findingharmonyblog

November 7, 2015

Roast Pork and Two Pulled Pork Options: Three Delicious Meals

This is the time of year when I don’t want to make roast turkey, chicken, or ham for a special meal, because, well, the holidays are coming when I will be making at least turkey and ham.

That’s when I think about pork: as the pork producers say, the other white meat we sometimes forget about.

Roast or pulled pork is another dish or meat that is incredibly easy to pop in the crock pot before you go to work or church and chop up into “pulled pork” for sandwiches or serve as roast pork wedges.

A must with pulled pork or plain old BBQ pork sandwiches? The cole slaw. I didn’t grow up that way (in fact I doubt I ever ate a BBQ pork sandwich until I moved to Virginia), but once here, the slaw—even on top of Sloppy Jo’s (made with ground beef of course) is a favorite! That nudges in vitamins through the cabbage, carrots and green or red peppers if you add those.

Roast Rubbed Pork (adapted from the National Pork Board)

1 3-5 pound boneless pork butt (shoulder)
1 ½ teaspoons smoked paprika
2 teaspoons black pepper
1 teaspoon cayenne or chili
1 teaspoon dried thyme (leaves)
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon rosemary leaves (optional)
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup water

Raw pork, rubbed with seasonings. (Be sure to keep hands washed handing raw pork.)

Combine seasonings in a small bowl, rub evenly over all sides of roast. Place meat in a 4-6 quart slow cooker (depending on the size of your roast). Add water. Cover and cook on low 6-8 hours or high for 4-5 hours or until pork is very tender.

Remove pork to a large cutting board or platter and let rest for 10-15 minutes. Make slaw or other finishing touches for dinner. Then pull off, slice, or chop to serve. Can be served in buns with barbecue sauce.

Serves 12-15 if you use a 5 pound butt.

Since I usually only have two of us to feed anymore, I use the pork for multiple meals as follows:

Roast pork, sliced, with all the trimmings.

Pulled pork sandwiches with cole slaw, oven baked potato wedges. Optional to add a BBQ sauce on top of the pulled pork.

Pork sandwiches mixed and heated with Pineapple habanera sauce for an extra kick; served with pork and beans, rice, or mac and cheese.

I hope to make a lentil soup using the pork broth and maybe some still left over pork pieces.

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Did you grow up eating cole slaw on Sloppy Jo’s or pork BBQ? Is that a southern thing?

Do you have a good and easy recipe for cole slaw, or do you buy yours?

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If you’re a newcomer here, check out my book with over 100 recipes (not all mine) Whatever Happened to Dinner, with plenty of inspiration for keeping or starting a regular family meal tradition in your home.

November 4, 2015

Racism: Working at Harmony Across the Great Divides

Freedom of expression is a wonderful gift we have in this country and Canada as well (a tip ‘o the hat to my Canadian followers). With the ease of instant world wide communication when anyone, including me, can publish an opinion—or hundreds of them all day long through places like Twitter—freedom of expression is not only a gift, it quickly becomes a threat, a goad in the side, a source of much discord. The opposite of harmony, the underlying theme of this blog.

Ever since the Confederate flag came down in the wake of the despicable killings at the Wednesday night Bible Study in Charleston, S.C., many of us have noted an uptick in the number of Confederate flags flown on trucks, cars and front yards. On that dreadful Thursday morning as full news of the horror of that shooting rolled out, I listened on the radio feeling the precious spirit of an ordinary Wednesday night Bible study fellowship shattered forever. That could have been my church, my small Wednesday night group.

I will always remember how and when I first became aware that the Civil War was not over. It was 1969. My family moved from the north to the deep south and I was a senior in a high school that had been forced to fully integrate that year for the first time. I was teased because I was a “Yankee” which did not really hurt, because I was white. But my jaw dropped when one kid added “Damn” in front of his taunt and uttered the line that still shocks me to this day: “If we could fight ‘cha again, we’d win this time.”

Huh? What?

Yeah. That was 1969. Fast forward to a high school parking lot in 2015 in Virginia.

This is a recent photo I took at my kids’ former high school. My mother, living in Indiana, talks about seeing loyal Confederate flags from lawns and trucks there in “Yankeeland.” And I get that for many, the old flag is history, a piece of cultural and family heritage, reminiscent even of a certain elegance—the mansions, the parties on the lawn, the Gone with the Wind era genteel society. As whites.

People say it is freedom of expression to display the Confederate flag. But no matter how loudly people remind us that the Civil War was more generally about “state rights,” it was, fundamentally, the right to own slaves that people fought and died for.

As the old saying goes, “My freedom of expression ends where your nose begins.” And the painful, deeply divisive cut of racism through our country’s heritage sometimes means leaving history and cultural heritage for museums, books and films. We need to continue the painful, ongoing reconstruction of a better society. We must reach across history, misunderstanding, war, murder, and mistreatment to build new relationships. The good families of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in downtown Charleston have already shown the way in their early, amazing expressions of forgiveness.

My father and mother did a wonderful thing in moving our family 900 miles to a new culture. I’m grateful for that difficult year—difficult not only because of new awareness of how blind I’d been to the deep continuing discord of racism, but also because I was simply lonely as a new girl my final year of high school.

My friends and family in the south still live every day in a more racially mixed culture than I currently do. We have to make an effort to step across racial boundaries in my part of Virginia (not so much in Richmond, Hampton, Newport News, and points south, with much larger African American populations). Our churches in the Shenandoah Valley are still largely segregated places. Many of our work places are not racially mixed. Perhaps our factories and fast food joints and nursing homes are the places where black and white and brown rub shoulders, working together, today. Our challenges to get along as long time immigrants (mostly from European countries), forced historical immigrants (mostly African), and recent economic immigrants (mostly from Central and South America) are huge. We are all, except for native indigenous peoples, immigrants here.

