The Opulent Opossum

Prune Bread (Retro Recipe)

2012-02-11T07:30:00.007-06:00

Here’s one of the two great recipes for prune bread that appear in my esteemed 1949 Good Housekeeping Cook Book. I share it with you because prunes are opulently opossumable, and this bread is delicious!

It uses the proven combination of orange and prunes. As an example of how well the two flavors go together, I see that at least one company sells prunes (“dried plums”) that come pre-infused with orange essence.

A few notes on the recipe below:

1. This time, I didn’t chop up the prunes very much. But I think the idea is to chop them much more finely, so the fruit is incorporated more evenly throughout the bread (sort of like zucchini bread, or banana bread). But I wanted the chunks to be more visible, so I only cut them coarsely with a knife. (The down side to big chunks? It makes your knife sticky when you slice it!)

2. I suggest using less baking powder/soda/salt. It really doesn’t need that much. I think you can halve all three ingredients and come out fine. But here, I’m presenting the recipe just as it appears in the book.

3. In the same book (same page, even) is another gem: Oatmeal Prune Bread! And if you Google “prune bread” you can find lots more fun chocolaty, banana-y, citrusy, appley, nutty variations!

Hooray for prunes!

Prune Bread

1 cup dried, uncooked prunes
3 cups sifted all-purpose flour
4 teasp. baking powder
1/2 teasp. baking soda
1 1/2 teasp. salt
2 tablesp. granulated sugar
1/4 cup shortening
2 tablesp. grated orange rind
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup bottled milk or 1/2 cup evaporated milk and 1/2 cup water

Heat oven to 350˚ F. Rinse prunes, drain, dry. If very dry, boil 5 min. in water to cover; drain. Put pitted prunes through food chopper, using medium blade. Sift flour with next 4 ingredients. Cut in shortening with pastry blender until like coarse corn meal. Stir in prunes and rind. Combine eggs and milk; add to dry ingredients; mix well. Pour into greased 10˝ × 3˝ loaf pan. Bake in moderate oven of 350 F. 1 hr., or until done. Makes 1 loaf.

------------------------------------

From The Good Housekeeping Cook Book, with a preface by Katharine Fisher (New York: Rinehart, 1949), p. 446.

Prunes

2012-02-05T10:14:00.005-06:00

. . . And other dried fruits. Why, oh why, do people in our country disdain them? For centuries, humans have prized them for their deliciousness, versatility, practicality, economy, simplicity, elegance. Not to mention their nutrients, which scientists are still learning about!

They store incredibly well and don’t need refrigeration. They’re right there on the shelf in your pantry, ready for you to need a quick dessert, or something to put in your muffins.

You can cook them or eat them like candy, just as they are. You can put them into sweet dishes, or you can use them in savory recipes such as curries, salads, meat dishes, stuffing, stews.

Go to the California Dried Plums official website, and read about all this stuff. They’ve got recipes and lots more. Good lord, the nutrients! Antioxidants, phytochemicals, potassium, the good kinds of sugars, vitamins, and lots more. And dietary fiber.

Actually, it’s a combination of the fiber and certain phytochemicals that make prunes so “gentle and effective.” Americans have become embarrassingly puerile about prunes, laughing about constipation and the elderly. This idiocy has prompted the California plum growers to change their marketing so that now, they’re selling “dried plums.” But Americans are aging, and constipation isn’t funny when you have it. And what a tasty, natural alternative to synthetic, pharmaceutical laxatives from the drugstore!

Eating any dried fruits, of course you have to be grown-up about it. Edward Brown put it this way in his wonderful introduction to vegetarian food, Tassajara Cooking: “One thing to remember when eating dried fruit is that it’s easy to overdo it. Often people who wouldn’t consider eating ten plums sit down and eat ten prunes, or they eat two, three, or four stewed dried pears when they wouldn’t eat more than one fresh pear. Dried fruit can have a pretty strong effect.”

In other words, don’t blame the food for your overindulgence in it. (Would you drink a whole jar of habanero salsa and then blame the salsa for the aftermath?) Also remember that fiber is the friend of anyone trying to lose weight. Fiber makes you feel full. Slim-Fast is basically a fiber drink!

After the indulgence of the holidays, I’m wanting culinary simplicity. And the prune is a perfect Opulent Opossum subject: humble, pure, overlooked, fabulous. A breakfast with stewed prunes plus low-fat yogurt or cottage cheese is just the ticket these days. And one place to go for prune-recipe inspiration is old cookbooks that predate America’s childish equation of prunes with poo-poo. It’s time to start associating them with health and feeling great!

Nature’s Kool-Aid

2012-01-29T21:03:00.004-06:00

If this were Vermont, we’d be saying, “It’s sugarin’ time!” We’ve been having those fluctuating temperatures—freezing nights, warm and sunny days—that make the trees start pumping sap.

Sap is like natural Kool-Aid for critters. Maples, of course, but other trees, too. Including our black walnut. The first thing we saw was a wet spot on the bark, about chest-high.

Closer inspection revealed a horizontal row of about fifteen small round holes, each about two inches from the next. Most were dripping sap.

If you taste it, it’s pretty much like water. This is sweet?

But you’re not the one drilling the holes, and neither are you the one to be attracted to it.

It was not a mystery to us what bird had drilled the holes. But it had been years since I’d actually seen a yellow-bellied sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius).

This year, we saw him! (Look carefully!)

I’d forgotten how well sapsuckers blend in with their background, which is almost inevitably the patch of bark that they have darkened by the moisture caused by the dripping. It’s pretty neat how they blend in. And they’re fast workers!

Yellow-bellied sapsuckers do this: They tap holes into trees from which sap drips. They drink the sweet fluid, using their brushlike tongues. Which is pretty much like drinking Kool-Aid, nutritionally speaking.

But wait! They get some protein out of the deal, too! The sap is also a lure for ants. Even at this time of year, ants, on warm days, send out scouts to make sure that potential food sources aren’t going unexploited.

And because ants are everywhere, they certainly find the patch of sugary water seeping down the bark, and immediately send out workers to drink it and carry it back to the nest.

