I liked this apple tart a lot. I ate a big piece.
And I loved this very special cake, too. I ate a big piece.
And this???
I don’t like this at all.
And I’ll never tell what the number was this morning. Never, ever, ever.
Here’s the photo:
Here’s the story: a fallen soldier’s dog
I came across this while reading the news this morning. Just had to share.
Love,
MorePie
Happy Thanksgiving to you all!!!
Wherever you are and whatever kind of pie you’re eating after your turkey dinner, I hope you have people you love around you.
And lots of volunteers to help with the dishes.
My grandmother’s traditional Thanksgiving dessert was something she called “Pineapple Marlow”. We loved it, especially in her delicate sherbert cups that huddled in her china cabinet 363 days of the year. I hauled a box containing those dishes from the attic last Saturday and decided to search the internet for the recipe.
Believe it or not, this is what I found at www.recipecurio.com.
I know this recipe isn’t my grandmother’s, but the handwriting is very similar to hers, which is weird. This had been found in a big collection of old recipes.
It’s exactly the way my grandmother made it, though in later years she used the mini-marshmallows (4 cups) so she wouldn’t have to cut the big ones into pieces (which she did with a scissors). She also folded tiny bits of marshmallows into the final mixture before freezing in metal ice cube trays (dividers removed).
You have to let it sit on the counter for about 10 minutes or so before spooning it into your pretty glassware.
Here’s my grandmother’s handwritten recipe for Fudge Cuts, which are really quick to make. And very, uh, fudgy.
She was in her 80’s when she wrote out this recipe for me and had stopped making Pineapple Marlow decades before. I may have to resurrect the tradition at Christmas.
Have a lovely holiday weekend.
November 20 was the quarterly meeting of the Rhode Island Steel Guitar Association.
(click HERE for their website–I’ll be working up a blog for them soon)
I figured now that I own a lap steel guitar, I should learn how to play it, right? So Banjo Man and I nestled a crock pot full of homemade meatballs in the trunk and set off to another far corner of our little state. This section of Portsmouth (on Aquidneck Island) is close to the Massachusetts line, on the water.
The particular meeting place is called Common Fence Point, which hosts monthly live music. Attendees bring their own dinners, place settings and beverages and sit family-style at long tables. It’s great fun and a chance to see local and regional musicians.
We didn’t know what to expect–the meeting was to start off with a jam session, followed by a business meeting, potluck lunch and then more music. I hoped I could convince someone to take me on as a student (can you bribe a musician with meatballs?), but I wasn’t sure if this would be an exclusive group, or if they would welcome ignorant strangers. I told Glen to leave the crock pot in the car for a while until I decided if I felt comfortable enough to stay.
I shouldn’t have worried. We pulled up next to a man (Roger) busy unloading several tons of speakers and equipment, but he grinned at us and introduced himself. So did the other two men chatting at the door. We hadn’t even entered the building before I told Glen to get the meatballs. <g> Marcia, the president (and wife of Chuck, a pedal steel player), couldn’t have been nicer. She’d brought an instruction book for me to look through and seemed genuinely pleased to welcome a new member.
No one could believe I hadn’t brought my lap steel with me–despite my explaining I didn’t know how to play it–and said they could have helped me get started. No one could believe I hadn’t brought my fiddle either, and I regretted leaving it at home when the first song the guys launched into was “Tennessee Waltz”.
Roger Trahan on pedal steel
It would have been such a thrill to play along with Roger, Chuck, Peter, Gary, Paul and Eddie.
Let me tell you about Eddie. It was love at first sight when I walked in the room and saw his double-necked Rickenbacher. He was attaching the legs and plugging in cords when I introduced myself and tried not to drool on this beauty.
Eddie said he had no patience for teaching, but I pulled a chair next to his and he gave me an explanation of tuning and chords. Marcia convinced him to lead a workshop for beginners soon, so I hope that works out. Eddie was the only one playing the lap steel (as opposed to the pedal steel).
Joe Ferri, retired musician, took my hand and gave me some good advice: Learn your scales, he said, and you can play any song with anyone. Joe has played steel guitar with Kitty Wells, Hank Thompson and many other famous country folks. He had to give it up three years ago, but everyone was really pleased he’d come to the meeting to visit a while.
Marcia (who reminded me of Retired Mountain Lady) was pretty darn funny. We had to list our instruments on the membership forms and she told Banjo Man that steel guitars and banjo’s don’t go together–and he thought she was serious. I teased him about not being told he “should have brought your banjo”.
The next meeting is in February, which gives me time to get up to speed on a couple of songs (I took notes on what they played and in what key) on the guitar and the fiddle. I’m already worrying about the weather cancelling the meeting.
Yes, it was that much fun.
Almost as good as being back on the lake, up on the mountain, with the Cougar Creek band.
The winter now seems a little less bleak.