We know Jesus reached across cultural and racial boundaries. The times he lived in were no less prejudiced and racially divided than we have today. The conversation Jesus had with the Samaritan woman (racially despised by Jews) at the well (John 4) continues to give me hope today. As we go about our daily lives we can work to get to know just one individual at a time on a human level. We need to converse and find out what makes them tick—or ticked off. These are simple ways each of us can begin to change and maybe heal the scars that slavery brought upon our dear land. And don’t expect smooth sailing. I will get into that in future blog posts.

***

I’ve used one of my freedoms to open my heart on a tough subject. I’d love to hear from you, even if you don’t quite agree. Stories? Your own experiences?

October 28, 2015

True Love in a World Gone Nutty

The world was at war. My father was in Civilian Public Service working as an orderly at Ypsilanti State Hospital in Michigan where patients with mental difficulties were treated.

And he was a young man in love.

My father Vernon U. Miller on his wedding day. I have his eyebrows, and maybe the square jaw.

On a recent spin through White Pigeon, Michigan, I knew I would have to stop again at a store where Dad used to buy gifts as he was courting my mother, just to pay tribute to their long lives and enduring love.

As I entered the Tasty Nut Shop in White Pigeon, Michigan, I tried to imagine my Dad, young and dapper, unhitched and childless, long before any of us came on the scene.

Tasty Nut Shop in White Pigeon, Michigan.

The store still has its creaky wooden floors and a working old-fashioned soda and ice cream counter at the back of the store. This old timey nugget of a store has survived since 1921, even through the Depression and depressing urban sprawl and malls.

Up front, a glass display case still offers nuts “from all over the world” at decent prices. Containers tempt children with a huge selection of penny candy. An article I wrote at the time of my original visit reminds me that my daughters enjoyed watching a woman make fresh peanut clusters.

Store owner Marjorie Hamminga measuring out my cashew nuts.

When I first stood in this store with my Dad and Mom (married 47 years when I went there with my three daughters), I tried to imagine the dreams and fantasies he, in his late twenties, held of my mother, of what life would bring. His father lost their farm in the Depression and they were all enduring the long and uncertain years of World War II. They did not know yet about Hiroshima and all that was to follow. Working in a mental hospital in those days was not war, but was still a certain kind of hell.

On my first visit, I had gone to Indiana for a business meeting during late summer with my three daughters in tow (at the time ages 12, 10, and 7); of course I had to buy some nuts from the store to take home to my husband who was waiting for us to return. Maybe it would buy some luck or some love.

On this visit 22 years later—our daughters long sprung from the nest—I had to pick up a treat for my husband, who once again was home waiting for my return.

Stuart’s cashews.

My husband enjoyed his small bag of cashews, from which I sneaked only a few on the long train trip back home.

If the store still stands, maybe some day our grandchildren too will have the chance to step back in time and hear the story of how their great-grandfather—in a world gone nutty—used to stop here to buy nuts for his sweetheart.

Daddy carved the initials VM + BM in a heart on a tree in the woods on their farm. In 1977, one year after we were married, my husband also carved our own initials on the same tree.

***

What stories of love–for nuts, your parents romance, your own love story, OR for great old-timey stores still around–does this bring to mind?

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Parts of this post were previously published in Purpose magazine (how do you like that alliteration?), available by subscription from MennoMedia.The editor there is also always looking for great inspirational stories and writers. Check the writer guidelines here. (A paying gig!)

October 23, 2015

Baking My First Shoo Fly Pie

Reblogged and adapted from Mennonite Community Cookbook blog where it was first published.

Mennonite Community Cookbook’s Vanilla Pie (Better than Shoo Fly?)

I recently made my very first shoo fly pie. The recipe is actually called Vanilla Pie, because it makes a milder version than the traditional, robust, molasses-based pie. (If you’re wondering where molasses come from, Wikipedia definitely had stuff I didn’t know!)

That shoo fly pie is associated with Mennonites, Amish, and in general plain people, is undeniable. What’s not so clear is how widespread is the love? (No pun intended.)

Pennsylvanians from Mennonite, Amish and other backgrounds from Anabaptist-related groups are frequent fans. But growing up in Indiana in a Mennonite home and church, I never tasted shoo fly pie until I went into Mennonite Voluntary Service with three Pennsylvanians in my unit/housing. Then I became a fan of the milder versions of shoo fly pie.

As I looked for a recipe I might like, a Facebook fan for Mennonite Community Cookbook Facebook’s page mentioned Mennonite Community Cookbook’s recipe for vanilla pie. Vanilla pie? I had heard of wet bottomed shoo fly and dry bottomed shoo fly, but vanilla pie? What was that?

Eureka. There on page 382 of most editions is a recipe for this pie. I’ll also include my tweaks and additional directions in italics, because these older cookbooks–even as good as Mennonite Community Cookbook is, are kind of lacking in the “extra” comments and directions that some of us love and need.

I think the only reason this is called Vanilla Pie and not Shoo Fly is because this uses vanilla! Otherwise, they are very similar.* There is also flour, egg, and brown sugar in the gooey part for this recipe, which softens the strong taste of the pure molasses, sorghum, or dark Karo or (or whatever you use). Someone also suggested King Syrup is less bold and more agreeable for newbies. (I also suggest reading the whole recipe plus directions before beginning.)

