Starved Rock With a Pinch of Gumbo

Illinois. It is both complicated and simple with its windy city of Chicago that Carl Sandburg immortalized in his City of Big Shoulders, nestled at the shores of Lake Michigan, one of the Great Lakes carved out of ice eons ago. It has some of the richest soil on earth that produces corn and soy beans and pumpkins. The historic town of Galena sits in the northwestern corner of the state with modern day ski lifts and once rich deposits of lead. while the Shawnee National Forest, on the state’s its southern tip, was once populated by native North Americans and remains resplendent in its natural beauty. Illinois is like a family; complicated, conflicting, often argumentative, always proud of where it has been, what it has accomplished, and where it is headed.

The Land of Lincoln. The Prairie State. Illinois is rich in resources, both natural and human, and much of its terrain was carved from the great glaciers that cut into it long before man settled on it.

We love exploring it – and so we did this weekend as we marked our anniversary. 

Tom and I met in college toward the center of the state. Even though both of us were raised in the suburbs of Chicago; he a south suburban lad, myself a gal from the west side, we had never been to Starved Rock State Park together. Tom remembers, as a very young boy, sitting on the top of a rock, Starved Rock,  looking out across the tree tops. So, we deemed Starved Rock as our destination, booked a room at the Lodge, and headed out on the road to discovery.

Starved Rock is only about ninety minutes from our house, mostly interstate driving. We arrived on Sunday just in time to have lunch at the Lodge, check in, then wander about the park. This is the scenery from the restaurant where we ate lunch.

This lush, forested park has eighteen canyons surrounded by rock formations born out of glacial melt thousands of years ago. The canyons provide a majestic gift to the flat fields of this part of Illinois. especially when the spring rains give rise to their waterfalls. Starved Rock State Park has become the wintering over locale for eagles, drawing visitors to the park even in winter.

Throughout Starved Rock are statues; old trees repurposed as eagles and bears, settlers and dogs, and all manner of creatures carved out of wood. I am always appreciative when I see new life coming from old life.

We decided to take one of the closer and less strenuous paths, though even the path we chose through French Canyon involved plenty of climbing up and down stairs, looking down into the magnificent canyon, with the forest floor coming alive in native columbine, shooting star, bloodroot, native violet, and ferns. It is amazing how life will cling to the walls of a canyon and how trees seem to arise out of them, determined to live and grow.

Can you find our shadows looking down into the canyon? You may have to click onto the picture a time or two, but, there we are, tiny shadows in the great, big forest.

Jennifer and Jason recommended a Cajun restaurant for us to try. Yes. A Cajun restaurant. After all that climbing, we needed some nourishment, so, off we went to Ron’s Cajun Connection, not much more than a road stop diner on a country road in a town called Utica. It was loud, busy, and full of welcome mat hospitality. We devoured our gumbo; the best one will find in this neck of the cornfields. Yum. Good means are always a part of travel, don’t you agree?

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The Egg and I

Last year, I told you the story of how my sister, Dottie, my cousin, Ted, and I learned the Easter hymn sung during Eastern Orthodox Easter. I told you about my father and how he taught us the words in Greek, and how he helped us pronounce, and remember, the very last word by telling us to say “Harry, Sam, and Us. The whole story can be found here. That was the first time my sister and I attended the Easter Sunday Agape service. The next year, we went to the midnight Easter service and then to the celebratory feast afterwards.

In the Orthodox tradition, there is a moving service that is held at midnight rejoicing in the empty tomb of Christ. Most churches are packed to overflowing as chants and prayers are intoned. Just before midnight, all the lights in the sanctuary are turned off. It is a solemn, sacred moment to believers, and one of palpable anticipation. It is utterly silent and dark. As the new day is born, Easter morning, the bells ring and the priest rejoices with the words “Christos Anesti”, holding one lit candle, which lights another, then another, until the entire church is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight and song. A liturgy is then celebrated, lasting until well after 1:30 am.

There is, of course, much more to this religious celebration that I am expressing here, but, I hope it gives you a feel for the anticipation my sister and I had when we were allowed to attend this Easter resurrection service for the first time. It was a rite of passage, allowing us into an adult time of worship and I will never, ever forget it.