Thus, with the ants milling around the sap wells, the sapsucker has the opportunity to grab ants that are bloated with sap. Or, I’ll bet Mr. Sapsucker can simply grab ants and smear them around in the tree-juice, like sopping biscuits and gravy. (Don’t you think?) Anyway, that’s protein and sugar! Dee-liss-yuss!

While the party is swinging, others come to enjoy the punchbowl, too. Other woodpeckers, I understand, are attracted to the sugar water and (no doubt) to the baited ants as well. I’ve read that sapsuckers vigorously guard their sap wells, but ours leaves for hours at a time. Look at this!

It was pretty cute to see this little fella clinging to the side of the tree, upside-down, right-side-up, and sideways.

Are we afraid of damage to the tree? Nah. Sapsuckers have zapped our walnut before, and they’ve riddled our big yew tree, too (and gave it worse).

It’s not like in those pictures where the holes are so close you can’t see the bark anymore. I think this bird has several trees that it’s tapping. And the walnut, for instance, has thick ridges of bark that prevent the sapsucker from drilling holes one after the other, so that protects the tree from being completely girdled.

And anyway, sapsuckers are highly migratory, and this fellow is probably just passing through, on his way north to claim his breeding territory. Somewhere up in Canada, in a few months, he’ll be banging on a hollow tree or on somebody’s gutter, and working to make Kool-Aid-loving progeny.

Non-Bavarian, Non-Westphalian, Non-Tyrolean . . .

2012-01-28T22:50:00.004-06:00

Personality test: It’s two o’clock in the morning, downtown, and you’re wanting to cross the street, but there’s a “Don’t Walk” sign warning you not to. There is absolutely no traffic in sight. What do you do?

Well, if you’re Germanic, you wait for the sign to say “Walk.” But if, let’s say, you’re French, you simply cross.

I told you that I don’t really get tired of our pretty Christmas things—the glass ornaments, the fruit baskets, the birds and such—but I do admit that the traditional Germanic stuff gets to feeling kinda old. Backward-looking. Hymns and carols, and all their chordal logic set down hundreds of years ago by Johann Sebastian Bach, sound just right all through Advent, but once we pass into the new year, I’m ready to shake it up.

And I’m not talking about raucous music here, like rock. That’s loud, but it is not really new. It doesn’t generally shake up the foundations set forth by the basic hymn and its I-IV-V-I progressions. I mean, those are the “power chords” on a guitar. And Twisted Sister readily admits to lifting the music of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” for its heavy metal hit, “We’re Not Gonna to Take It.”

So for the past month I’ve been enjoying twentieth-century French music. The last century was a tremendously experimental and creative time, and from what I’ve observed, I doubt that the twenty-first century has the total intellectual power to approach it. And French music has a deftness and delicacy that is missing from those heavy hymns.

I’ve been enjoying my Pandora these last few weeks: My “Francis Poulenc station.” Try it; go to Pandora.com and type in “Francis Poulenc,” and just let it spin interesting and amazing music to you. In addition to Poulenc, it will add similar composers. Early Stravinsky, Darius Milhaud, Virgil Thomson, Gabriel Fauré, and so on.

This music is not unmelodic, though it takes you down unfamiliar paths, and it’s strongly rhythmic, but the chords can blow you away. If you know anything about music, polychords are one of Poulenc’s trademarks—two different chords being played simultaneously. Listening, you might lose track of the key, whether it’s major or minor or what, if it weren’t for the melody line.

Even though this music is rather “old” by today’s standards, the compositions still sound fresh and challenging to my ear. And they sound very French, as opposed to Germanic. They suggest new perspectives and possibilities, and that, my friends, is just right for a new year.

A New Year—2012

2012-01-14T16:31:00.002-06:00

Apologies for my absence! My guess, however, is that you, too, have been busy playing “catch-up” with all the activities that got sidelined during the holidays. I’ll bet you haven’t had any more time for reading blogs than I’ve had for writing them.

Anyway, I don’t have much to report. I guess I could tell you about our holiday travels and the icy roads in Indiana, or I could describe the weather we’ve been having (up till yesterday, unseasonably warm; now it’s frigid with snow on the ground) . . . but that stuff’s old news, or boring, or both.

Still, I ought to report to you about something—if only to post a first entry for 2012!

Okay, here’s one thing: I realized this year, as we were taking down our Christmas decorations, that even though I often feel tired of seeing all that holiday stuff, I can’t help but enjoy seeing, and handling, all those pretty things again.

In other words, I never really get tired of them.

However, my body has about had it with the food. Honestly, I didn’t overdo it this year at all, but I did get off my oat bran muffins! At this point, we’re eating really lightly, and it feels great!

The “fun” oranges are back in season—blood oranges, Cara Caras, good grapefruits, and so on—and I’m having a blast with them. Schnucks had a bunch of temple oranges on sale. These, apparently, are a tangerine-orange hybrid. They’re excellent for making juice!

And my frugivory is continuing in other ways: We’ve been eating prunes! Prunes, I tell you! I need to do a post about them—they are an Opulent Opossum food, if ever there was one. Undersung, maligned, and forgotten, yet exquisitely delicious and good for you. What’s not to like? They need a cheerleader.

So, my 2012 is off to a slow start, blogging-wise, but stay tuned. I’ve got a lot of posts rumbling around in my head, and we’re going to do a lot of interesting things this year. I hope you’ll come along for the ride!

Super Joyful Christmas!

2011-12-24T13:53:00.007-06:00

After that last post, which was rather sobering, it's time for some gen-you-wine, irreverent, holiday humor.

All my brass friends will love this in particular. (With apologies to Maynard Ferguson.)

(Click on my Christmas greeting, and turn the sound up!)

Merry Christmas!!!!!

----------------------------------

For more trumpeting high jinks and hilarity, visit this site (from which I got the above, um, spirited melody): http://www.billandellie.com/sounds/TrumpetBloopers.asp.

Seeing Stars at Christmastime

2011-12-23T22:49:00.021-06:00

The holiday season is Janus-faced. For every happy emotion, an unhappy one always crouches in the background. Much is said about Christmas being a time of joy, but for many of us, sorrow tempers ebullience. Likewise, we sing of peace and bask in the incandescent glow of our Christmas lights—but turbulence obstructs our hold on that elusive goal.