SHOO FLY/VANILLA PIE

Bottom part:
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup molasses (I used 1/4 cup molasses and 1/4 cup light corn syrup)
1 tablespoon flour
1 egg
1 cup water
1 teaspoon vanilla

Top part:

1 cup flour
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup shortening (butter)
1/2 teaspoon soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder

Pastry for 1 (9 inch) crust

Combine ingredients for bottom part and cook until thickened. [The thickening took awhile! Stir almost constantly. Also, a blog post at Our Heritage of Health recommends making your crumbs first–see directions below–so that the molasses part doesn’t lose frothiness while you mess with the crumbs.)

Pour into unbaked pie shell.

P1080518 — Pastry cutter to make crumb topping.

Top with crumbs made by combining sugar, flour, soda, baking powder, and melted shortening. (I did not melt the shortening. That didn’t sound right. I cut it in with a pastry cutter–or use two knives–to make a traditional crumb type topping.)

Bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes. (I wish I had taken mine out at no more than 40 minutes, it looked a little brown, but it depends on your oven.)

Makes 1 (9 inch) pie.

From: Mrs. Amos Leis, Wellesley, Ontario, Mrs. Noah Hunsberger, St Jacobs, Ontario, Mrs. M. C. Showalter, Broadway, Va. [no doubt a relative of Mary Emma’s. Can anyone confirm?]

I shared with our office staff who seemed to enjoy it–especially those who were accustomed to the strong taste of molasses. One said, “I don’t usually like shoo fly pie, but this is good.”

That’s good enough for me. I did not have one crumb to take home.

Back in the day, this was also considered a poor man’s pie. It didn’t require any fruit, no pecans, no fancy ingredients (other than the corn syrup or molasses which would have been a staple longer ago).

One more thing: I love it served with vanilla ice cream. Some folks pour milk over their shoo fly. I have a feeling if you threw pecans in it, it would also make a fine pecan pie. Hmmm. But now I’m getting fancy.

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Do you like Shoo Fly Pie, or are you a Shoo Fly virgin? If you make Shoo Fly, what recipe do you follow?

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Shame on me for not remembering a whole blog built around Katie Boyt’s “The Shoofly Project,” in honor of her great grandmother, Keturah (the blog is no longer active, but check it out here!)

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*If you have an older version of Mennonite Community Cookbook, I noticed the ingredient list for Shoo Fly Pie changed fairly significantly somewhere between 1950 (my copy) and 2015, the current edition. Does anyone know when??

To buy a copy of Mennonite Community Cookbook 65th Anniversary Edition, check here. It includes a fascinating 12-page historical section.

October 21, 2015

Allume: Being Inspired by Other Women

Upper: Keynoter Austin Channing Brown; Lower: Hotel breakfast in Greenville, SC, including my favorite, glorious cheese grits!

My office sent me to Allume for business reasons–a women’s conference for bloggers, publishers, authors, speakers, and agents. But I got much more.

It was like a women’s spiritual retreat. On steroids. A girl’s weekend, but deeper. It was a spiritual reawakening to my faith that is sometimes just bedrock, but brought a reminder of my ultimate purpose in writing and even living. And even though at first I felt older than most with a not-orthodontic-perfect smile and more grandma than stylin’ in my wardrobe, in the end none of that truly mattered.

I met God again in women whose life and faith and even belief experiences were perhaps different than mine (i.e. I’m never called a “lady” at my church) but with a common denominator of deep faith in Christ and love for God. The pronouns we may use for God in our worship or even our writing may be different, our politics at varied places on a spectrum, but if we can’t look past and be enriched by differences, then our faith doesn’t do much for us.

Logan Wolfram

The key conference coordinator of Allume, Logan Wolfram, got things going by reflecting briefly on this past year’s traumatic and tragic turmoil around racial issues here in the U.S. and her home state of South Carolina. The Allume team chose an overall theme of “Together” and Logan was determined to nudge the Allume conference to wider diversity. She reminded us of a simple truism, “If you want to change the world, you have to change your world first.” She is author of the forthcoming Curious Faith from David C. Cook Publishers.

I was most moved and inspired by several powerful, pointed, and anointed African American women who addressed us, who you will hear more from in this blog in the future.

Austin Channing Brown

Austin Channing Brown spoke at an 8 a.m. (!) breakfast on Saturday morning and told her story of a three-day, life changing learning tour while in college through the deep south. The purpose was to learn first hand about why this country has the history it does around racial issues. As a busload of students (half white, half black) learned about: lynchings and the party barbecues that sometimes accompanied the “festivities;” slave babies swaddled in empty water troughs; and more, she reminded us we can distance ourselves from that past by saying “Well it wasn’t me or my family who kept or supported slavery—why keep bringing up the past?” or “Well, what about Hitler and the Jews?” She called for us as writers and bloggers to take steps to do something to work toward better racial understanding and reconciliation. (You can also be inspired by Austin’s whole speech right here along with several other main speakers. More to be posted later. Free!)

I was touched. Shouldn’t my blog calling itself “Finding Harmony” and venturing to share how more harmony can be achieved —deal more frequently with that very topic? You think? Look for new stories on this blog under a tab called “Racial Reconciliation.”

I’m not sure where I’m going with this but I want to continue a journey begun by my parents—even growing up on a farm near Goshen, Ind.—where there were whispers of unspoken laws which made it a sundown town. A sundown town was or is “any organized jurisdiction that for decades kept African Americans or other groups from living in it” according to Dan Shenk, who researched and wrote about the topic. He maintains that this kind of policy was operational for at least the first two thirds of the 20^th century, or until about the time I would have come to awareness of such things in the 60s.

