Author: Gail

Eating My Way Through the Alphabet; Letter A

What’s Cooking in Gail’s Kitchen?  Apricot-Orange Crumble Bars!  Who doesn’t love this saucy little fruit?  Apricots add an exotic touch of class to everything from appetizers to dessert. Try a dollop of jam on a round of baked Camembert cheese sometime.  It is decadent!  My recipe today serves as a breakfast food, an afternoon snack, or a delicate dessert option.  

APRICOT-ORANGE CRUMBLE BARS

Ingredients:
2 cups flour
1teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 cup butter
1cup sugar
Directions:
Cream together sugar and butter. Mix flour, salt, and baking soda together. Add dry ingredients together. Spread 3/4 of batter into a 9×13 greased dish.  Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon.  Spread 12 ounce dollops of Bonne Maman Apricot Preserves* on top.  Slice dried apricot pieces over jam mixture.  Fill in with a tablespoon or two of Bonne Maman Orange Marmalade*.  Crumble remaining batter on top.  Sprinkle with 1/4 cup brown sugar.  Bake 350* for 30-35 minutes.  Cool slightly and cut into 24 squares. 
* Bonne Maman is a product of France. 

Eating My Way Through the Alphabet 

What’s cooking in Gail’s Kitchen?  Stay tuned and you’re about to find out.  It’s as simple as A-B-C.  One of my passions is being at home in my own country kitchen.   I love to cook, and my husband loves that I do it often.  Now more than ever, since I am retired, I relish the thought of creating something delicious from scratch.  I adore time-honored traditions using tried-and-true recipes. Yet, I often never think twice about tweaking old favorites or modifying others to suit the inner craving of the moment.  Most of the recipes serve 2-4 people, but can be altered in any direction.  The leftovers are golden morsels to be eaten again later or shared with others.  And I love to share.  To me, seeing a smile in gratitude is thanks enough. The recipes you will find here in the next several weeks can be prepared very easily.  Feel free to contact me with questions.  Now take a deep breath, inhale the aromas, and join me on a tasteful journey entitled, “EATING MY WAY THROUGH THE ALPHABET”.

In the Eye of the Beholder 

Collecting art is like buying shoes. One purchase and you become addicted. It often happens by accident. Picture this….You are strolling along on a leisurely afternoon not necessarily looking for another purchase and then suddenly it hits you.  A captivating distraction.  You find yourself overcome with desire knowing if you walk away, it may become a lost opportunity. 


I wandered into a small gallery one blustery day and was greeted by the purring of the cat in residence.  “She can tell you’re a cat-lover”, remarked the owner from behind the counter.  “Oh, yes indeed”, I responded, “and I appreciate the warm welcome.”  As I turned my attention about the room, I was drawn to a wall of vibrant tiles.  Each one embodied a unique story of life.  Upon closer scrutiny, words were inscribed around the edges of each piece further encapsulating the imagery.  “These are Spiritiles*”, a voice behind me explained, “created by Houston Llew.”  I was mesmerized and intrigued.  The proprietor handed me a brochure which explained the mysterious artistic technique.  “Every Spiritile* is handcrafted in Atlanta, USA from American made copper, glass and wood. Finely ground colored glass is hand painted on copper, then fired by kiln at 1500 degrees. It’s like drawing with sand then toasting it on a very hot fire.”  I began to see my life mirrored through the blocks before me.  A French perfume bottle embraced by a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson.  A double heart repeating the words of e.e. cummings.  A three-layer cake deliciously inscribed with a Yiddish Blessing.  And that was just the beginning. I fell in love with Joyride, a French bicycle.  Coco Chanel’s Timeless expression of beauty was a “must have”.  Beach Walk reminded me of glorious vacations.  The list goes on and on.  I left the gallery that day with one treasured piece, already imagining where it was to be hung in my home.  Two years later, thanks to my impassioned husband, our collection has grown to a dozen pieces including a few priceless gems personally autographed by the artist.  I suspect the future holds more surprises in store.  And just like another pair of shoes, there’s always room for one more. 

How Late is Too Late?

When I was a teenager, I remember thinking that I was not going to be as strict with my own children as my parents were with me. Being the second of five children, but the older daughter, my parents felt that I needed more protection from Life’s diversions than my brothers did. For example, I was not allowed to date until I was sixteen years old. At that time I could only go out on a date on Saturday night as long as I was home by ten o’clock. It didn’t seem to matter whom I was with or where I went; the rules never changed. These draconian restraints made me angry because my brothers, on the other hand, were allowed to stay out late all week long. Sometimes they would smell of stale cigarette smoke and stagger slightly from consuming too many beers and other alcoholic beverages; yet, they were repeatedly entrusted with the keys to the family car. 