In those years, the early 1960′s, our church was a fledging parish, set off on its own from an established church in Chicago. It was founded by first generation Greek Americans, the children of immigrants, who were slowly, gradually, purposefully moving out to the suburbs, buying mostly new houses in subdivisions with new schools named Nixon and Eisenhower. These new schools rented gymnasiums and classrooms to newly formed churches to use until they could raise the money to build their own. Our small band of parishioners and a priest with a vision did the same, first using public schools, then buying a small, older church, finally building a new one that has stood now for nearly five decades.

It was in the “used” church that my fondest memories dwell. It was walking distance from our house and situated across the street from my grade school. Roosevelt Elementary School and Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church, in Broadview, Illinois, blocks from the Eisenhower Expressway, seven blocks from our house. It was in Roosevelt School that I first learned of the assassination of John Kennedy, and then, a few days later, on the steps of Holy Apostles,  that Lee Harvey Oswald was shot. It was in Roosevelt School where I watched an American launched into space and in Holy Apostles basement that I learned the Greek alphabet. It was in that school that I was a seal in the circus and  it was in that church that I was a fallen angel of the Lord in the Christmas pageant. It was in the church where my sister managed to roll her quarter “offering” down the aisle at a most solemn moment. I can still hear the sound as it seemed to roll on and on and on, trying hard not to giggle. It was during Greek School lessons in the church basement where we all sat giggling beyond control as we saw a man enter the ladies’ restroom (the man, we later learned, couldn’t read English). I remember one of the boys raising his hand, shouting in Greek, “barroe na pao sto meros”, loosely meaning I have to go the bathroom and twenty or so children bursting into fits of laughter.

It was in this humble church that I attended my first midnight service and in the church basement afterwards that my sister and I were first allowed to partake in the celebratory feast. There was lamb and potatoes, Greek yogurt (what? you thought it was just invented now?) , bread and salad and sweets – and red Easter eggs, which would take me on a path of Olympic glory. Okay. Not exactly Olympic glory, but rather a mini-moment of fame.

Greek Easter eggs are traditionally dyed red, representing the blood of Christ. They are really quite beautiful in a basket or nestled into a big round loaf of Greek Easter bread. They are also employed in a game of seeing who can crack the most eggs without having their own crack.

I sat, primly, in my Easter dress and bonnet, enjoying the food and the sense of community as folks ate, chatted in two different languages, the priest prayed and spoke, women served food. My mother helped with the serving. My dad was often interrupted to shake this person’s hand, or got up to say hello to someone.

Then, the boys started cracking eggs. I was a shy child and was about 12 years old at the time. That awkward age for most girls, made more so by masses of boys with red egg-shell weapons in their hands. One of the boys came over to try to crack my egg. I’m sure he thought that quiet Penny would be an easy target. Not so, for he hit mine with his pointed end and his cracked! He used the other end, and it cracked as well. I felt pretty swell, sitting there, having spent not a whit of energy on the exchange. Another boy came up with the same results. Daddy saw his opportunity and stood up. Having two daughters, one painfully shy, does not give a father too many moments of this kind of pride. He went over to one of the men. I’m sure he said something to the effect of “none of the boys can crack my daughter’s Easter egg”. Of course, a few more boys came over and tried, their Easter eggs turning into masses of red shell. At some point, my dad looked concerned. Two many boys around his older daughter, I’m sure.

I won that  year. Nary a dent in my Easter egg. I proudly brought it home. Yia Yia put it in an old, chipped cup and it was on display, then it went into a cabinet above the stove, where it sat, for many years. Ma would take it out for me to look at, then carefully place it back into its tomb. She would let me gently shake it so I could hear the yolk rattle, with strong warning to be careful, for, if dropped, well, imagine the smell.

I don’t know what happened to that Easter egg. It was likely thrown away when we moved from the house. I do know what happened to my memories of that first Easter service. It sits awesomely in my memory and I take it out each year.

Image source and more information about Greek Easter eggs and game can be found by clicking here and here.

