held in a subdivision clubhouse in an unfamiliar area, filled with different Houston subdivisions.
Of course I lost my way, winding around and around cul-de-sacs in several subdivisions - all with streets named after trees - Pine, Maple, Elm, Cypress. Those names made me dizzy.
I was in my late twenties, single, and looking forward to my teaching faculty's Christmas Party. It was being held in a subdivision clubhouse in an unfamiliar area, filled with different Houston subdivisions.
Of course I lost my way, winding around and around cul-de-sacs in several subdivisions - all with streets named after trees - Pine, Maple, Elm, Cypress. Those names made me dizzy.
Finally I came upon a clubhouse with cars all around - this must be the place! I went inside, was greeted warmly, and shown the food table where I could place my offering of tortilla chips (store bought). Hey, I was young, poor, and single.
I looked around, but saw no one familiar. Hmmm, lots of spouses in attendance, I thought. I began chatting up a few people and making my way to the food table, where I filled my plate with a large scoop of the artichoke dip and French bread. It was so good and worked to ease my shyness while I was wondering where all the friends from work had hidden themselves.
Ding, ding, ding - an unknown gentleman tapped his spoon on his glass for attention. He began giving a thank-you speech to all the glass company employees for their success over the last fiscal quarter. Uh oh - wrong party.
I slinked my way out the door as quickly as possible, not even wondering if I should reclaim my tortilla chips. Back on the road (days before cell phones) I drove in circles once again, until I found the right clubhouse and party.
By that time (all those circles around cul-de-sacs, nerves, embarrassment) my tummy was feeling quite ill. I blamed it all on the hot artichoke dip instead of my poor sense of direction. It took years for me to assign the blame to myself and enjoy this dip again.
This recipe is from my sis-in-law, Pat. Today, it's one of my favorites! You can find the recipe at my cooking website: Hot Artichoke Dip - MissCookbook.com
I looked around, but saw no one familiar. Hmmm, lots of spouses in attendance, I thought. I began chatting up a few people and making my way to the food table, where I filled my plate with a large scoop of the artichoke dip and French bread. It was so good and worked to ease my shyness while I was wondering where all the friends from work had hidden themselves.
Ding, ding, ding - an unknown gentleman tapped his spoon on his glass for attention. He began giving a thank-you speech to all the glass company employees for their success over the last fiscal quarter. Uh oh - wrong party.
I slinked my way out the door as quickly as possible, not even wondering if I should reclaim my tortilla chips. Back on the road (days before cell phones) I drove in circles once again, until I found the right clubhouse and party.
By that time (all those circles around cul-de-sacs, nerves, embarrassment) my tummy was feeling quite ill. I blamed it all on the hot artichoke dip instead of my poor sense of direction. It took years for me to assign the blame to myself and enjoy this dip again.
This recipe is from my sis-in-law, Pat. Today, it's one of my favorites! You can find the recipe at my cooking website: Hot Artichoke Dip - MissCookbook.com
- Published on
Our friends had a beautiful property in Uruguay. There were rolling hills and two creeks running through different hectares (a little different than acres). However, there was always a problem crossing one of the creeks to reach a road on the other side of the property.
So what did they do? They built a bridge, of course. Why? Mostly for fun, but there was a practical side to the adventure. We're not talking about a short 8 meter bridge - we're talking about a loooong and fancy bridge.
When the bridge-building was complete, they hosted a huge inauguration of it. These folks never did anything half-way: there was a band, caterers, a parade of gauchos going across the bridge, and a sign to name the bridge!
I'm not certain how the name came to be, but I suspect it was inspired by the the building long and arduous task of building a bridge on foreign soil. There was an old movie, in 1957, that told the story of a bridge-building during WWII - The Bridge Over the River Kwai. And so, their bridge among the hills in Uruguay was christened as "The Bridge Over the River Why".
So what did they do? They built a bridge, of course. Why? Mostly for fun, but there was a practical side to the adventure. We're not talking about a short 8 meter bridge - we're talking about a loooong and fancy bridge.
When the bridge-building was complete, they hosted a huge inauguration of it. These folks never did anything half-way: there was a band, caterers, a parade of gauchos going across the bridge, and a sign to name the bridge!