Eddie Cunningham on lap steel
He was 11 weeks premature and now he’s 6’3″.
He was a serious, sweet, stubborn toddler with a big sense of humor. He now has a son who frowns just like him, and laughs just like him.
Ben and Banjo Man at the farm in Nebraska
When he was 13, he grew 4″ in one summer.
He is a wonderful, talented, creative, kind, loving son, the kind of man who always does the right thing and can be counted on to do what needs to be done, no matter what. He hears music in his head. He writes songs. He teaches young people. He is the kind of big brother his brothers and sisters look up to. He loves BBQ and pot roast and mashed potatoes and banana cream pie and Campbells Hearty Beef soup and shrimp gumbo, but don’t tell him to eat a green bean.
He is such a patient father.
And a loving husband.
And I’m so proud to wish him a happy birthday.
In September, October, November and December, our Saturdays revolve around this:
It’s a family tradition, after all. Even on our wedding day, when we’d made it all the way to a motel in Massachusetts (we had no idea where we were going, Vermont or New Hampshire or Montreal), Banjo Man watched part of the game.
Part of the game. Ahem.
Every Saturday includes a trip to the dump (Banjo Man), grocery shopping for all the weekly sales at 4 different stores (Banjo Man) and watching college football games while eating salty, greasy, yummy snacks (me and Banjo Man). I sometimes sew or cook or bake or help Banjo Man find stuff to take to the dump. Mostly I sit around in my sweat pants (that my friend Bachelor Steve used to wear duck hunting until he lost weight and gave them to me) with Wheat Thins and the remote control, and I putter in the kitchen. I love Saturdays.
Today I set my alarm clock and was all gussied up (mascara! cowboy boots! clean jeans!)and out the door by 7:30 to head all the way to Foster, RI (1 hour, 10 minutes according to mapquest) to buy a wedding gift for Jeff and Angela which I can’t tell you about because sometimes they read this blog and I don’t want to spoil the fun of opening the box. But I brought my camera and took pictures of a craftsman who loves his work, which I’ll share with you another time because I think you’d appreciate his talent.
Here’s a hint.
Then I drove north (I may have approached dangerously close to the Connecticut border) to deliver a box of dog bandana fabric to my friend Judy, who runs an animal rescue group called Little Paws 4 You.
Which is how I ended up fostering and then adopting this sweet old gal, my one-eyed Pekingese. We miss her. It’s very odd not having dogs in the house.
I had to be in Exeter by 10, because my friend Ruth was picking up her new sewing machine this morning and I wanted to jump up and down in the parking lot with her. She’s been shopping for just the right machine for a couple of years now and we’d looked at a lot of machines at quite a few quilt shows and stores, but last week we found a used Janome 11000–it sews and embroiders– at a great price and it was love at first sight as far as Ruth was concerned.
Can you tell?
Next week we’re doing a marathon sewing day to make Christmas tree skirts. We have the pattern, the template, the fabric, 2 ironing boards, 2 irons, the kitchen island and two machines. It’s gonna be wild (Dancing Mandolin Player, do you remember those days???!!!)
Banjo Man will go to the dump, then will plant himself in the middle of the sewing chaos to watch Nebraska play football. And you know what? He won’t even notice there’s anyone else in the room.
I Am Brave, because I entered the consignment store that disparaged my taste in furniture and very politely asked if there was a check for me . Did any of my beloved crap happen to sell?
My Beloved Crap
I took my mother with me, because who is going to yell at a woman with her mother standing next to her? There is now $48 more in the MorePie Sound Equipment Fund (she announced proudly).
I Am Contagious, because my mother bought a coffee table at the consignment store. Sirens went off, confetti and balloons dropped from the ceiling, clowns danced across the room. In other words, my mother doesn’t buy furniture easily (not that I have anything to brag about in that department, because I can’t look at new furniture without tears and panic attacks, but I can haul the used stuff home without batting an eyelash, much to Banjo Man’s distress).
Distressed Banjo Man
My mother is a superstar shopping for clothes, jewelry, make up and shoes (I unfortunately didn’t inherit that). She always looks fashionable and trendy and put-together (I didn’t inherit that either).
Mom and Dad on a date in New Orleans, 1945
Sometimes she talks me into buying things for myself, such as the most incredible sewing machine, with all the bells and whistles a gal could ever lust after (thanks for the nudge, Mom).
My Incredible Sewing Machine
Today my mother and I went to Newport for our dentist appointments. Yes, Newport, home of the Naval War College, Vanderbilt mansions, colonial neighborhoods and cobblestone streets. My parents rented an apartment in Newport for a year or so after WWII and they always loved that part of Rhode Island. My father was in the Navy for 20 years and long after he retired we’d still go to “the base” and look at the ships. When the weather is good, it’s a treat to drive across the bridges and admire the bay.