Many years later, after I married and had my first child, it seemed every stage of my baby’s development gave me reason to worry or be concerned. When she began to walk, she was forever bumping into furniture, especially table corners and chair arms. Learning to “child-proof” a home became a challenge for me. When I decided it was time to take away her bottle, at the age of eighteen months, she gave up her two-hour afternoon nap. That made me exhausted by the end of the day, so I retaliated by moving up her bedtime by one hour. Although it was a compromise, it seemed to work out quite well for both of us.  I have no desire to relive the potty-training stage. According to the child development books, the magic age is when the toddler is between twenty-four and twenty-eight months. Anything sooner seems to frustrate parents and merely becomes “parental potty training”.  I agree wholeheartedly with this declaration. After several unsuccessful attempts, my daughter woke up one morning and put the disposable diapers away for good. She decided she was ready to outgrow them at exactly twenty-eight months.   When I was in the process of house-training a three month old poodle puppy, curiosity prompted me to know the answer to the following question:  If a puppy can go all night without having an “accident”, why is it he cannot do the same during the day?

Turning back to the subject of curfews, my daughter is now thirteen years old and is allowed to group-date with her girlfriends. Together they go to basketball games, pizza parlors, movie theaters, and dances. When she is ready to begin serious dating, I hope we’ll come to a mutual understanding where trust and responsibility will prevail. If this concept is unacceptable, then she’ll just have to be home by ten o’clock on a Saturday night. 

A Legend in the Making 

The 1960s ranch-style house with the faded white paint and wrought iron bars on the windows is located on a corner lot in a nearby city. A notice, printed on faded computer paper, is taped to the glass on the door. It reads:

“YOU WALK ON THE GRASS,
WE CHARGE YOUR ASS!”
This is one of many signs posted throughout the building of this popular tattoo parlor. In order to enter the premises, it is necessary to ring the doorbell and wait to be admitted. Once inside, the heavy wooden door’s dead bolt is locked, although it is only early afternoon.  Semi-darkness envelopes the room where vibrant images of tattooed body parts become the focus against wood paneling walls. The following messages are scattered among the tattooed designs:
“RELAX!” screams out in dark bold letters. 
“NO WHINING” is illustrated in that familiar symbol of a circle drawn with a slash through it over the word ‘whining’.
“DO NOT TOUCH THE DESIGNS!”
“We accept MASTERCARD & VISA with a $5.00 service charge, or cash, but absolutely no checks!”

A shabby, thread-bare, gold plaid couch in the reception area directs your attention to a dusty Mediterranean-style coffee table with numerous scratches and chipped corners.  The table is cluttered with three-ring notebooks of design possibilities featuring everything from familiar cartoon characters to menacing skulls and fire-breathing dragons. A couple of straight-back vinyl chairs placed here and there fill the corners opposite a portable television set supported by two plastic orange crates. The low-pile gray carpeting underneath has been stained with gum, cigarette burns, and dirt. Contrary to presumption, the area lacks the sterile medicinal odor one might expect.  

Surprisingly, the room is full of eager customers anxiously awaiting a turn to be permanently inked with signature emblems. Every artistic choice has significance and importance to the master tattooist.  Each person has a story to tell.  A legend in the making. Heavy Metal music fills the air, and yet, the intermittent buzzing of the drill, which slightly resembles an electric shaver, is heard in the background.  It is not unusual to see a customer signal the doorman to be released from these surroundings before service is rendered. Perhaps the required patience of being in limbo, not knowing if one is ready for the finality of the action, is unsettling. 

Invasion of the Coffee Pods

I woke up one day and got lost in the coffee aisle at the supermarket. Am I the only one?  Recently I made my usual trip to the local Kroger to replenish a can of Maxwell House French Roast and as I pushed the partially-filled cart past the island of spices I came upon a wall of compact pre-packaged single-cup disposable coffee choices. No longer was the 11-ounce can a sophisticated bold and hearty favorite, let alone a mindless staple, but now it was necessary to scan the shelves on a quest to locate it!  “Am I the last coffee lover on earth still using an automatic-drip Cuisinart?”, I muttered aloud.  Stacked in countless rows before me were boxes of multi-colored pods, k-cups, instant cappuccinos, and iced coffee concentrate all vying for the same attention.  House Blend, Mocha, Vanilla Hazelnut, Morning Blend, Skinny, Caramel, and more.  To add to my confusion, the Tossimo collection stared back as if throwing down the gauntlet in double-dog-dare defiance to refuse the Café Collection Crème Latte.  This little espresso number boasted “pure bliss at your fingertips with a frothy layer of milk creamer from their special T Disc”.  By this time I was beginning to feel a little lightheaded and woozy from lack of caffeine.  Collecting my items, I rushed to the checkout and paid for the groceries. Next stop: the nearest Starbucks!  If I was going to combat this Invasion of the Coffee Pods, it would require reinforcement.  “I’ll have a venti White Chocolate Mocha, please, with an extra shot of espresso.  Thank you.”