At least partly, it’s psychological: The brighter the light shines, the darker the shadows appear. At festival time, we strive for big happiness—for ourselves, our children, our loved ones—but “reality” never goes away.

Maybe it’s a family conflict, overt or unconscious, that discomforts our joy. Maybe it’s the stress of trying to be more than we actually are—better chefs and bakers, better gift-givers, better present-wrappers, better card-writers—and always feeling that we fall short. . . . Or maybe someone else is telling us we don’t measure up.

Maybe it’s the guilt we feel about our indulgences: The opulent gifts, the huge, rich dinners, the sweets, the primo liquor, the presents manufactured cheaply overseas, the electric bill, the credit card . . . When people are struggling to pay their rent, when people are starving, when people don’t know how to stop drinking, when people lack the basics of medical care and education, and safe drinking water.

Sometimes it’s the turbulence of regret. I suspect many of us have done things over the holidays we wish to God we could undo. (For example: that office Christmas party, years ago . . .) And each year when Christmas rolls around, you can’t help but remember that mistake. You can’t undo it, and you’ll never forget about it.

Because it’s such a high-energy time, and a unique time of year, with its own scents and trappings, and constellations of family and friends, we remember our Christmases especially. Memories and nostalgia naturally intensify during the winter holidays. The Ghost of Christmas Past is always there, tapping your shoulder, feeding you bittersweet memories of childhood joys, of mom and dad, of grandma and grandpa . . . of people and times passed. They’re gone. And you miss them.

Many of us carry particularly sad memories associated with Christmas, scars that span generations. My grandfather died on a Christmas Eve, and the grandfather of one of my high school friends collapsed and died at Christmas, too. Sue’s grandma died in December of 1932; she had just made up several jars of colored sugar to use for holiday baking projects. Fifty years ago, another friend of mine lost four young cousins in a vehicle-railroad accident right before the holidays.

And this year, death has come suddenly and unfairly once again.

Obviously, suffering happens all throughout the year, but somehow it is much starker given this season’s focus on “peace and joy.” Maybe it’s because we desire peace and joy so strongly this time of year that any lack of it seems worse.

For months, the days have been getting shorter and the nights longer; we’ve had some snow. We’ve had a spell of gray and damp weather, and it’s cold outside and in. Seasonal Affective Disorder goes into effect.

It’s no coincidence that major holidays of most religions occur at the winter solstice: It represents the boundary between shadows and light, death and life, famine and plenty, past and future. The shortest nights of the year are dark and daunting—and the coldest, hardest part of the winter is yet to come—but now the sunlight will be increasing, and for those who are hurting, there can be peace, too: Things will get better.

It’s perverse, in a way, to celebrate Light at the darkest time of the year, but no matter where you’re at, it helps to simply look upward, toward the Light, like the magi did.

How do you define this Light? Is it God, or Jesus? Is it the sun? Is it the highest power of the human spirit, and all the goodwill it can hold? Is it this holy mystery we call Life? . . . It’s up to you.

That stars and lights figure into so many human festivals during this season is appropriate. It seems every religion, current or defunct, has a midwinter festival that celebrates birth or rebirth, hope, light, and life, and urges fellowship, compassion, and charity.

If your decorating, traveling, gift-buying and gift-giving and -getting seem hectic to you; if someone’s getting on your nerves; if there’s not enough time for all the things you “need” to do at the holidays—then stop for a moment and look at the Light.

For me, any light or shiny thing will do, because it’s a symbol. A candle is good. (In church when we’re asked to pray, I often find some light to focus on instead of bowing my head, because it’s more meaningful for me than staring at the floor, or the darkness under my eyelids.)

Take a deep breath, put aside the “do list,” and remember that no one knows whether this day will be our last. Remember what is truly important. Life itself is a most precious gift. Today, tonight, simply being here is a gift.

May you and all your cherished family and friends have a warm, blessed Christmas.

------------------------------------------

Thanks, once again, to Susan Ferber, for sharing so many of her lovely photos with me.

Family Spingerle Recipes

2011-12-21T18:34:00.008-06:00

I’m still groovin’ on the springerles! My new springerle roller still has me all excited!

I’ve already confessed to you that the springerle recipe I use comes out of the 1949 Good Housekeeping Cook Book and not from my forbears, but I have to qualify that by saying that it, too, qualifies as a family recipe, since I got that cookbook from cousin Marguerite’s kitchen when she moved into a nursing home, and it is one of the cherished objects with which I remember her.

However, I do have other recipes available, which I’m going to try sometime. Naturally, it’s hard to try a different recipe, when the one I use works so well, but then again, these are written in Grandma Schroeder’s hand.

For what it’s worth—I have not tested these at all—I’ve photographed them for you.

Great-Grandma Thomas’s Recipe

The first is from Grandma Schroeder’s mother, Wilhelmine Thomas.

Springerle as Mom Made Them

6 eggs—beaten light
3 cup sugar—sifted & added gradually to eggs—place bowl over low flame and beat until very light.
Add 1 teasp. anise—enough flour to make a stiff dough—sift 2 teasp. pwd. hartshorn & 1/2 teasp B.P., roll out & let sit over nite.

Isn’t it interesting that it calls for heating the sugar and eggs? Maybe you need to do that if you use granulated instead of powdered sugar, but anyway, it’s unusual to see that step in a springerle recipe.

You’ll also note it’s a truly old-fashioned recipe, because it uses hartshorn as the leavening agent. Hartshorn, or baker’s ammonia, is ammonium carbonate and was originally derived from the horns of a type of reindeer. Before baking powder became available, it was commonly used in German and Scandinavian baking.

I think it’s interesting that this recipe uses a bit of baking powder in addition to the hartshorn. Best of both worlds—?

A lot of springerle-baking purists insist on using only hartshorn, which you can still find in specialty stores (or something; I’ve never used it). They say it makes the texture of the cookies perfect.

I’ve read that when you cook with hartshorn, you should not eat any raw dough, since the ammonia doesn’t leave until you bake it out. (So—no “springerle cookie dough ice cream,” unless you omit the hartshorn!)

By the way, click here for a post that has pictures of Great-Grandma Thomas's springerle roller.

Josephine Weber’s Recipe

The other recipe is for “anise cookies,” but around here that’s another way of saying “springerle.” This one came from Miss Josephine Weber, who for many years lived across the street from Grandma, in a house that still stands across the street from us.