My home congregation in Goshen, Ind.

And all the while when I was living there we (I) thought Goshen was starkly white just because no blacks moved there. We were left to believe that racism was just a problem in the south.

Oh my. I’m grateful to my boss, to the planners of Allume, and most of all to the three women by whom I was most blown away, Austin (who I’ve already mentioned and linked to), Chrystal Evans Hurst, and Amena Brown, for lighting a fire under my butt to do something more with this space—and loyal readers—than share recipes, memories and cute grandkid pictures.

There’s lots more to unpack here than my grandma outfits and hairbrush.

It’s been a long time—a long time—since I was to a mostly-women’s conference of any kind. I hope I can share some of the inspiration and the gathered perspiration here, because I hope we all will benefit and grow closer to God’s call for our lives and understanding of others.

***

Where or how have you been recently inspired? I’d love to hear about it.

Do you have suggestions or leads for more stories as I journey this path?

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Visit the links above for more on the women mentioned.

October 14, 2015

Remembering the Days

West Virginia color from an Amtrak train window.

These have been busy, glorious, late September and October days, with no time to blog amid celebrating our oldest grandchild’s second birthday, visiting my 91-year-old mother (tied to a business trip), participation in the intense work of finding a new pastor for our church, and much more.

Sam’s second birthday.

MCUSA offices, Elkhart, Ind.

I had considered declaring a blog sabbatical or vacation or something, but I’m back. I like having this blog/journal because I like to remember things and too often, things that are not written down do get forgotten, reshaped, or remembered differently by diverse people.

Our pastor emeritus, Don Allen, preached in late summer and a note I took during his sermon reminds me of his chosen theme of remembering: “If things are forgotten, it’s like they didn’t happen. What we remember corporately determines what and who we are.” (And if I had not made this note to myself, I would never have remembered his sermon from three months ago, sorry to say.)

Do you believe when things are forgotten, it’s like they didn’t happen?

Increasingly, I find myself the oldest—or among the oldest in a group. In a meeting, I hang out with younger people who don’t know names of well-known—to me—people of the church, community, or organization. And then I think, oh, they were just babies when that icon was a leader in the church. Or consider that most teenagers today have no personal memory of events like September 11, 2001, whereas for many of us, it was a pivotal moment in our personal and national/international history.

Inside, I am still 24 (my age when I got married). Outside, my face and arms have wrinkles, and you don’t even want to know about my thighs. I can’t bear to share a close up selfie of my face. I look at my mother’s frail frame which was once strong and robust. I encourage her to not let her weight fall below a certain number, figuring I’ll probably be as frail and light as her someday too, if I last that long.

Dear friend Martha, left, in earlier days, with Mom.

Is it lucky to live to be in your 90s? Mom says, “I’m afraid I’ll live to be one hundred.” Somehow that no longer seems like the grand milestone everyone aims for, when friends, family and even younger loved ones have already passed to the great beyond. I hope she sticks around until 100 and more if she is healthy. But not being able to hear—and having maxed out the capabilities of hearing aids—is no fun either.

Her statement makes me think of Ecclesiastes 12:1, “Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, ‘I find no pleasure in them.’”

But Mom still takes obvious pleasure in:

Mom at Yoder’s Department Store

An afternoon jaunt to Amish-Mennonite tourist mecca Shipshewana, Ind. to browse at Yoder’s Department store for shoes, the fabric and hobby department, and kitchen wares, even if she didn’t find what she was looking for. (Not too big of surprise—that.)

Reading for those who can no longer read for themselves in her retirement complex.

Popping in to a favorite bakery/deli near my hometown of Middlebury, Rise’ n Roll, for another round of those famous cinnamon and carmel donut holes, which I first fell in love with and wrote about here.

Great nephew Eli, who just celebrated his first birthday.

Nephew Christopher, great niece Lucy, and more.

Pizza night with several members of my extended family. Yes, Mother got her Mountain Dew and Pizza Hut pizza. And I got to meet new great nephew Eli, about a year younger than my grandsons.

For me personally, the highlight of these recent autumn days and weeks was hearing both grandsons finally saying the beautiful words every grandparent longs to hear: Grandpa! Grandma! Grammy!

Bye bye to Sam

I will remember these days and savor all the sweetness—far sweeter than the momentary high of those marvelous but addictive doughnut holes.

Where people really do still sit in rocking chairs outside of stores.

Yoder’s Department Store, Shipshewana, Ind.: Where people really do still sit in chairs outside of stores and read, rock, and remember.

Do you believe when things are forgotten, it’s like they didn’t happen?

***

Is it lucky to live to be in your 90s?

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You can also sign up for my weekly Another Way newspaper column, appearing each Friday on ThirdWay.com/aw, or let me know if there is a newspaper near you which may be interested in using the column. Thanks!

September 24, 2015

Teaching Children to Cook: Four Terrible Family Secrets and One Marvelous Outcome

Teaching My Own Children to Cook

Four Terrible Family Secrets and One Marvelous Outcome

In honor of CASA* Family Dinner Day, September 28.

The Family Dinner Project helps promote an annual day in the U.S. to draw attention to statistics on how eating together as a family accomplishes much more than just filling tummies. Faithful followers of this blog are well aware of the book I wrote tying into the research conducted by *Columbia University’s Center for Addiction and Substance Abuse, titled Whatever Happened to Dinner? Recipes and Reflections on Family Mealtime, but may sometimes wonder did she/does she practice what she preaches? Did she pass on a passion for cooking to her kids? Here I bare a few family secrets on the topic.