My mother has been longing for a different tv stand in her bedroom. She thought she’d found one, but we agreed–on the way to the island– it would be too small. So later, with clean teeth and bellies full of fish & chips, we stopped to see if there were any candidates at the place-that-sold-my-red-chair. And for me to bravely see if I had money waiting.
Then Mom saw a coffee table. She decided to buy the coffee table in less than 7 minutes. It was an honest-to-God miracle and I didn’t actually believe it was happening until the salesclerk and I slid the darn thing into the back seat of Mom’s car.
Never mind that the new table is almost an exact replica of the former table, except for being 8″ longer and 4″ wider. The new one has prettier wood and prettier legs. It will hold more Thanksgiving appetizers, which is what Banjo Man and I really care about the most. He and I carried it into her house, wiped the raindrops off and set it in front of the couch, where it looks like it has been all its life.
(FYI: my mother bought a new living room chair in 2011. It replaced the one she bought in 1995. And that one replaced the one she bought in 1983. Everything else was new in 1964 and/or 1955).
She is going to shriek when she reads this. I can hear the phone ringing now. Good thing I have caller i.d.
At the risk of sounding like a shop-a-holic, I will confess to what I bought in the shop-that-didn’t-like-my-red-chair.
This is for my grandson, who will certainly like a cake shaped like a dog. You may all borrow it.
And these are for the lake, to hold lots of munchie things out on the deck. You know, for when the band gets hungry before practice.
I can’t decide if these are really cool or really weird. I guess you get to vote. You won’t hurt my feelings–they were only $3.00. I can always use them to hold hundreds of paper clips. Or my nightly medications.
I was minding my own business Tuesday, having delivered chicken pot pies to the iron-lacking friend up north in the Big Suburb, when my cell phone rang.
My cell phone rarely rings when I am in Rhode Island. We have poor cell phone reception here in the woods. But of course I wasn’t in the woods. I was backing out of my friend’s driveway. I was heading to Kohl’s to return a pair of size 10 jeans (they were too small–what a shock!!!!! Not.).
I seriously need new glasses. This is getting ridiculous.
Anyway, my so-not-a-size-10-rear was planted in the driver’s seat when I answered the phone, which turned out to be a consignment store near my home. The shop with the nice owner, not the one who yelled at me about my chairs.
“You’re the one who likes pie plates, aren’t you?” the nice owner said.
I admitted I was, indeed, the one. In fact, I was more than a little flattered. I now have a pie plate reputation.
My North American Indian names could be “Many Pie Plates” or “She Who Buys Glass” or “Woman Who Cooks Too Many Buffalo”.
“I just had two come in. Pyrex. 11 inch. Do you want me to hold them for you?”
I did indeed. I have no willpower when it comes to pie plates or glass baking dishes. After I returned my jeans and bought my grandson two pairs of pajamas and a very cute outfit for Christmas, and remembered to stop at the grocery store (I detest the grocery store) for frozen spinach, I zoomed three miles past my house and skidded to a stop in front of The Thrifty Sister.
I must remember to take a picture next time. It’s such a cute place.
The counter was covered in Pyrex: four rectangular baking dishes of different sizes, plus the two jumbo pie plates and a small oval baking dish.
“I’ll take them all,” I cried.
A pleasant young man perusing a stack of beautiful cast iron skillets said, “What do you do, cook for everyone in the world???”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
He helped me carry all the Pyrex out to my car. Wasn’t that nice?
Can you imagine how many pans of chicken enchiladas I can make at the lake next summer????? How much macaroni and cheese? How many brunch stratas and lemon jello cakes and chili rellenos and chicken pot pies?
The mind boggles. My Idaho freezer better rest up. She Who Buys Glass will be back in June.
stuff i wish i owned
I made a batch of small chicken pot pies Monday night. Banjo Man and I shared one, but the rest will go to a friend who is recovering from severe, life-threatening anemia.
Recovering is a good word.
So, what should she eat? Have any of you had experience with anemia? Aside from taking iron supplements, what did you (or someone you know) do/eat/drink to help things along?
Maybe I should have made spinach pies. Maybe I should stop at an Italian bakery tomorrow and load up. I know she likes spinach. Shoot. I cooked the wrong thing. I was going to buy spinach yesterday at W**M**t but I ran out of shopping time (Banjo Man needed the car by 1:15) and wanted to make sure I had time to buy an Italian sub and put gas in the car.
Here’s a recipe for spinach pie (aka calzones), for those of you curious about spinach pies made the Italian Rhode Island way. I’d cut the spinach by 1/3 and add chopped pepperoni myself. Or add more cheese. And dip it in pasta sauce. You know, to kill the taste of the spinach. I can make the dough in my bread machine, and therefore not antagonize any Walmart cashiers.
P.S. Have you ever seen a more gorgeous cast iron pan?
Fourth of July
Glen the Banjo Man
LIVE at the Dump
is there any more pie? 