For those of you who know our neighborhood, Josephine Weber’s home is the one that most recently has been a beauty salon. I’ve blogged about this dear neighbor before.

It might be hard to read, since it’s in pencil, but remember, you can click on any picture on my blog and it will make it bigger.

Here’s what it says:

Josephine Weber’s Anise Cookies

1# pwd sugar
4 eggs
2 teasp. bake pwd.
1# flour
anise seed
lump butter

Here, the interesting thing is that it calls for butter. I’ve seen a few other recipes that use butter, but not a majority. All I can say about it is: Josephine Weber made ends meet by baking cakes, especially angel food cakes, and other goodies, for wealthy uptown people, and she knew her way around a kitchen!

Next year, I’ll have to experiment some, have a “springerle-tasting,” and let you know how these recipes pan out.

Meanwhile, if you try them, I hope you’ll let me know what you think!

New Springerle Roller

2011-12-18T15:51:00.011-06:00

I recently told you about my new/old springerle roller! I’d been looking for a good, wooden, “vintage” one (=“antique”), and we found this new one at an antiques store in Hermann.

I have other rollers, but for some reason or other, they weren’t quite perfect.

My First Roller

My first roller was given to me as a gift—for which I’m eternally grateful, since it got me to start making springerles in the first place. (Think: “gateway drug.”)

It must be a fairly modern roller, not old at all. The carvings are very, ah . . . minimalist. I don’t think they were even technically “carved.” Instead, I think they were created with a Dremel tool or some such. Mass-produced. You can find these types of rollers for a fairly low price online. I suspect it’s, um, “imported.”

The problem with this roller is that I have a hard time figuring out what the pictures are supposed to represent. This carving, I’m pretty sure, is supposed to be of some kind of bird:

And this one, if you use your imagination, could be of a butterfly. . . . Or maybe it’s an owl—?

But this one: You have to let your imagination “go” in order to get anything representational out of it. Sue thinks it looks like a skull-and-crossbones!

Well, maybe. I guess if you spend a lot of time looking at cubistic art, you could figure out what it’s supposed to represent. . . . Or maybe you need to drink a lot of eggnog or some other kind of “Christmas cheer”!

Here’s another carving on that roller that confounds me: Every time I look at it, I think, “Tiki God.”

. . . But I doubt that’s what it’s “supposed” to be. One thing I’m certain of: A Tiki God is not standard Christmas imagery!

My Second Roller

I bought this from the nice lady who sells springerles and rollers each year at the Old Munichburg Oktoberfest. She was at the Hermann Kristkindl Markt this year, too. She’s incredible!

The springerle rolling pins she sells are manufactured by a company called House on the Hill, and you really should check them out. They make reproduction springerle rollers and molds, out of some kind of resin or plastic, which are exact copies of antique wooden originals.

Here’s the pin I have.

Their rollers are ornate and beautiful. And yet . . . they are not wooden. And if you’re like me, and you’re a bit sloppy about reapplying flour or cornstarch to the roller between each “roll,” then the dough tends to stick after a while. And with all those ornate indentations, well . . .

And hey, don’t you just like the feel of wood in your hands? Wouldn’t you rather have a unique, handmade, wooden tool than a plastic one? For me, the answer is “yes” and “yes.”

Hence my continuing search.

My Third Roller

It isn’t really “mine.” Like the family Christmas tree, it’s an heirloom for which I’m only a temporary caretaker.

Dad had this with the stuff that he got from his mom’s house when she passed away. But this past year, he gave it to me: His grandmother’s springerle roller. (Or one of them, anyway.)

I’ve told you about Wilhelmine Thomas before—remember the red cabbage story? Also, hers is one of my favorite lebkuchen recipes.

The deal with this roller is that it’s a historic treasure, delicate; it might even be something she brought with her from Germany—and I don’t want to use it.

At some point (I’m guessing the 1960s), Grandma mounted it onto a simple, fabric-covered piece of cardboard using two tiny brads, and framed it. This means that even in the sixties, Grandma was thinking it was too old to be used, and took it out of service at that time.

It would be pretty cheeky of me to (carefully!) remove the brads and unmount it, then use it for cooking.

Especially since there’s historic springerle dough still stuck on it!

Sue and I joked about this: What if you could take a DNA sample from that fossilized dough and make a clone of Great-Grandma Thomas’s springerles!

But seriously—it’s an old treasure, and I would be heartsick if I tried using it, and the wooden handle split or something. Better to leave it as a museum piece, eh—?

The New Springerle Roller

It’s not as ornate as the ones House on the Hill sells, but (if memory serves) the patterns on this roller seem more like the patterns I recall when I was a little girl, when grandmas and other ladies of their generation were making springerles.

Does that sound funny? I mean, the rollers from House on the Hill are very nice—exquisite—and maybe “too” ornate. The patterns on this roller are a bit simpler.

Who knows—maybe this very roller had belonged to one of my own Central Missouri forbears, and ended up at that antiques store in Hermann!

At any rate, I really love the pictures on this “new” roller. It’s big on animals, which is just right for me. There’s a rooster (which makes me think of old German immigrant churches, and the passages leading up to Matthew 26.75).

There are hooved animals, including an elk or reindeer.

Cooler than that (to my thinking), there’s a nice bushy-tailed squirrel!

And even more remarkable, there’s an insect—a wasp or bee! Yay! (“. . . All creatures, great and small”!)

There are neat plants, too. This looks like a thistle, though with my imagination it could also be an agave, or a rattlesnake master, or something like that.

This might be an edelweiss—what do you think? Or some kind of primrose?

This year, with our bounty of springerle rollers, we made some lovely, lovely cookies, and I’m going to have a great time sharing them!

(By the way, click here for the springerle recipe I use; it’s slightly nontraditional—but hey, I’ve gotten no complaints!)

Gift Idea: TV B Gone

2011-12-14T23:57:00.005-06:00

Okay: Let’s say you’ve decided to go out for dinner someplace. Maybe you’ve been driving all day and you want to relax and get a bite to eat. Or maybe you’ve got someone you want to visit with. Like, an out-of-town friend you rarely get to see, but hooray, she’s visiting, and you get to have dinner together. Or maybe you’re lunching alone and are relishing the chance to collect your thoughts for the afternoon’s work. Or maybe you’re having an important conversation with someone, like a client.