I'm not certain how the name came to be, but I suspect it was inspired by the the building long and arduous task of building a bridge on foreign soil. There was an old movie, in 1957, that told the story of a bridge-building during WWII - The Bridge Over the River Kwai. And so, their bridge among the hills in Uruguay was christened as "The Bridge Over the River Why".
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The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. ~ George Graham
Sam, the Border Collie's story is a touching and funny one! In 2009, when our Border Collie, Max, passed away suddenly, our Border girl, Gracie, went into deep depression. I had no idea that dogs could grieve. We tried exposing her to new surroundings (Home Depot and dog-friendly restauarants), lots of play time, and tons of love. Nothing seemed to pull her out of it. So we called Gracie's breeder and a new litter was expected soon. When the pups were born, we went to the ranch and chose this red boy - he was named Simon, but we renamed him - SAM! He earned some descriptive nicknames: Wiggle Butt (his butt wiggled when he was happy), Red Dog, and Little Buddy.
We couldn't keep away from him. We drove the hour+ every weekend after he was born to visit, counting the days until he could come home with us.
We couldn't keep away from him. We drove the hour+ every weekend after he was born to visit, counting the days until he could come home with us.
When the big day came to take Sam home, we decided to take Gracie with us. We had taken her to the ranch twice, but she had to stay in the car. We came back smelling of Sam and let her sniff, sniff, sniff; we hoped she'd get used to his smell.
I held puppy Sam in a towel, got into the back seat with Gracie, and waited for her reaction. It wasn't what I expected. She situated herself as close to the door as possible and refused to even look in our direction for the entire trip home. Stubborn girl and perhaps a bit jealous?
I held puppy Sam in a towel, got into the back seat with Gracie, and waited for her reaction. It wasn't what I expected. She situated herself as close to the door as possible and refused to even look in our direction for the entire trip home. Stubborn girl and perhaps a bit jealous?
Once home, things got a bit better. Gracie tolerated Sam and learned to play with him, but never to the extent that she loved Max. With Max, Gracie would snuggle up and sleep with him, play for hours, and follow him everywhere. Sam had to work hard to win her over. but eventually they came to love each other.
As Sam grew, it was clear he was as smart as a whip! Something else clear was the length of his tongue. To this day, I've never seen one so long!
Sam loved a pillow or soft cushion. That boy made himself comfy all over the house; no place was sacred for humans only! If there was a pillow, his head was on it.
Sam pretended to be brave. Since we lived on a corner lot, he was able to chase walkers, trucks, and cars along the length of our fence. He barked, herded, and chased; he also maintained as guardian/bodyguard for the plants in the garden. He was as brave as could be with those plants. He took his job as Garden Guardian quite seriously.
Whenever a thunderstorm, hailstorm, or fireworks were around, his brave self faded into the background. He wasn't as terrified as Gracie, but he came in a close second. He frequently jumped on the bed and hid behind our pillows. We discovered Thundershirts and his worked a bit. Gracie's did not, but Sam was far more secure and relaxed with his Thundershirt on during storms and noisy holiday fireworks. Later on, he developed a fear of small children laughing and screaming. Sam's unique.
Whenever a thunderstorm, hailstorm, or fireworks were around, his brave self faded into the background. He wasn't as terrified as Gracie, but he came in a close second. He frequently jumped on the bed and hid behind our pillows. We discovered Thundershirts and his worked a bit. Gracie's did not, but Sam was far more secure and relaxed with his Thundershirt on during storms and noisy holiday fireworks. Later on, he developed a fear of small children laughing and screaming. Sam's unique.
As a teacher, I brought loads of work home with me. I usually settled in on the sofa, listening to the TV and visiting with hubby while doing my teacher "homework." Teacher stuff bored Gracie, but Sam thought it was ever so interesting. He loved to snuggle up next to me and provide educational support!
Full of tricks, Sam could be a bit compulsive. He knew he wasn't allowed to put his paws on the table, but boy, did he ever want his football. We always took pity on him and threw it quickly, but if we didn't, he would stand and stare for quite a long time.
Mr. Touchy-Feely had to be touching his humans all the time. In a pinch, we even made a good pillow!
Our Border Collies loved our three acres out in the Texas Hill Country. I did too - the wildflowers, the shady oaks, our fig and fruit trees, and the peaceful nights spent on the terrace. Things change though...