I was cleaning a shelf recently when an old and odd notebook fell out.

My folder of cooking instructions for my daughters, from a recycled office binder.

Oh my. It was my lengthy, detailed notebook of instructions for our daughters’ first forays into cooking once they got old enough to try to put meals on the table whenever I went away on business.

Terrible Family Secret #1. My kids’ greatest cooking lessons came when I was out of the house. Gone. Away on business. Yes, I was a working mother (half time when they were preschoolers) and that included business travel, which I not-so-secretly enjoyed.

Terrible Family Secret #2. My husband, bless him, was not much of a cook except for grilling which he enjoys when he has the time. Before we married, he lived in a small mobile home on his own. I knew he survived mainly on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fast food, and by warming up pork and beans and maybe hot dogs in an electric popcorn popper. When I traveled, especially with all three of them pitching in and figuring things out, they began the art of Putting a Whole Meal on the Table. (You can see why I was in awe of my young church friend, Lizzy, just 12, about whom I recently wrote a three-part series [here] on how she cooks real food and complicated menus for their family almost every night.)

Terrible Family Secret #3. I’m not a very patient or good role model in the kitchen. Our tradition of eating together at home as a family was so strong that I would not have dreamed of leaving them without carefully planned meals before flying the coop. Instinctively I knew, though, that it was incredibly valuable for them to step up and try their own wings.

I’m not sure why I didn’t do a better job of truly teaching them—hands on—when I was at home. Perhaps because I was more inclined to Do Things Myself because it was faster, neater, cleaner, and safer. My daughters would probably tell you I got antsy watching them knowing I could get something done faster.

I also didn’t have a great role model in that regard.

Terrible Family Secret #4. My mother—bless her—will tell you quickly that she never liked cooking all that much and did not dote on mixing up wonderful dishes alongside of us. Oh we were called upon to pitch in and she enjoyed and appreciated our help, but as a farmer’s wife, cooking was quite basic. It was just a part of the chores she did: peeling (almost) daily potatoes. Popping a meatloaf or roast or ham in the oven. Frying hamburgers or boiling hot dogs on the stove. Once she found out I grooved on messing with fancier desserts, I remember she often put me in charge of making things like real whipped cream at the last minute for her rich and special date pudding or other specialties for company.

So, our daughters were kind of on their own, too in the cooking department, after they learned basics of measuring, kitchen safety, and working together to make things like cookies, cakes and vegetable stew.

Marvelous Outcomes Anyway. Guess what. My daughters have all turned out to be quite fine cooks in their own right, and in their own styles. And I guess I turned out to be an okay cook. When our oldest daughter got married, she took a wonderful cooking class which introduced her to making things like scallops and bananas flambé—enough culinary know-how that she soon took off flying, much to her husband’s glee, (who in exchange does most of their cleaning at their house. Nice set up!).

Michelle making pie in our kitchen with her husband helping.

My second daughter has learned from her mother-in-law some of her husband’s favorite dishes, picked up things on her own that she’s enjoyed in restaurants and found online—and her husband pitches in as well when both of them are home.

Tanya working on favorite Stromboli, the eager Lab “Ike” at her side.

I would say my third daughter learned the most at my side in the kitchen as she lived at home for four years after college, while employed in town at a bank. She hung out with me in the kitchen because she wanted to 1) be helpful; 2) learn how I did things. But now she has way surpassed me in coming up with her own lentil concoctions as well as following recipes for more adventuresome cooking like crepes, beef Bourguignonne, French onion soup, pot pie, and more.

Doreen stirring filling for chicken pot pie, shown below.

Call me a happy and blessed mom, in spite of myself and in spite of my mother. Eating together almost every evening was important to us as a family, although I don’t know I thought about it that much back then: it was just what we did. Like brushing teeth and reading stories before bed.

Our daughters at about the ages when I could rely on them to put dinner on the table when I went away. L to R: Tanya, Michelle, yours truly, Stuart, Doreen.

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How did you teach your children to cook? Or not?

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If you’re new here, learn more about my book, Whatever Happened to Dinner? Recipes and Reflections on Family Mealtime

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Make plans for your Family Dinner Day, September 28 (February dates in Canada), originally launched from CASA, which encourages eating together as a family as one way to fight the societal influences that sometimes lead to addictions in youth.

There’s much more on this topic at The Family Dinner Project, a website with ongoing resources, ideas and stories to promote the strengths of eating together.

From their website:
The Family Dinner Project is a growing movement of food, fun and conversation about things that matter. We are a nonprofit organization currently operating from the offices of Project Zero at Harvard University. Over the past 15 years, research has shown what parents have known for a long time: Sharing a fun family meal is good for the spirit, brain and health of all family members. Recent studies link regular family meals with the kinds of behaviors that parents want for their children: higher grade-point averages, resilience and self-esteem. Additionally, family meals are linked to lower rates of substance abuse, teen pregnancy, eating disorders and depression. We also believe in the power of family dinners to nourish ethical thinking.

September 17, 2015

How to Make Midget Cream Puffs (Petits Choux)

How to Make Midget Cream Puffs (Petits Choux)

I had not made cream puffs in years. I remember doing some years ago for a reception/tea. My trusty 70’s era bridal-shower-gift Betty Crocker Cookbook rose to the occasion.