And there’s this ignorant television hanging up in the corner of this otherwise quite nice restaurant, flickering and flashing, showing some godawful sad, sensationalistic trash, or some talking-head politics guy whose every word gives you a sour feeling in your stomach.

You know, television programs and the advertising they exist to serve are designed to grab your attention—the change of camera angle every five seconds or less; the rate of flashing; the emphasis on “big” (never subtle) emotions; the pacing of dialogue, the tone of voice. It plays with your monkey mind in ways you’re scarcely aware of—all you know is, it’s hard to get your eyes off the screen.

I’m not joking—and I do encourage us all to educate ourselves about television and how it manipulates our attention, feeds our thoughts, and (I believe) pollutes our culture and damages our democracy. To everyone, I recommend this book: Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television, by Jerry Mander. It’s not a new book at all, but what is says is just as relevant today as when it was written. If you don’t believe me, read the Amazon reviews.

-----------------------------

THAT was my prologue. The gift idea mentioned in the title of this post, now, should need no explanation, beyond this: It is a handy, keychain-sized universal remote control that only does one thing: It works as a power button on all different types of televisions. It is an “off” switch! Of your very own.

They’re about twenty bucks, batteries are included, and you can get them online here: Cornfield Electronics.

Look, how many times do I tell you to “buy” stuff? Never. But here I am, telling you: You will love having the power to turn off those offensive TVs wherever they may be: The doctor’s office. An otherwise decent restaurant. The waiting room at the service department at your car dealer’s. At the laundromat. Maybe even in the gate area at the airport!

Oh, joy!

I got mine and tried it out at Ruby Thursday’s! I was kind of worried a riot might break out, with people deprived of their TV teats, but no one even noticed the TV had gone black.

And yes, these would make great stocking stuffers!

-----------------

Special thanks and an Op Op Hurray! to Jane Phillips, who told me about this lovely product and reports great success with it in places ranging from restaurants to the DMV!

Santa Dropped By Early!

2011-12-13T23:34:00.010-06:00

It’s a good thing I haven’t made my springerles yet, because this weekend I got a new springerle roller!

Sue and I went to Hermann’s annual Kristkindl Markt—basically a citywide Christmas sale, with craft, antique, and Christmas-doodad vendors at the usual local feste spaces (Hermannhof Festehall, etc.).

While there, we also stopped at one of Hermann’s antique stores, poked around . . . and found each other’s Christmas presents! I found an antique springerle roller—you know, the kind made out of real wood, and carved with actual pretty pictures of recognizable things! (More on this subject soon.)

This one even has a picture of a bug on it! How cool is that!? (Yeah, I think it must be a bee or wasp or some other kind of hymenopteran . . .)

Sue saw it first and showed it to me. She knew I’d been wanting an old springerle roller. Wow, it was kind of pricey, but then it was marked as being circa 1900. (Who knows.) But it’s in good shape, and it’s something I’ll use for years hence.

She got it for me as my Christmas present!

. . . Meanwhile, something had caught Sue’s eye, too: a Voigtländer Vitessa camera, from the 1950s. It was inside a locked display case, so Sue had to get one of the clerks to let her see it. It had the original box and all the original paperwork and instructions and stuff with it. It passed muster—and so that became my gift to Sue!

I don’t generally tell you too much about Sue—because I’m not sure how much she wants you to know about her doin’s. In recent years, her photography skills (which were already excellent) have increased dramatically. She’s always been interested in cameras and photography, and because of her work, she’s become an expert with Photoshop and Lightroom. But her knowledge of photography has been growing in leaps and bounds. I mean, for fun, she reads NAPP publications, Ansel Adams’s books, and all kinds of photography manuals.

Most recently she’s become more interested in film photography. I didn’t realize it, but there’s a bunch of people in the world who are seriously pursuing film photography. I guess, like a lot of other ways of doing things (typing with a typewriter, printing with a letterpress, etc.), now that it’s an obsolete technology, it’s become an art form.

So Sue’s acquired a small collection of old cameras, including twin-lens reflex (like Vivian Maier used), some 35mm cameras, etc. Sue can easily and cheaply develop black-and-white film herself; then, she can scan it, digitally turn it into a positive image, and do miscellaneous corrections with Lightroom and Photoshop.

She’s also been having fun with Lomographic film. So this nifty-cool 1950s German Voigtländer camera will provide her with loads of fun!

I think this camera is especially cool because the lens folds down into the camera body and is protected by two doors that close around it. Pretty nifty, huh?

Truth be told, “gifts” aren’t really my thing. Honestly, my least favorite part of Christmas is the unwrapping of gifts, of things, particularly of store-bought things. I’m pretty bad at picking out gifts for people, and I feel awkward receiving them, especially when there are lots and lots. I guess it’s because I feel like a pretty awful gift-giver, and I feel like I should reciprocate better.

My thing—in case you couldn’t tell—is doing stuff for people. Entertaining, fixing dinners, baking and giving away cookies, and so on. Some people say “I love you,” directly, verbally tell you it and speak it in so many ways; other people give gifts to say it, so giving and receiving gifts is something they understand; some show love by spending quality time with the people who matter to them; some show it through physical touch in all its forms; and others do things, they serve, to express their love.* . . . I guess, at this point in my life at least, the last is my style.

But last weekend, I was more like Santa Claus, and Sue was, too. Fun presents!

Okay, now, back to the cooking . . .

_______________________________

* By the way, these ideas about how people express love aren't my own--they come from Dr. Gary Chapman's bestselling book The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love that Lasts. Perhaps this would be good reading for you over the holidays.

We Can Has Lebkuchen!

2011-12-07T21:39:00.012-06:00

You know it’s Advent when the house smells like a German bakery! . . . Or better yet, like your Grandmas’ kitchens at Christmastime!

We made two different lebkuchen recipes this week: One is my mom’s current recipe, and the other is my Great-Grandma Thomas’s.

We always have to collect a bunch of wonderful ingredients; local black walnuts, sorghum from the Mennonite store, candied fruits from the “holiday baking aisle” at Schnuck’s, and more.