By 2013, we had decided to go to Uruguay. There wasn't a doubt in our mind that Sam and Gracie would travel with us to South America. We spend months agonizing over flying Sam and Gracie to Uruguay and finally found Pet Relocation, right there in Austin. Sam and Grace flew to Uruguay a week before me, arrived safe and sound into Hubby's arms after two flights and a ferry ride.
For quite a long time, we lived in a house one-fourth the size of our Texas home, yet having Sam and Gracie with everything cozy and complete. Sam adjusted and took his usual place on the sofa.
Sam and Gracie acclimated to Uruguay well, probably better than I. There were new sights and sounds (horses and sheep to herd), new roads, and lots of peace and quiet.
Some things were familiar - the rain lilies we had in the Texas Hill Country were also in Uruguay. Sam loved to run amongst them on both continents.
As affectionate as Grace, but such a lover - Sam loved to snuggle and make physical contact whenever possible. He always seemed to intuit when we were depressed and needed a warm paw or nose kiss. Some say that dogs are angels sent from above to aid us in our times of need. Sam was truly an angel.
Sam acquired a new job when our household added Sophie Cat. She was little and he had never been around a cat, so we gave him a job - "Guard Sophie." Being the compulsive boy, he carried this a bit too far and started snapping at Gracie if she came near Sophie. When you have a smart Border Collie, changing commands are easy. We switched the command to: "Love Sophie." Sam understood the difference and all was well. He and Sophie became best friends.
This is the pose we'll best remember for Sam: flying through the grass and wildflowers, tongue out, eyes alert, and wishing for us to throw a stick!
Sam was the best companion, the craziest boy, the most sympathetic friend, an uncompromising personality, an intelligent being, and a dedicated giver and receiver of hugs.
Sam had a reaction to medication given for tooth infection. He had a stroke, but we believed he would get better and all would be well. Sadly, days later, another stroke took his life. He ran into the bedroom and lay down by our bed as I stroked his face and said, "Good Morning." Sam let out a deep sigh and was gone. There are no words left to express our sorrow...
Over and out. See you again, Wiggle Butt.
You'll recognize me, I'll be the one with open arms, waiting for a hug...
You'll recognize me, I'll be the one with open arms, waiting for a hug...
- Published on
The first day of spring is here! The bees are buzzing on blooms, the asparagus is sprouting upwards, Benny the cat is rolling in the garden beds, and Sam the Border Collie is a overseeing it all.
Spring is by far my favorite season. When I was a little girl, Mama always sewed a new dress from me from seersucker fabric - the quintessential spring fabric in pastel stripes.
Spring is by far my favorite season. When I was a little girl, Mama always sewed a new dress from me from seersucker fabric - the quintessential spring fabric in pastel stripes.
A new seersucker dress and my freshly-washed white Keds and I was always ready for spring. Mama and Daddy grew beautiful roses and Mama specialized in sweet peas. Oh, how I loved the smell of sweet peas and the colors! One whole side of our house was a flower bed of sweet peas each spring. Daylilies, amaryllis, and shrimp plants made up the front beds!
Spring, growing up in my hometown meant Easter time with a new outfit, complete with hat and matching purse! There was no Easter Parade, but there was a parade of women and girls arriving at the Methodist Church on Easter morning to show off their new duds!
Spring meant ballet recitals from ages 4 to 18 and Hi Jinx Social Club spring dances in high school. Both occasions meant fancy costumes and dresses, all sewn by Mama!
Spring from college all the way into my 40's meant SPRING BREAK! As a student and a teacher, I returned to Mama and Daddy's house to spend my Spring Break. Those were wonderful visits, full of laughter, love, and fried shrimp in Mama's kitchen!
Springtime in Houston was a mixed bag. There was gardening to do with flower beds, window boxes, and vegetable beds. There were dances to chaperone at the junior high where I taught. However, there were tornadoes and flooding, as well.
Spring in the Texas Hill Country could also mean tornadoes. Look at me pictured below with our Border Collie, Max, taking shelter in the bathroom during a tornado warning! With spring showers, came wildflowers - all colors of them in our yard - even bluebonnets.
Spring has sprung!
