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Chicken again

I swear I’ll start taking a starting photo of what I’m throwing into my Instant Pot to put with my posts. (And to help me remember what I’ve used when it turns out fabulous.)

pot head productionsSo Chicken won the “what’s for dinner” lottery, and then I had to figure out what I could toss together.  I pulled out vegetable broth, smoked paprika, cajun seasoning, red pepper,  parsley, garlic, a pound of pasta, and a block of cream cheese.

Did I mention the two chicken breasts were frozen solid?  I literally pulled them from the freezer, ripped the bag open and put them directly into Pot Head Productions, my trusty Instant Pot.

I dumped in the herbs and seasonings and a cup of veggie broth.  I set it to manual for 30 minutes, and sat down to finish painting a rock.  (fodder for a different post)

That magic pot beeped three times letting me know it was done.  I quick released the pressure, put the chicken breasts on a plate and added the pasta and enough veggie broth to cover the noodles.  I chunked up both chicken breasts and tossed it on top of the pasta.  Put the lid back on and set four minutes on high pressure.  When it was done, I cut the cream cheese up and mixed it in with some salt and pepper.

It was delicious.  Stick-to-your-ribs delicious.  I should have put some vegetables in it. Hindsight.

Didn’t matter, I had dinner completed from frozen to finish in 45 minutes.  Chicken and pasta in a spicy, smoked paprika, white cheesy sauce.

Like my sticker?  Want one or want something designed for you? They are $6 plus postage.  Email me at Plum Creek Creations.    

~R~

 

Grits, the West Coast Yankee way

eggs-grits.jpg
I’m not native to Alabama, or the South, but I got here as soon as I could.  There are a few foods here that reminded me of growing up. Grits is on that list.

We had corn meal mush for breakfast sometimes.  It had the consistency of Creme of Wheat, and with enough brown sugar/butter/maple syrup/jelly it went down well.  A “stick to your ribs” type breakfast when oatmeal got boring.  And it was cheap; much like grits are.

I was introduced to grits at the truck stop I got a job at when I first landed in the Florida Panhandle.  Pretty sure my mouth was hanging open when I watched some burly trucker mash his fried eggs into a stack of steaming hot grits, yolk and all.  And some co-workers returned the dumbfounded look when I dipped my toast in the yolks of my fried eggs, and skipped the grits.

I did try grits several ways, though.
I mashed with eggs – nope.
I added jelly – not a fan.
I salted and peppered – still not a fan.
I added cheese – that was palatable
I added diced up ham and cheddar cheese – okay, that’s better.
I added bacon, cheese and onion – better still.
I added garlic and cheddar cheese and paired this with fried mullet – NOW, we’re getting somewhere.
I added garlic and cheddar and paired with shrimp – I’m all in!

So I did find a few ways to cook and serve grits that I liked, but my Southern-born kids like grits so I made grits for them.  I noticed when chilled, grits hold their form, which gave me an idea.  I took the leftover grits and filled up a small bread loaf pan.  I stuck it in the fridge.

Later that night, I put the grit loaf on a plate and sliced it like bread.  It was similar to thick jello and held it’s form.  I got out my trusty skillet.  After the pan was hot, I tossed some butter in it and a slice of grit loaf with cajin’ seasoning salt.  What a treat that turned out to be.

I got the pan hot again, but this time, salted and peppered my grit loaf slice and fried it in bacon grease. Holy Crapola – another winner!   Pretty experimental for a bland breakfast dish.  Turns out I do like Grits.  I had to West Coast Yankee them up a bit first though.

I haven’t been so quick to experiment with Chitterlings.  I’m just leaving that Southern mess to the folks around here who appreciate them.

The beginning of June

The end of May, beginning of June is a hard time. I blame it on my mother for leaving so many open wounds.  Hell, from as far back as I can remember we weren’t close.  I don’t remember getting a hug from her.  Ever.  I don’t remember hearing my mother tell me she loved me.  I thought maybe I blocked it out due to years of fighting.  She fought with alcohol, and I fought to get away.  My older sister confirmed it. It was no dream. We were unloved.

I remember school programs and events she didn’t attend.  Other kids so happy as their beaming mom wrapped her arms securely around them after a choir concert.  I busied myself with finding a ride home or hoofing it almost three miles through the darkness at that time of night. It would be loud when I got home if she was awake. This was long before cell phones.  I couldn’t text my sister to see if it was safe to walk in the front door, or to get warning that she was drunk, and sneaking in the basement would allow me to go right to bed.

I learned to appreciate the long evening walks and quiet streets. I played a game with myself; how many sleeping dogs could I creep past without walking them.  I called every dog “mom” on these journeys.  The barking and snarling signified the hell that would unleash if mother woke up when I got home.