I remember being astounded at how easy it was to actually make cream puffs or even éclairs, and they both look so impressive and well, like Julia Child or Martha Stewart French, don’t you think?

We had a meeting looking to the future of Valley Living where I serve as editor the other night. I promised to bring snacks and decided to make cream puffs. (See that’s the thing about having a semi-cooking blog and a semi-recipe book, you volunteer to do all sorts of cooking you wouldn’t otherwise do, just so you have something to write about and photograph.)

L to R: Former Valley Living Board Chair Laban Peachey, current Board Treasurer Bill Troyer, and local writer for Valley Living, Lauree Purcell.

One of the men at the meeting was Laban Peachey, former president of Hesston College, who helped launch its remarkable and visionary aviation program, and former board chair for Valley Living in its earlier days. Laban is famous for having a story for every occasion (and of course that’s what Living is all about, sharing great and uplifting stories). Laban did not disappoint.

Going on 89 (he said at this age he now likes to talk up his next birthday, to make him seem even older and more impressive), as he chomped into his Petits Choux, he said “I can’t eat a cream puff without remembering when I was eight years old and someone brought cream puffs to school for a party. They were so delicious and I had never eaten one before. Now I take a bite and I’m right back there, eight years old.” I asked him if I could share his little story and of course he said sure. (Why else do you tell stories?)

Food and stories. They go together.

Have a cream puff.

1 cup water
½ cup butter or margarine
1 cup all purpose flour (may want to sift flour to avoid lumps)
4 eggs

Fillings

Vanilla cream pudding (instant or other homemade) or sweetened whipped cream or prepared whipped topping.

Topping options

Powdered sugar
Slivered almonds
Chocolate sauce
Whipped topping

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Bring water and butter to rolling boil. Stir in flour. Stir vigorously (so it does not burn) over low heat about 1 minute or until mixture joins together/pulls away from sides/almost forms a ball.

Remove from heat. Let it sit just a minute to cool (so it won’t cook your eggs when you add them). Meanwhile break eggs, then beat them in with flour/butter/water dough, all at one time. (Betty Crocker says no need to add them one at a time as in some recipes.) Beat until it becomes smooth. (I used a mixer to beat, but you can just use a spoon.) Drop dough by slightly rounded teaspoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheet.

Bake 25-30 minutes or until puffed and golden.

About 4-5 dozen puffs (or 2-3 dozen, depending on how big you make the teaspoonfuls).

Cool (away from draft). Cut off tops, or cut in half, depending on the size. Pull out any larger filaments of soft puff.

Fill puffs with vanilla, other pudding, or whipped cream. Replace tops.

Dust with powdered sugar. Top with drizzle of chocolate syrup like you’d use on ice cream, a nut, or red raspberry. Refrigerate until served. Can be frozen. (Adapted from Betty Crocker Cookbook, 1974 edition.)

Is there a food that takes you back to your childhood?

I’d love to hear your story or food memory!

***

That’s what family dinner time is all about–an opportunity to bond and laugh around shared stories.

Dinner prompt: What is a favorite food from your childhood? What is one of the earliest foods you remember eating?

***

We’re celebrating Family Dinner Night all month on this blog. If you don’t have the book Whatever Happened to Dinner: Recipes and Reflections for Family Mealtime now is the time! Check it out.

Whatever Happened to Dinner?

September 10, 2015

If Your Kids are in Marching Band — A Tribute and a Prayer

Impromptu chamber group: daughter Tanya on flute, Michelle on French horn, friend Allison Fletcher on bassoon.

I planned to write a simple old marching band nostalgia post, for all the years and memories of my girls’ time spent in high school and college playing trumpet, flute and percussion instruments. Band threaded their teenage and early twenties with music, laughter, friends, camaraderie, the heights of happiness, and a place to belong.

Let me count the memories:

Doreen marching in Broadway (Va. that is.)

There were the parades.

JMU Stadium before expansion.

The games.

Michelle, 2nd from left.

The competitions.

Playing Gate City in southwest Virginia on a cold and miserable December Saturday.

The state playoffs.

The Macy’s Day Parade in 2001, just two months after September 11.

The crowd helped us yell “Tanya” (blue uniforms, marching, 2nd from right) until she heard us and looked our way!

And finally, gloriously, winning an actual college football national championship (Division I-AA schools).

As band parents, our girls gave us the gift of music, laughter, friends, camaraderie, the heights of happiness, and a place to belong, especially on Fall Friday nights and sunny Saturday afternoons. We were there for most of it, including the national championship game, and our first Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.

Band was something neither my husband nor I had experienced at any level. I had wanted basketball players. Growing up Hoosier in a basketball playing household, what else would you expect or want? I don’t think my husband was ever actually interested in band but it was also somewhat out of the realm of possibility for his family because of finances and with a mother who, because of illness, was not able to get out and do like band mothers have to do (and who died when he was just 19).

But when our oldest daughter got to 6^th grade, band helped her survive the tumultuous torment of middle school meanies. By high school she’d found her niche with the band crowd, crossing over also into choir. All three of them spent marvelous years helping in various aspects of accompanying or performing in exquisitely perfected school musicals at a high school aptly named Broadway High.

Nashville Symphony where daughter worked.

Middle sister ended up making orchestra administration her career; the two others didn’t find their careers in music, but made lifelong friends. All precious gifts to each of them. We owe the band world, and the teachers who were willing to lead them (and survive all the dang fund raisers), much!

Our daughters with Mr. David Snively, longtime band teacher at Broadway High School at his retirement celebration.