- Published on
The gaucho parade is here again! This year, we decided to skip the crowds that thave descended upon Pueblo Edén for the past couple of years, in favor of snapping photos of them as they travel towards Minas from Pueblo Edén to the gaucho clubhouse for lunch.
Yes, we stayed away from the village festivities, but it was too overwhelming for us this year to battle the crowds.
Yes, we stayed away from the village festivities, but it was too overwhelming for us this year to battle the crowds.
- Published on
“A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.”
~ Doug Larson
~ Doug Larson
When I was a little girl growing up in southern Mississippi, Garden Clubs were a big deal. Now mind you me, I never attended one, nor did anyone in my family. I truly had no reference to what went on behind the closed doors. I did carefully observe my friends' moms, who actually went to Garden Club meetings. From those observations, I surmised that you had to belong to the club, had to dress up in a pretty dress and heels, and have a bit of money or pull in the community. The word "snooty" always popped up in my brain when I thought of Garden Club.
I had no real frame of Garden Club reference. My mom was an avid flower gardener with exceptional rose beds, zinnias, sweet peas, and more, but she wasn't in Garden Club. Several brides even came to our house and begged for roses for their wedding bouquet and flower girl baskets! Mama usually told them, "It's a deal, as long as my daughter gets to be the flower girl." (That would be me - perpetual flower girl to many a bride.) Still, she wasn't in the local Garden Club. I'm sure it didn't bother her, as she thought bridge clubs, Garden Clubs, and anything of the sort a waste of good time.
So my imagination took hold and I mostly thought of Garden Clubs as a playground for rich white women in pouffy dresses and big hats. There was no dirt under those Southern Belle fingernails for certain!
Fast forward to a different country and continent - Uruguay in South America. Imagine my surprise when a friend called and asked if I'd like to come to her next Garden Club meeting. My first thought was - "Oh mylanta - I had no frilly dresses or big hats!"
She assured me it would be casual, as we were going to tour a member's vegetable garden to learn some organic gardening tips and tricks. "Be prepared to get muddy feet," she warned.
What? Vegetable garden? Casual? Muddy feet? I felt as if I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. I decided to go - hey, it was a free lunch! Knock me over with a feather - when I arrived, I encountered a bunch of women in baseball caps and hats that looked like fishermen needed them. They wore jeans tucked into waterproof boots and sturdy jackets. In other words, my kind of women friends!
And so began my Garden Club experiences. Our club was called The Giving Tree and we took up a collection at each meeting to fund an elementary school garden, a local village garden, and other worthwhile projects. We romped through muddy fields looking for an elusive wild orchid, trod carefully around newly planted vegetable gardens, shared seeds, plants, and love of the Earth.
I did get to wear something pretty once in a blue moon when we would go to a restaurant for lunch afterwards, but all in all it couldn't have been more different than my misconceptions gathered over the years.
And as for the U.S. - my perception of Garden Clubs was sorely lacking, especially in today's world. Garden Clubs in the South have fundraisers to sponsor scholarships, establish vegetable gardens in schools and communities, and generally take on beautification of streets and parks in their communities.
Who knew?
I had no real frame of Garden Club reference. My mom was an avid flower gardener with exceptional rose beds, zinnias, sweet peas, and more, but she wasn't in Garden Club. Several brides even came to our house and begged for roses for their wedding bouquet and flower girl baskets! Mama usually told them, "It's a deal, as long as my daughter gets to be the flower girl." (That would be me - perpetual flower girl to many a bride.) Still, she wasn't in the local Garden Club. I'm sure it didn't bother her, as she thought bridge clubs, Garden Clubs, and anything of the sort a waste of good time.
So my imagination took hold and I mostly thought of Garden Clubs as a playground for rich white women in pouffy dresses and big hats. There was no dirt under those Southern Belle fingernails for certain!
Fast forward to a different country and continent - Uruguay in South America. Imagine my surprise when a friend called and asked if I'd like to come to her next Garden Club meeting. My first thought was - "Oh mylanta - I had no frilly dresses or big hats!"
She assured me it would be casual, as we were going to tour a member's vegetable garden to learn some organic gardening tips and tricks. "Be prepared to get muddy feet," she warned.