Jesus is For Real

The back seat windows were covered in a film of fog as the teenage daughter mindlessly scribbled a game of tic-tac-toe on the glass. Holiday music could be heard throughout the car reminding everyone it was Christmas Day, 1967.  This family of seven, ranging in age from six months to 37 years, was embarking on a journey that would change their lives forever.  They decided to do something a little different this year which is why, after opening gifts that morning, they tumbled into the car for their first Christmas dinner at a fancy restaurant thirty miles away.  Unbeknownst to them, Life would never be the same again.  Minutes before they reached their destination, they were struck head-on by a drunk driver who blew through a stop sign at high speed. Both cars slammed together creating a tailspin that released them in opposite directions.  Witnesses from a nearby motel came pouring out to the wreckage dragging the injured bodies of five crying children onto the ground where they were covered in warming blankets until help arrived.  Both parents, in critical condition, were rushed by ambulance to the local hospital in a race against time.  The unharmed middle-aged drunk driver paced back and forth muttering, “What have I done?  In God’s name, what have I done?”


Hours later, once intermittent  x-rays were taken, family members were sporadically admitted into different rooms due to an already overcrowded situation. The 13 year-old daughter was gurneyed  into the hospital Supply Closet across from the third floor Nurses Station due to a shortage of rooms available.  Tears were shed uncontrollably as countless terrified questions went unanswered.  Were her legs broken?  Would she ever walk again?  Where was her family?  Did her parents survive?  And her siblings?  The last image of her father pictured him slumped unconsciously over the steering wheel bleeding profusely from the forehead. And her mother?  Could anyone survive after plunging headlong through the windshield?  What about her six-month old sister?  Was she still alive?  There were no baby car seats or safety belts at that time. 

In the darkness of terror, the depth of pain, and the isolation of doubt, she focused her blurry wet eyes pass the blood-stained bandages covering her crushed kneecaps.  Across the room, through a haze of salty tears, the questions calmly subsided.  The frightened sound of her pounding heartbeat slowly diminished and was replaced with the tranquil words, “Fear Not!”.  In a direct line of vision, nailed to the wall of this rural Catholic Hospital, hung a shiny white crucifix reminding her of Jesus’ eternal love.  At that moment the comforting lyrics of the beloved Sunday School song came pouring from her lips.  Softly and steadily, in a broken fragile voice, she sang, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” over and over again until she fell asleep. 

“What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!”

When God entered her heart this day, she knew He was for real. Four months later, with her entire family in attendance, she confirmed her faith on Palm Sunday and embarked on the spiritual walk of a lifetime. 

The Art of French Kissing 

“Why do you think what you have to say is not important?” He leaned toward her and placed his palm over her tightly clasped hands.  Her desperate glance around the table made her palms sweat and her heart race.  No, this was not what she wanted. It was evident the conversation had stopped mid-sentence while all eyes rested on her.  “I-I’m just listening”, her voice quivered.  It was her boyfriend’s cast party and he was suppose to be the center of attention. Isn’t that why he left her alone among strangers to mingle with his peers in the gourmet kitchen?  Ultimately, the company of actors in the adjoining room gathered in obscurity around the butcher-block island sipping micro brews and California wine. Muffled laughter and relentless teasing could be heard between leading characters as murmurs of infatuations filled the air.  Apparently they were swapping inside stories that confirmed the longer-than-necessary kisses exchanged onstage.  “More than a peck!”, someone grumbled.  “And wet”, another snickered.  “Admittedly it was French!”, a female voice confessed. Suddenly a slap on the back was heard in good fellowship and the troupe dispersed. 


At the end of the night, his date recalled the previous cast party they attended together. In a crowded room one man stood and offered her his chair.  It was a mannerly gesture, innocent enough, but afterwards at home the accusations flew.  She had been shamelessly flirting, he ranted.  The bitter outburst was enough to make the entire relationship questionable.  This evening didn’t help.  Eventually, a month later, she found her voice, along with a dose of self-respect. They split up and parted ways.  To him and his peers she became nothing more than “that blonde he used to date.”  He went on to star in another theatrical production where he began an onstage romance and later married.  She, on the other hand, improved her French accent and took a long-overdue trip to Paris.  In the romantic “City of Lights” she discovered fine cuisine, unbridled passion, and perfected the art of French kissing.