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Pint Sized

Every so often, one of us will look at the other expectantly and say “do you want to go to Antonino’s tonight?”, which, translated, means “I’d like to go to Antonino’s tonight – for pizza“. Somehow, when one of us says it, the other always concurs, and off we go for pizza at our favorite hangout.

Antonino’s is a cozy Italian restaurant in a neighboring town; a hole-in-the- wall sort of place that seats, maybe, 30 guests along with a continuous string of carry-out customers. We enjoy their food, their family atmosphere, and sometimes a salad, soup, or calamari on the side, but, mostly, we go for their pizza.

So it was last Friday, after a very long and busy week for both Tom and I, that we found ourselves greeted and seated at a corner table finishing up pizza as our waitress asked if we would like anything else before depositing our tab for payment. “No thank you” we said, just minutes before the very same waitress walked by with a tempting dish that caught our eyes.

Sigh.

We don’t order desert very often, but, what passed our table looked so inviting. “Uh, miss, was that Neapolitan ice cream you just walked by with?”. It was, she replied, and soon, a similar plate with two spoons nestled upon our table. We dug right in with our spoons for shovels, the chocolate on Tom’s side, the New York cherry on mine, with a ribbon of pistachio ice cream to share in the middle. It’s grand, is it not, when life works out this way; two aging hippies spooning over ice cream?

It was delicious, though I think our confection was technically spumoni, rather than Neapolitan. Neither of us cared what its true surname was as we licked our spoons and recalled the ice cream of our childhood, served in this way, an icy brick of creamy flavors from a pint of ice cream.

Our moms would come home with a pint of ice cream, packed in a neatly squared carton. The pint would be opened on the table or counter by gently opening the top, then the four sides, all carefully disassembled, revealing a brick of ice cream in the center. Just watching the unfolding was a treat! A large knife would be dipped in warm water, then sliced through the ice cream into even slabs. It was always a treat, but, never looked more inviting than when the ice cream was spumoni!

Do you like ice cream? Spumoni, Neapolitan? Ever have moose tracks? Do you remember ice cream sold in square pints?

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Turning the river green

St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated with quite a bit of enthusiasm in these parts, with plenty of corned beef and cabbage to be had, the wearin’ of the green the fashion of the day, Irish music being played in pubs and on the radio, and local television stations featuring everything from how to make green beer local step dancing troupes performing.

Chicago and the suburbs surrounding it boast a large Irish American population; a proud people whose heritage enriches the lives of all us, especially Herself, for you see, Himself is half Irish. Here on the Cutoff, we celebrate with a slow cooked corned beef cabbage and carrot dinner, which is preceded by aromas wafting from the oven of Irish soda bread, and, yes, a glass of beer raise in a toast with. My soda bread recipe is here, as well as how it came to be in our family.

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The City of Chicago has several St. Patrick’s Day parades, one  down Columbus Drive along Lake Michigan,  the other on Chicago’s south side, with several suburbs boasting large parades as well. I know for I’ve marched in a few myself.

Picture source and information can be found at http://www.chicagostpatsparade.com/river-dye.html

Come mid March, the Chicago River faithfully turns a shade of emerald green; a sight to behold, especially for a river that flows backwards.

Now, my friends, I’m a bit sluggish today for all the soda bread I’ve stuffed into my mouth, so I’ll leave you with these few pictures, links, and video of St. Paddy’s Day the Chicago way.

Himself and I enjoy the lilt and lyrics of a well-known Chicago group called Arranmore. I’ve posted about their rendition of Danny Boy, which always has us weeping, here. They have another song, which plays on local radio shows on St. Patrick’s Day, that is always good fun to hear. It is called South Side Irish.

Do you celebrate St. Patrick’s Day? Have you ever marched in a parade?

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Dem Bones

 

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive. Anais Nin

One never knows where “dem bones” will end up. Take, for instance, a ham bone. One leftover from a Christmas luncheon. Actually, someone did take the ham bone. Several people, in fact, did. It made perfect sense to let the ladies who offered to warm the hams have “first pick” at the bones, which they happily took home. One bone, however, was passed on to another, Pat, who froze it to share at another time. I was one of the lucky ones who got to enjoy it!