But this nostalgic marching band tribute changed for me last Saturday. We had free tickets for the season football opener for James Madison University where our middle daughter majored in music, and spent four splendid years in its awesome (and as the game announcers always reminded you), “the award-winning Marching Royal Du-u-u-u-u-kes!”

Tanya with JMU Band.

Hearing the band’s music swell up through the stands and experiencing the crowd pandemonium is always emotional for me anyway—remembering when Tanya was out on the field, with her father and I sweeping the field with binoculars to catch a glimpse of her among the 400 or so other marching band members.

And then the announcer called for a minute of silence—amazing how quiet a large stadium can actually get—for JMU alum Alison Parker, gunned down with her cameraman colleague Adam Ward in the midst of just doing her job as a TV reporter 10 days earlier (two hours down the road near Roanoke, Va.): two deaths that would go down as the first on-air murder (so terrifying and heart-achingly sad) and no parents, no friends, no family members or colleagues want that notoriety—the awful notoriety apparently sought by the gunman. A short video commemorating Alison’s life on campus (graduated in 2012) and promising future was shown on the huge electronic billboard. Alison’s parents were in attendance at the game but mercifully not spotlighted.

And my tears flowed some more—until a woman, a stranger sitting next to me, put her hand on my arm and asked me if I was okay. I assured her I was, mumbling something about the band music always made me emotional anyway.

But no, none of us are really okay with this kind of violence tearing through our hearts and lives. Or safe anywhere, I thought, not even that much comforted or assured by the armed police and security guys standing around the field. If marching band sometimes gave us moments of exuberant happiness, this was the opposite: utter grief, dismay, sadness.

I thought back to more moments of silence—too many times—at other football stadiums filled with people. When a daughter’s best friend’s mother died after surgery for a kidney transplant and the band dedicated its music and half time show to that band mom, Liz. When thousands of us in football stadiums across the U.S. dedicated their games and half time shows to those who died on September 11, 2001 in New York City, Washington, D.C. and the random field near Shanksville, Pa. where Flight 93 ended. When my youngest daughter’s high school classmate, a former state wrestling champion, Bucky Anderson, was killed in action in Afghanistan 2010 and a ceremony with moments of silence were held in his honor at a Broadway football game.

Music—whether it is the stuff of marching bands, symphony orchestras, powerful soloists, or a church anthem on Sunday morning—has the power to move us in the inner places of our hearts and psyches to feel things that need to be felt.

I felt fresh pain for the parents and loved ones of Alison, and all families who’ve had to grieve the too soon deaths of their offspring: something every parent fears and knows can happen yet hopes against hope that the senseless, random, and especially media-inspired killings, at least, can somehow be curbed, deaths lowered, even, eliminated! Dare we think it, dream it, pray for it? I hope so, or we are miserable human beings not to dream of, envision, and work for a better world. We may not agree on how to work at eliminating senseless violence in all its forms—whether war, accidental, domestic, or murder, but we must continue to believe in and march toward a more sane and safer world for all.

A Prayer*

God of all comfort, we confess our bewilderment, our sadness, anger, and fear.
Hear our prayers.
Surround those who mourn the loss of loved ones.
Embrace them with your loving arms.
Comfort those whose loved ones are missing.
Protect those who risk their lives protecting others. Strengthen them with your loving arms. Remind us that your love is stronger than hate. Keep us from becoming the evil we deplore.
Give us wisdom and restraint.
With trembling faith we pray, O God, for a sure sense of your presence in our grieving.
Embrace us with your loving arms.
In you alone do we trust. Amen.

[Adapted from Carmen Schrock-Hurst, Harrisonburg, Va. *Originally written in response to Sept. 11, 2001. From Words for Worship 2, Diane Zaerr Brenneman, Herald Press, 2009.]

Younger sister Tanya comforting older sister Michelle at a final home game.

September 4, 2015

Cooking with Lizzy, Part 3: Whatever happened to the perfect carrot birthday cake

Cooking with Lizzy, Part 3: Grandmother’s waffles and the story of what happened to Lizzy’s perfect carrot birthday cake

Missed earlier parts? Part 1. Part 2.

At the point Lizzy has the chicken mostly safely in the oven, she launches the other main dish for the family’s evening meal: waffles. Waffles for supper I get. We often enjoyed pancakes with sausage or bacon for an evening “breakfast” meal. But with chicken? Not so much. (Later I learn this is a specialty dish in some areas of the southern U.S. Who knew? Not me.)

And why not—it’s a starch like when I make potatoes or pasta or beans. And remember, she’s including a healthy and nutritious salad for the veggie (described in Part 1).

Back to the waffles. Even her mother is a little surprised to hear Lizzy reciting her grandmother’s (Virginia’s mother) recipe from memory:

Lizzy’s Grandmother’s Waffles

2 cups buttermilk
4 Tablespoons olive oil (“Olive oil?” her mother challenges her. “Yes, that’s what Rachael Ray uses on Food Network.” Okay. Olive oil it is. I find one of Rachael’s using butter, too.)
2 eggs
2 Tablespoons sugar (but she doesn’t measure, just counts as it pours from a dispenser thingy).

Mix on low speed and then add dry ingredients.

2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ baking soda
½ teaspoon salt (Lizzy uses Kosher)

Mix altogether and bake in lightly sprayed waffle iron.

First sample waffle I get to taste.

Lizzy fondly remembers the Mickey Mouse shaped waffle maker her grandmother has; Grandmother uses the same recipe for both waffles and pancakes.

In my family, mashed potatoes were the go-to starch with a meal like fried chicken. I ask if Lizzy knows how to mash potatoes. Yes, sure.