The beginning of June meant no place to escape for hours.  School was out.  So I learned her drinking patterns and used any door or window available to escape the house. I’m sure the neighbors had plenty to say about her wandering brood.  The back yard was a haven to escape as well.  I’d hear her call me from the window, and I ignored her.  I blamed it on the dogs, geese and ducks, or the neighbors’ donkey being too loud.

It was a day in early June, not many years after, that I left home with no plans to ever go back. They moved to Florida, while my sister and I stayed in Washington. I then moved to Michigan. So many years of silence between myself and my mother.  I eventually moved to Florida while ending a bad marriage.  I had hoped the years had mellowed her, especially her cutting words.  I was wrong. I had no door to sneak in so I faced her. She had a beer in her hand.  No hug. No small talk. Not even a smile  She simply looked at me and stated “You finally came crawling back.”  It was early June.

I got back on my feet. Mom and I spent the next 18 years in a twilight zone.  We could talk on the phone for hours but were not able to stand in the same room.  I lived, usually, about 30 minutes away, but got on with my life like it was 3,000 miles.  When I had kids, I told them I loved them. I hugged them. I played with them.  Mom and I didn’t share that special little joy most moms and daughters enjoy when grand kids show up.  She did softened a little towards the grand kids.  I tried to talk to her about our odd relationship, keeping the distance emotionally.  I didn’t want my kids thinking we were a normal mother and daughter. She wouldn’t have it.

In early June of 2000, I moved to Mississippi for my job. She found out she had cancer a week later.  I offered to move back to help her out.  She asked if I needed to come crawling back.  That door slammed hard.  It was a three hour drive between our houses, but it could have been 300.  I stayed away. I hugged my kids more. I told them I loved them every day.

The last six months of her life, I came over to help my dad as much as possible.  He needed a break, even if it was just running to Winn Dixie to get away.  We talked more, empty subjects about nothing important, and certainly not about relationships.  We could never talk about past.  I didn’t bring it up, I didn’t want to rile her.

The last months and weeks of her life was difficult. She got weaker in body, but still the stubborn mind.  The time came for all of us to gather for the last days.  She passed away at home, with her children and husband caring for her until her last breath.  She died 16 years ago on the first of June.

~R~

Blueberry cheesecake pancakes wasn’t on today’s list

Usually there is a daily plan or list I’m working off of.  Today was no different until I took a break.

I got up early, sanded and painted an old window, cut chalk board, and then needed a fresh java upload.  Got my coffee, and sat for moment to check Etsy, two emails, Instagram, and then Facebook.

A friend on the west coast was already assaulting his friends with food porn.  First thing I see is a rib steak, with juicy butter and rosemary and blue cheese crumbles.

My belly grumbled. Next, a fat stack of blueberry pancakes.  Just quit, dammit!

OK, you got me.  The power of social media is driving my hunger.  That, and last night during a talk with my sister, she tosses blueberry cheesecake into the discussion.

So I come up with this.  Blueberry Cheescake Pancakes.

blueberry cheesecake pancakes Oh hell yes.  Cream cheese icing drizzle over hot blueberry pancakes.

I still have almost a quart of frozen blueberries in the freezer.  This might be dinner tomorrow night.

Some notes/tips:
1. N
ext time blueberries are on sale or you go to the fruit market, grab some extra, spread them in a baking pan and freeze them in a single layer. Then put them in a freezer bag or container.  Makes it real easy to grab a handful for pancakes or muffins.
2. No one wants to get out the mixer or blender to make a small amount of icing.  I use a mini food grinder.  Put two TBS of cream cheese in, and two TBS milk.  Mix it on lowest speed. Once the cream cheese is broken down a bit, add about 1/8 cup powered sugar and more milk until you get a pouring consistency.

Happy Sunday!

~R~

Dual-Duty Appliances – Waffle Maker

Waffle makersWhat? A waffle maker is dual-duty?

You bet it is.

Sure, it makes great waffles that hold butter and applesauce. (syrup if you like)  But here is a list of other things that little work-horse can produce.  And here’s a tip: it doesn’t heat the whole house up.  Easy enough for the spouse, SO or kids to make too.

Waffle maker stuff1

  • Cornbread – mix it up and spoon it in.  You may have to adjust the consistency a smidge.  You’ll not believe how good chili holds in those little divots. Top it with cheese and it looks like dessert for supper.  Great with taco soup, baby lima beans and any other main dish you eat with cornbread fresh from the oven.
  • Muffin Mixes – Easy in the morning or for dessert; serve with butter, or whipped cream or pudding or ice cream.
  • Brownies – Drizzle with chocolate syrup, and decorate with shaved chocolate curls.
  • Cake mixes – Top with frosting (mix it up – butter pecan, fresh fruit, pie filling, pudding, ice cream or whipped topping

waffle maker stuff 2

  • Cookies – These can be cut in triangles and put over a rolling pin to form them in a semi circle, then stick them in a small  (or big) bowl with some ice cream.  Easy treat.
  • Hash browns – You can cook shredded hash browns and they come out crispy and somewhat stick together.  Another method is to scramble two eggs in a large bowl and mix a bit of hash browns in it, then put them on the waffle iron.  They stick together but the potatoes don’t get as crispy.
  • Zucchini patties – these worked best on a waffle iron that has temperature dial, and they cook best on high.  Mix up your favorite recipe and spoon it on.