What? Vegetable garden? Casual? Muddy feet? I felt as if I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. I decided to go - hey, it was a free lunch! Knock me over with a feather - when I arrived, I encountered a bunch of women in baseball caps and hats that looked like fishermen needed them. They wore jeans tucked into waterproof boots and sturdy jackets. In other words, my kind of women friends!
And so began my Garden Club experiences. Our club was called The Giving Tree and we took up a collection at each meeting to fund an elementary school garden, a local village garden, and other worthwhile projects. We romped through muddy fields looking for an elusive wild orchid, trod carefully around newly planted vegetable gardens, shared seeds, plants, and love of the Earth.
I did get to wear something pretty once in a blue moon when we would go to a restaurant for lunch afterwards, but all in all it couldn't have been more different than my misconceptions gathered over the years.
And as for the U.S. - my perception of Garden Clubs was sorely lacking, especially in today's world. Garden Clubs in the South have fundraisers to sponsor scholarships, establish vegetable gardens in schools and communities, and generally take on beautification of streets and parks in their communities.
Who knew?
- Published on
"It is with great sadness and a heavy heart that have to announce that I ate kale and liked it."
- Greg Behrendt
- Greg Behrendt
Winter gardens rock! When I was teaching, fall was one of the busiest times of the year for me. There was absolutely no time for tending to a garden. I tried it one year and it went sadly neglected. Had I only known that winter and fall gardens are the easiest to tend! I would have had broccoli and kale, swiss chard and pumpkins every single year.
Fall and winter in Uruguay have some rain and cooler temps, so there's not much watering involved. The first year we planted in the fall, I expected to have to go to the garden every single day and pull weeds, water, pick bugs off the plants, etc. NOPE! Fall and winter gardens are suspiciously pest-free. The cooler temps and less intense sun mean not as much watering and not as many weeds. Whoo hoo!!
Fall and winter in Uruguay have some rain and cooler temps, so there's not much watering involved. The first year we planted in the fall, I expected to have to go to the garden every single day and pull weeds, water, pick bugs off the plants, etc. NOPE! Fall and winter gardens are suspiciously pest-free. The cooler temps and less intense sun mean not as much watering and not as many weeds. Whoo hoo!!
- Published on
"Oh, shine on, shine on harvest moon way up in the sky." - Jack Norworth / Nora Bayes
Uruguay is below the equator and that messes with my brain when it comes to seasons, holidays, and weather. It's March - my body thinks it's spring, yet it will be fall soon here in Uruguay and hence the Harvest Moon. But here's a brain freeze - why is it a Harvest Moon in the States, as well?
When I was little, the Harvest Moon and a Blue Moon were the only moons that were NAMED. There was no Snow Moon, Pink Moon, Wolf Moon, Strawberry Moon, etc. The Harvest Moon was always in the fall. I know I'm right! Where did all these named moons come from? Do we really need a name for the same old moon every month?
My elementary school, South Elementary, had a Harvest Moon festival every October. My little elementary heart loved that festival. It began in the late afternoon and continued into the evening. There were cake-walks in the cafeteria, games outside until dark, and singing in the auditorium.
I've come to like my moon shots! If you're interested in photographing the moon, here's my recipe: ISO 100-200 (no higher, it's not needed), Aperture f/8, Shutter Speed 1/200. I use a tripod and a remote release trigger for the shutter release. I have a used Nikon D7100 and an old Tokina 400mm lens that I got on eBay for very little $$.
When I was little, the Harvest Moon and a Blue Moon were the only moons that were NAMED. There was no Snow Moon, Pink Moon, Wolf Moon, Strawberry Moon, etc. The Harvest Moon was always in the fall. I know I'm right! Where did all these named moons come from? Do we really need a name for the same old moon every month?
My elementary school, South Elementary, had a Harvest Moon festival every October. My little elementary heart loved that festival. It began in the late afternoon and continued into the evening. There were cake-walks in the cafeteria, games outside until dark, and singing in the auditorium.
I've come to like my moon shots! If you're interested in photographing the moon, here's my recipe: ISO 100-200 (no higher, it's not needed), Aperture f/8, Shutter Speed 1/200. I use a tripod and a remote release trigger for the shutter release. I have a used Nikon D7100 and an old Tokina 400mm lens that I got on eBay for very little $$.