I was delighted to receive Pat’s invitation to lunch, though not sure if I would be able to make it as it was a week after my sister’s surgery. As luck would have it, I was able to attend and, as these sorts of things go, it was JUST the thing I needed.

Several of us sat around Pat’s table on an icy Friday morn in February, enjoying a most delicious ham, bean and kale soup accompanied by spoon corn bread, a spicy carrot salad, and stimulating conversation with just the right pinches of laughter and encouragement. Dear reader, please know this hearty lunch with one of “dem bones” was a balm for my soul, allowing me to regroup, repair, and rejoice!

Ah, dem bones! As I wended my way home, I started humming the spiritual “Dem Bones”, then recalled a performance on the famed show of years ago, the Lawrence Welk Show. I guess I was still picking at ‘dem bones”. This version was performed on a Halloween show. I hope you will enjoy “dem bones” – and maybe have a big bowl of hearty soup, shared with friends, perhaps, someday soon.

 

 

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At JUST the right time

There are presents wrapped in bright paper with bows, or slipped into gift bags with tissue galore, and then there are gifts that come from the exuberant  suggestion of a dear friend. Have you ever gotten one?

I did, just after Christmas, when Janet, aka Country Mouse, recommended a little memoir that she thought I would like. Her enthusiasm was so contagious and our friendship so rooted that I knew I needed to read the book. I found it at one of the libraries I haunt and was turning the pages as soon as I arrived home. It was JUST the book I needed to read at JUST the right time, and now I want to tell you about it.

When writer Suzan Colon starts feeling the wrath of the downturn in the economy in 2008, she starts to economize on the cut-backs she correctly anticipates will happen. Sack lunches and walking instead of taking the subway are a prelude for the day her job no longer exists. At her mother’s suggestion, Suzan looks to her grandmother’s recipes for inspiration. It becomes a journey of recipes and family history as she explores not only Nana’s recipes, but her writing as well, along with her own mother’s stories of survival.

I read about Suzan making split pea soup just as my own ham bone was floating happily in a pot of green on the stove, and I thought about how we all “make do” with leftovers and leftover leftovers as I put ham in with potatoes to stretch that little piggy a little further on yet another day. I thought about the pinwheel cookie I was eating and how it came to Tom’s family through a cookbook that came with a stove and how Tom’s mother wrote a letter to the government seeking permission to buy the stove during WWII rationing as I read about Nana’s recipe for butter cookies, neatly typed for Nana had gone to secretarial school, when she wanted to be a teacher and a writer, but life and times got in the way.

This sweet little book is filled with Colon’s family history and survival as she works her way through the tough economy and all it entails that many are struggling through, still. It is, to me, really about looking to our family and their stories for strength, to take each day one at a time, to enjoy the little moments in life and to allow yourself a “treat” now and then. When I finished the book, I found myself wanting more, for this little gem found its way into my heart and nourished my soul JUST when I needed it. I’m thankful for the earnest recommendation of a long-time friend and kindred spirit, and I am thankful for having read Suzan Colon’s book. “Cherries in Winter” – I JUST might need to find myself some cherries soon.

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Slowly comes our Christmas

Christmas comes slowly here on the Cutoff. While we have already been to a few festivities and my Christmas books have slowly started to appear, it is truly bit by bit that our holiday unfolds here.

Last night, the artificial tree came up, released from the confines of its box. We are still debating a real tree this year. Time will work that out.

Tonight, ornaments and angels and all things that glitter made it up the stairs.

Tomorrow, the slow process of unwrapping thirty nine years of Christmases, with a few bits of each of our childhood as well, will start. This is actually a bit early for us to start taking out Christmas as we leave it up until the “wise guys” come in January.

I enjoy the anticipation of these long winter nights, the carols playing, my quiet hour of Christmas books, sipping tea as the afternoon fades to dusk. I enjoy  meals with the flicker of candlelight and the emerging scents of pine and cinnamon and ginger.

I also enjoy trying new recipes along with old favorites.