I joked about trying refrigerator biscuits, and using with sausage gravy.  That might not be a joke in the near future.

What have you tried in your waffle maker?  Post it in the comments and I’ll try it out.

See my other Dual-Duty Appliance posts here.

~R~

Because of you

Memorial day FBEach Memorial Day, many see and hear of all the plans for parties and BBQ’s.  Some folks go to their towns parade and wave flags. I’d like to believe that sometime during all this celebrating, each and every one of us take a moment to reflect on the meaning of this holiday.

It started in 1868 as a way to pay tribute to soldiers lost in the Civil War.  Almost every family lost someone or knew someone who lost a relative.  Just through my years, the footprint in the military has changed.  There are less soldiers due to military spending cuts.  The big push now is college for everyone.  More than half my friends have a relative who was a soldier.  Many have ancestors for whom this was created.

Maybe the word holiday is the wrong word for Memorial Day.  I know it’s listed on all the calendars as a holiday because it’s a three day weekend.  No school or work. What else to do besides celebrate a day off. And the retail world is always looking for a reason to have a sale.

For me, it is a remembrance day.  Without the men and women who decided to give their life for their country, would I have the freedom to sit this morning typing out my thoughts?  Read what others think on social media? Protest if I don’t like something? Would I be able to vote for city, county, state and national leaders?

I don’t have the “what if” answers. I do know when I visit Veterans Memorial Parks, or the Airplane Museums with my dad, I am so grateful he made it home every trip.  I get overwhelmed reading all the names on the plaques of casualties; those who didn’t come home. I have learned that just one or two tissues is not enough to walk a whole park.

I often wonder if family members attached to those names realize the impact.  Do they feel the hairs on the back of their neck tingle each time their hero’s name is read? Do they know strangers are walking around a park with tissues quietly reading each name? All these questions.  Without a doubt, these men and women paid with their lives to uphold the freedom we have today.

If you get the chance, go visit a Veterans Memorial Park. Take your family.  Most have picnic areas, and you can visit anytime.  And bring a box of tissues.

~R~

Slipping Away

sunrise in p-vegasI never really gave much thought to a “morning routine.”  In fact, I didn’t realize the correlation between Metamucil, old people and morning routine until after 50.  But this isn’t about poop irregularity.  This is about realizing too late how days slip into years. 

Then
The youthful me used to jump out of bed with a vengeance, typically beating the alarm. Late nights didn’t matter.  I could survive for days on two or three hours of sleep each night. Mornings were well-choreographed clockwork: pee, brush teeth, grab coffee, shower, get dressed, wake up kids, more coffee, toss out food scrapes for the kids, read paper standing at kitchen table, more coffee, bark at kids to get dressed, re-dress one kid (always that one kid), everybody pee, grab school bags, empty remaining coffee in travel mug, wait with kids for bus, head to work all before 7am.  Saturdays and Sundays had similar schedules with the exception of school bags and the bus.  Get up, get fed, get moving.

Revelation: I did this shit to my kids for almost half my life and all of theirs.

Now
I don’t have a schedule to keep anymore.  Coffee is still happening every morning, but I traded the newspaper in for reading blogs.  I stayed in pajamas most of yesterday while I sealed a bunch of artwork and posted several items online.  Sometimes I wake up by 5am, sometimes I wake up at 8am.  This morning reminded me I should have spent more time relaxing with my kids when they were young, especially on the weekends.  I really didn’t take time to enjoy days that could have been lazy.

Last night I kept the oldest grandson.  Today is teacher in-service day and he was coming over anyway.  We partied on Ritz crackers and binge watched Netflix cartoons until 10pm. I offered him coffee so he could stay up later.  (we drink coffee after school sometimes. His is mostly milk and sugar.)  With a straight face, he sincerely responded with “I can’t do that, gramma.  I’m a kid. Kids go to bed”

I told him “SO? You don’t have to tonight.  You can sleep in tomorrow.”  He was out within minutes after that.  I stayed up until 2ish and painted a little.  I guess his mother is truly a chip off the old block.  I opened my eyes to a fully dressed seven year old in matching clothes.  He had the morning cartoons on, and was waiting for the day to start. All before 7am.

I’m going to have to talk to that one child about loosening up a bit.  Before she knows it, these babies will be grown and she will wonder where all her mornings went.

Have a lazy day occasionally.  That big old world outside can wait on you while you do something you can talk about for years to come.  “Remember that day . . . ”

~R~