Mom’s Recipe

The recipe my mom has used for the past several years always gets rave reviews by everyone who eat those cookies. “Best lebkuchen ever!” is the general assessment. No kidding—they’re awesome. This is my first year to try making them. Why? Because Mom said she wasn’t going to bake them this year!

Mom’s recipe is based on one she found in a church-ladies cookbook: The Fruit of the Spirit: A Collection of Recipes by Heisinger Lutheran Home Auxiliary, Jefferson City, Missouri (Kearney, Neb.: Cookbooks by Morris Press, 2001). It appears on page 295 of that book and is named “Leb Cookies.” It was contributed by Goldie Kirchner, who noted that it “was given to my son, Ray, by Herbert Ehrhardt when they worked together at Stockman Feed Store many years ago.”

It’s got butter in it, and the liquid “lift” is provided by buttermilk and baking soda, so it’s got a good buttery richness to it. And who doesn’t like that?

In addition to molasses, it uses brown sugar, while many other recipes call for white.

Mom adjusts the fruits per her own mom’s way of making lebkuchen: It’s about 50 percent candied mixed fruit, 40 percent raisins, 5 percent citron, and 5 percent candied cherries. No, I don’t think these proportions have to be exact.

Here is something else that is a hallmark of both my mom’s and her mom’s lebkuchen: Grandma Renner always ground her mixed candied fruit in a small, hand-cranked meat grinder—the kind you clamp onto a table to use in making sausage.

I remember watching her push that sticky candied fruit into the grinder and turn the crank. What emerged was even stickier than before! But it had a nice, even texture, with much smaller pieces. Her idea, I think, was to distribute the flavors of the candied fruit more evenly.

Another plus is that by grinding the candied fruit, no one has to bite down on a big hunk of candied-whatever. Well—it’s a plus for people who don’t truly like candied mixed fruit.

Grinding the fruit, I noticed, also makes the dough easier to roll and cut.

Great-Grandma Thomas’s Recipe

This was passed down from the mother of my paternal grandmother. Grandma Schroeder’s mom’s name was Wilhelmine Thomas. I’ve told you a charming story about her and her husband, Albert, in an earlier blog post. Albert and Wilhelmine emigrated from Germany in the late 1800s.

We have a lot of different versions of her recipe, since it was used both by my paternal grandmother (naturally) as well as—get this—by my maternal grandmother! Yes, they were neighbors, and Grandma Renner liked and used the recipe.

Grandma Renner was usually careful to credit it as “Mrs. Thomas’s recipe,” but whether or not it’s marked as such, I can identify the recipe at a glance because, for the liquid rising agent, it calls for X tablespoons of baking soda mixed with Y cups of “cold black coffee.”

Also, although Grandma Renner amended the recipe by substituting her own blend of mixed fruit, grinding it with her sausage grinder, Great-Grandma Thomas’s recipe always only called for candied citron and lemon peel, and raisins and currants. No grinding required.

It never called for butter; early versions of it use lard, but most later renditions specify Crisco.

This recipe uses white sugar with the molasses—not brown.

The resulting cookies aren’t as buttery and sweet as the ones my mom makes. They have a darker flavor, and the chunks of fruit are chunkier.

Despite the thoughtful and well-reasoned alterations made by Grandma Renner, as far as I know, Grandma Schroeder did not change her mom’s recipe much . . . although she did write it down in English. Hmm: Maybe her biggest innovation was to decorate the leppies with stuff like candied cherries and colored sprinkles!

As a kid, I probably wouldn’t have liked them without these additions. I’m glad she used them on some of her leppies, because it started me trying and liking lebkuchen at a young age. (Kids can be kind of dense about really good foods, can’t they? I know I was.)

What Kind of Molasses?

When I started making lebkuchen, my first question on all these old recipes was, “Okay, it calls for ‘molasses,’ but what kind of molasses should I use?” I’m a late-twentieth-century gal; I’m used to having more shopping choices than I know what to do with.

I experimented with sorghum (presumably that’s what they had back in the early 1900s), but also regular ol’ Brer Rabbit, as well as blackstrap. (Wow, that batch was dark and distinctive! And the men in the family seemed to enjoy it, in particular.) I don’t think you can go wrong, though I’m sure everyone will have a preference.

Recently, as I reviewed some handwritten versions from Grandma Schroeder, I found this on one sheet: “Be sure to use ‘ripe’ sorghum or else Brer Rabbit brand.” There you go! Sorghum it is.

Then, from my Grandma Renner, I see in the ingredients list: “32 oz. jar Waconia molasses.” (Which—I think—is either a popular cultivar of sorghum, or else a brand of sorghum molasses that is now long gone.)

After all my experimenting, I’ve pretty much decided that real sorghum is the best, for its rich, light flavor.

Did you know that in Germany, honey is the usual sweetener for lebkuhen? Apparently here in the United States, back in our great-grandmothers’ day, sorghum was much less expensive than honey, so that’s why our grandmothers used it. It’s the same with the walnuts: In the Old World, they must have used English walnuts with their milder flavor, but here in Missouri black walnuts have become the tradition—they add a strong, distinctive flavor that we love but which would probably get our Missouri lebkuchen tossed out of a German bakery like so many inedible hockey pucks.

The Verdict!

Oh, come on. You don’t honestly expect me to pronounce one of these recipes “superior” to the other! All I can say is, they are different, but they are more alike than they are different. And I feel rich indeed to have so many good recipes, from so many wonderful mothers and grandmothers, to bake at Christmastime.

Rum Balls! Rum Balls!

2011-12-03T08:00:00.001-06:00

Yes, rum balls: It’s Christmas cookie time!

I had some vanilla wafers left over from making orange balls (which I personally can’t have Christmas without), so I made half a batch of rum balls. Rum balls!

No, I don’t drink anymore, but eating a cookie doesn’t really count as “drinking.” Right? . . . Okay, okay, I know—too close for comfort. But other people will enjoy them!

I used my Grandma Schroder’s recipe, which I’ll simply present to you via a photograph of the recipe itself, which is in her handwriting.

Note that her recipe calls for “hootch.” —HOOTCH!

I measured out the rum very carefully. (Bwah-ha-ha!) And if you can’t quite read the recipe, I recommend sampling a bit of the rum and trying again!