Again, I’m not sure any of my daughters routinely mash potatoes. (Sorry daughters, you’re my gauge here.) In their defense and mine, each has turned out to be pretty adventuresome in their cooking if I do say so myself, each with their own specialties. Yay. The two married ones also have husbands who cook. Another big yay.

At last, the men of Lizzy’s family call home. The dog’s ears perk up. Dad and brother are finally on their way home after a long football practice and maybe a team meeting. Lizzy recognizes the ringtone.

“I’ve got dinner ready” she says into the phone.

Someone on the other end must have asked the usual, “What are we having?”

“Fried chicken and waffles.”

I don’t learn what the response is, but 30 seconds later, the phone rings again, and Lizzy goes on a search in the pantry and fridge to learn the state of their maple syrup supply.

“Nope. I’m not seeing any …” Lizzy says carefully. Inwardly I lament this likely means a stop at a grocery, with the excellent chicken and once-fresh waffles waiting even longer to be consumed. Brother and father decide to swing by the international grocery, the most convenient grocery on their commute home. “Yes, just go to the American aisle,” Lizzy instructs them as to where to look for syrup.

I ask what she’s having tomorrow night.

Menu planning from an earlier week.

She shrugs, not sure. “I’ll decide during the day.” Once school resumes, they’ll begin again their weekly menu planning.

Does she cook for her friends? “I did for a birthday party. I made Indian [food]. I love cooking from different cultures.”

What about decorated birthday cakes? She talked about making a classic chocolate Black Forest Cake with cherries on top, with the layers soaked in liquor. Whew. I’ve made that twice, minus the liquor. A tricky but impressive cake to put together.

Then she lights up again remembering a story that is funny now, not so much when it happened.

The Perfect Carrot Cake Story

Lizzy had worked very hard to make a delicious, perfect carrot cake for her ninth birthday. It turned out well and she placed it on a special birthday plate she made at a “make it take it” store in town. She even put shaved nutmeg on top. (Real nutmeg is not even on my own baking bucket list, but just for the record, here’s my carrot cake topped with slivered almonds.) She set it on their dining room table, and then she and her mother left to go buy some matching flowers for the party.

They came home and found that the family dog, “Streak,” had sampled the cake. He decided it was so good that like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, ate the whole thing, apparently pulling the plate off the table which smashed to the floor!

I felt Lizzy’s pain. “I would have cried,” I said.

“Ohhhhhh yes,” she sighs, nodding at the memory.

“And then I’d have gotten mad,” I added. Yes, she got mad too. Lizzy proceeded to show me other things Streak had ruined—the padding in a couple of recliners, according to her memory. Such is life with a dog.

But life with a Lizzy in the house? Even dinner delayed by a half hour is taken in stride.

Her brother and father arrive home, syrup in hand. Supper or dinner, is served stove style, which works best when needing to keep things warm.

Earlier Virginia told me that Lizzy has helped cooked for the high school football coaches and hungry football teams.

So what’s next? Restaurant cook? Celebrity chef?

“I want to go to culinary school and then start a food truck.”

Oh really, I say, wondering why not a chef in a restaurant?

“I’ve watched those shows on Food Network and the restaurant kitchens are always so hectic, with everyone screaming at each other. I wouldn’t like that much stress.” A minute later she adds, “Dad would like to join me running a food truck. One time he left football practice EARLY to bring something home so I could make schnitzel,” she says.

She doesn’t have to tell me that was a big deal. A coach leaving early to pick up something for a dish his daughter is making (okay, so it was one of Dad’s favorite dishes)? That’s family love and commitment in my book.

Whatever is in Lizzy’s future, the present is what matters now. I would have done almost anything to have such a cook making our meals every evening. What a gift.

Other young girls I know play awesome soccer. Some perform graceful ballet (Lizzy took ballet when she was younger). Some play flute, piano, and sing in choirs at the White House. I’m reminded of one of the first things Lizzy told me: “Others do gymnastics. This is what I do.”

Lizzy

***

What part of Lizzy’s experiences cooking impresses you most? What message do you have for Lizzy or her family?

***

Do you think food trucks will continue their popularity in 8-10 years by the time Lizzy finishes culinary school?

Or what’s your fav food truck food?

***

This series posted with a salute to Family Dinner Day, the last Monday in September (February dates in Canada), originally launched from CASA, which encourages eating together as a family as one way to fight the societal influences that sometimes lead to addictions in youth. This is the theme of my most recent book, Whatever Happened to Dinner: Recipes and Reflections for Family Mealtime.

findingharmonyblog

Roast Pork and Two Pulled Pork Options: Three Delicious Meals

Racism: Working at Harmony Across the Great Divides

True Love in a World Gone Nutty

Baking My First Shoo Fly Pie

Reblogged and adapted from Mennonite Community Cookbook blog where it was first published.

Mennonite Community Cookbook’s Vanilla Pie (Better than Shoo Fly?)

Allume: Being Inspired by Other Women

Remembering the Days

Teaching Children to Cook: Four Terrible Family Secrets and One Marvelous Outcome

How to Make Midget Cream Puffs (Petits Choux)

If Your Kids are in Marching Band — A Tribute and a Prayer

Cooking with Lizzy, Part 3: Whatever happened to the perfect carrot birthday cake

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Reblogged and adapted from Mennonite Community Cookbook blog where it was first published.

Mennonite Community Cookbook’s Vanilla Pie (Better than Shoo Fly?)

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Melodie M. Davis

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