This weekend, I made a new appetizer;  goat cheese balls, which prompted all sorts of sophomoric expression and giggles. I will leave this to your own imaginations. These were very easy to make and equally as good. I found the recipe on Dana Treat’s blog, where I often visit for inspiration and good food. Basically, just roll the cheese into a balls, refrigerate about 10 minutes, then roll in chopped pecans, chopped parsley, paprika (to get that red band around the middle), and just about anything else you might like.

How is your December unfurling? Have you tried a new recipe this season?

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Retreat on a fork

I have been savoring this since Monday. A bite here, a bite there. Surely there aren’t as many calories if you don’t eat it all at once, are there? No matter. It has been a full and busy week and this sweet gift has been my little retreat on a fork.

Our Garden Club’s annual holiday gathering was on Monday. It is always a most delightful time of food and friendship, raffle baskets and creative floral arrangements that seem to sprout out of nothing to decorate our lives and lead us into the holiday season.

It is customary at this event for the club president to honor past presidents and those members who have been in the club for twenty or more years. It is a warm way of recognizing their contributions and, I think, a time to reflect on what we mean to each other.

These were made and given by our president, Norma. Can’t you just hear the oohs and ahs that were uttered as we received these jars of Red Velvet Nutella Cake with Frosting wrapped in raffia and greens?

Have you ever given or received a jar of wonder that tickles your tastebuds?

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Busy days and cozy nights

Busy days, cozy nights, and beginning preparations for Thursday’s Thanksgiving feast have been keeping me busy. The cranberry relish is marrying its flavors, the turkey is thawing out in the refrigerator, a new pumpkin pie recipe with chipotle is on the menu, and there are a few dust bunnies that need to be corralled.

What have you been up to?

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Dumplings and Babe

Our son-in-law Tom likes to watch American’s Test Kitchen. His quiet enthusiasm  has led me  to watch whenever I can. Compliments of the Public Broadcasting System, it airs in my area and I think of Tom often when I watch. Not only do we see delectable recipes being demonstrated, but we learn a bit about the science of why one ingredient works better than another, how products like canned peeled tomatoes are rated, or what the best bang for your buck is if you are looking for a stand mixer.

It was while I was up in Minnesota visiting that I saw an episode on chicken and dumplings that set my taste buds afloat and brought to mind my Aunt Babe, who made the most delectable dumplings I ever set my teeth into. Aunt Babe, Isabelle, was my mother’s older and only sister.

Babe was a force to reckon with.  Often the instigator of family spats, she could cut you down to size in an instant. She could also be your greatest ally. I was afraid of Aunt Babe as a child. I sometimes resented her when I was I young adult and she moved in with my mother. I grew to love her as a woman and mother.

Aunt Babe would call me on my birthday or holidays, then she would call me more frequently. Eventually, I realized she was repeating herself more and more in the course of a conversation and that she was calling me at odd times. Since she was calling from Michigan, I worried about the cost and asked her daughter if she was aware of how often Aunt Babe was calling me. It was sad to not hear from her as much after that. Her phone bills, it seems, were exorbitant – and she was calling others as well. Eventually, the calls stopped. I miss her gruff “yyyyellow” as a greeting, instead of hello, or picking up the phone to hear “doing?” Her wicked laugh and role as family historian stilled. Her storytelling and good food, however, remain in my heart and mind.

Aunt Babe had given me some recipes when she heard I was putting together cookbooks for my girls. I still have them, in her own script. She was known to leave out ingredients or steps. The little touches that make good recipes great. Aunt Babe never shared with me her recipe for dumplings, but the ones being made on America’s Test Kitchen looked a lot like hers.

I’ve had a hankering for chicken and dumplings ever since I saw them on American’s Test Kitchen. I was intrigued by the use of a dish towel, under the lid as the dumplings cooked to capture the steam. The use of buttermilk and baking soda with the flour sounded like they would float on air. The weather had turned cold, the days had shortened, and my appetite was whetted, so I found the recipe in “The Cook’s Illustrated Cookbook” and set out to try my hand at these dumplings.

I can almost see Aunt Babe, nodding approval and smiling down at me.

Yum! You can find the recipe here. For vegetarians, they would be good floating in vegetable broth.

We’re on the road again, headed back up to Minnesota. I wonder if another recipe with a tasty memory will find me there.

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