There are more cookies still to come—the lebkuchen and the springerles!

So . . . more soon.

Mayor’s Christmas Tree 2011

2011-12-02T16:05:00.017-06:00

Hey, folks! Last night was the annual lighting of the Mayor’s Christmas Tree, and I have pictures to show you!

Indeed, this is the first year we could walk on the new pedestrian walkway on the Missouri River Bridge to get a look at the Mayor's Christmas Tree as part of the Jefferson City skyline. See?

This event is always very pleasant—exactly how this kind of gathering should be: Unpretentious, sincere, fun, Christmassy, uncomplicated, welcoming. It’s usually pretty cold for this event, but this year we got a break in that regard—it was only pretty chilly!

The theme this year was “Christmas in Paradise” (which matches the theme of the holiday parade that will be held tomorrow)—so the tree is decorated with the shapes of toucans, flamingos, coconuts, hibiscus flowers, and so on. They were handing out leis last night, in addition to the cookies, fresh hot popcorn, hot cocoa, and hot cider.

A new element was added to last night’s festivities: Fireworks! When the tree was lit, fireworks were shot off of a barge on the Missouri. Very nice effect! It sure added to the excitement! (An “Op Op Hooray!” to the organizers!)

Another thing that made this year’s ceremony special was the presence of nineteen-year-old Derrik Sweeney, the American college student from Jefferson City who was recently arrested—and released—by authorities in Cairo. You might have seen him mentioned on the national news! It’s great to have him home and safe, just in time for the holidays!

This was the first year for our new mayor, Eric Struemph, to host the event. I’m glad he decided to continue this relatively new tradition, which takes place at Rotary Park, a pleasant little public space at the north end of Bolivar Street, where the Old Missouri River Bridge used to be. It’s a great place to stand and view the river, the bridge, the railroad, and the capitol.

And this time of year, with the Christmas tree there, it’s especially fun.

These kind of events go really far, I think, to nurture a sense of community in the city. A youth choir sings, Rotarians and other volunteers are thanked, and cookies, popcorn, and hot sweet beverages are enjoyed.

And Santa and Mrs. Claus mingle with the crowd and take time to crouch down and chat privately with the youngest Jefferson Citians.

Yeah, I’m glad Mayor Struemph lit up his tree this year. Thanks, Mayor, for a great evening!

-----------------------------

Special thanks to Susan Ferber for supplying most of the photos in this post. She did an awesome job of catching special moments in dark, photographically challenging circumstances. Thanks, Sue!

Jefferson City’s Big Holiday Party Weekend

2011-11-27T21:29:00.000-06:00

This coming weekend is Jefferson City’s big holiday party; here’s the schedule. And everything I’m listing is family-friendly and free: Free, free, free!

Thursday, Dec. 1 (6 pm)—the Mayor’s Christmas Tree Lighting ceremony, at Rotary Park at the far north end of Bolivar Street. An annual event with entertainment, refreshments, and a visit from Santa Claus. This is a truly fun event; there’s no postmodern-anything to it, no cynicism, no advertisements, nothing but an old-fashioned, friendly, community holiday gathering. With cookies, popcorn, and hot cocoa!

Friday, Dec. 2 (6-9 pm)—Living Windows in downtown Jefferson City. They’ve been doing this wholesome event for nearly 20 years (nyah, nyah, Columbia): there are hayrides, dancers, carolers, refreshments, and much more. More than 50 groups will be participating; Santa will be at the Hawthorn Bank.

Friday, Dec. 2 (6:30-9:00 pm) and Saturday, Dec. 3 (2-4 pm)—Candlelight Tours of the Missouri Governor’s Mansion. If you have never been inside the lovely, historic public building, this is a great time to see it—at night, and all decked out for Christmas. The Governor and First Lady personally greet everyone who comes in, and high school choirs sing near the grand staircase.

Saturday, Dec. 3 (4:30 pm)—Jefferson City Christmas Parade (downtown). Holiday-themed floats, bands playing Christmas songs, and all that stuff. Ten bucks says you’ll get a free candy cane if you put your hand out! (After the parade, you might patronize one of Jeff City’s coffee shops or restaurants.)

Monday, Dec. 5 (6:30-8:00 pm) A Home for the Holidays: Jefferson City Sings for Safe Housing (at the Miller Performing Arts Center, 501 Madison St.). Local choirs sing carols as a benefit for Habitat for Humanity (which does good work here in Jefferson City). Free—but, um, since it’s a benefit, they’d love it if you donated some cash; so don’t think of it as “paying”—this is the season for giving.

Slow Saturday, Sliding toward Christmas

2011-11-26T23:12:00.005-06:00

We’ve had a reluctant autumn, haven’t we! Here where we live, there hasn’t even been a killing frost yet, so petunias and such are still blooming. But interspersed with our many mild autumn days, we have had some cold, rainy ones, too.

Like today: bllgh. It was gray all day, with rain and drizzle off and on. It seemed like I was wearing sunglasses indoors. Tonight, the streets are shiny and wet, and it’s just simply cold. Brrr, shudder-shudder.

And you know how it is this time of year, with the day length; it’s harder and harder to get up in the mornings. And it feels like “suppertime” when it gets dark around four!

Indeed, tonight’s supper was some nice hot chili and cornbread. Yum!

But somehow I’m totally not ready for “the holidays”—how can Thanksgiving be over, when petunias are still blooming? Weren’t we just cutting grass, like, yesterday? Usually we get our first snow around mid-November!

We’re sliding into December, though, and fortunately we have all the Christmas sales and decorations to make it perfectly clear! Here in the Munichburg neighborhood, one of our favorite “signs of the season” is when the local Optimist club sets up its Christmas tree lot at the Carpenters Building, on the corner of Broadway and Dunklin.

It always makes me happy to see them up there, the friendly men and the pretty trees and the strings of bare lightbulbs shining over there at the corner—even though we never buy a tree from them. (But if you buy real Christmas trees, you should consider patronizing them or another nonprofit service organization.)

As you might recall, we never buy a Christmas tree because we have Grandma’s tree to put up. A lot of people around here know about the tree, and they look up in our window to see it as they go by on Broadway. So it kind of feels like a duty to put it up each year.

But it’s a duty that’s a pleasure to perform—even if I don’t feel ready for “Christmas” yet. I think we’ll be putting it up this coming weekend, either the third or the fourth.

By the way, if you’ve read this far, and you or your group are interested in visiting the tree in person, I hope you’ll contact me. Grandma used to love sharing her tree with others, and I see no reason to end that tradition!

Maa Pies and More, Ashland, Missouri

2011-11-22T17:40:00.011-06:00

To all my readers in Central Missouri: Here is a small restaurant that I sincerely hope you’ll try. It’s a new place, and you might not have heard of it yet. In fact, it’s the kind of place that my Columbia friends might never hear of, because this is the kind of place that locals flock to and love, and keep “mum” about, in hopes that “outsiders” don’t discover it: Maa Pies and More, in Ashland, Missouri.

Since it’s in Ashland, it’s convenient for everyone traveling between Columbia and Jefferson City. Seriously—if I were still commuting, I would consider getting up early at least one day a week, so I could pull off the highway at Ashland and sit down for a bit over coffee and B&G, before heading to the office.

(Wait, you don’t know what B&G is? Repeat after me, in a reverent tone: bis-cuits–an’–gra-vy. If you’ve never had it, then you need to try some this winter! As my own mom would say, “This is food that sticks to your ribs!”)

Let me tell you what Maa Pies and More isn’t: It’s not a place that is going to serve you “prosciutto-wrapped-sun-dried-tomato-cornichon-with-crème-fraîche-ciabatta,” or “seared-ahi-tuna-and-celery-root-pureé-with-a-balsamic-reduction-and-brown-butter-caper-sauce.” No, no, no!

It is also not a place for you to go if you dislike people, or if you are feeling blue and wish to stay that way.

Here is what it is: A small local “mom-and-pop” café, proudly serving you breakfast, lunch, and desserts (pies!) with care and attention to how you want it. What kind of bread do you want for your sandwich? Do you prefer it grilled? Would you like ice cream on your slice of pie? It’s how mom would treat you if she was making you a lunch—am I right?

“Mom-and-pop” is a perfect adjective for this café, which is owner-operated and owner-staffed: William Linzie, a bighearted man who loves meeting people, will greet you when you come in the door, help you find a seat, and take your order. There’s a good chance he’ll introduce you to some of the other customers. His wife, Joycelynn, who loves cooking and is too modest about her talents, is the one making most of the food (yes, and the pies!). You will probably meet both of them when you’re there. Why, it’s almost like having lunch at a friend’s house.

And by the time you leave, you will most likely be calling them your friends.

I hear that the “locals” are warming up to the place—and here we’re talking about people of all stripes. The Linzies are proud to have such a diverse clientele. As we ate there recently, he was telling me how great it feels to see so many different people enjoying his restaurant.

That Maa Pies has won the approval of many of the local “oldtimers” seems particularly enlightening for those of us who enjoy good local cafés: Some of the older fellows, I imagine, can be tough customers; these men are capable of saying, quite bluntly, “Well, this doesn’t taste very good. Not enough black pepper.” I mean, they’ll say it to their own wives! So if a café doesn’t cut it for these tough customers, they won’t come back.

But they keep coming back to Maa Pies! It’s an excellent sign.

What’s on the Menu?

There’s an online menu here, but I’ll summarize briefly. First, they’ve got breakfast—they open at 8 a.m., Tuesday through Saturday—with the above-mentioned biscuits and gravy, breakfast plates (combinations of eggs, sausage, biscuits, bacon), and breakfast sandwiches. Also (and this is no surprise, since pies are a specialty), they have quiche, yummy, yummy quiche!

The cinnamon rolls (which I haven’t yet tried) look like a breakfast unto themselves; they’re huge and covered, not just “sprinkled,” with a whole bunch of chopped pecans. (Generous is the word: just like mom, right?)

Lunches are sandwiches, hot dogs, wraps, and sides, and Tuesday through Friday, there’s a daily special. The sandwiches are not fancy, high-falutin’ concoctions of trendy ingredients. So just relax and enjoy a gool ol’ turkey sandwich, or bologna, roast beef, BLT, or polish sausage. If you’re feeling opulent, you might choose the triple decker!

The daily special is a surprise—there’s no pattern to it—it’s whatever they felt like making that day. It could be lasagna or any other kind of “blue-platey” special.

If you’re having lunch there for the first time, I encourage you to try the pulled-pork sandwich, which is one of their specialties.

Honestly, their pulled-pork sandwiches count as a Public Service. I expect soon, all the other restaurants in Ashland will be sick and tired of telling people, “Oh, the pulled-pork sandwich place? That’s Maa Pies—just go west on Broadway and look for it on the right. The place with all the cars parked around it.”

Finally, the Pies

As soon as you get there, look in the front case to see what they’ve got, because they tend to sell out! If you are wanting to get a particular pie to-go, put your dibs on it before you dine!

The fruit pies are wonderful; when we were there, we had blackberry, and it was just sweet enough to be perfect! I admire cooks who get the sugar right in a fruit pie.

They heated it up for us and served it à la mode. Oh, boy! I love me some good, homemade pie!

Here’s something else: Joycelynn will make pies for you by request—cream pies, for instance, or whatever kind of pies you want. She just needs your order 48 hours in advance. I understand they do catering of pies for events. As in, lots and lots of pies.

The pie they’re most famous for is called “apple caramel crisp with pecans.” When we were there last, it was (understandably) sold out. As with the cinnamon rolls, they’re generous with the pecans, which give the caramel-drizzled crust a wonderful texture.

If there’s something wrong with you and you’re not interested in pies, there are Bundt cakes available, plus other pastries, such as Danishes, and the cinnamon rolls.

You might be wondering about the prices—some bakeries charge big bucks for their creations—all the pies here are twelve dollars. And everything else on the menu is under ten; most is under five.

One More Thing

Remember what I said: “This is not a place for you to go if you dislike people, or if you are feeling blue and wish to stay that way.” Why do I say this? Because William and Joycelynn really want you to have a nice time at their restaurant, and they want you to feel at home. They will chat with you. William, in particular, likes getting to know his customers, and he’s a friendly and personable guy.

Again, it’s the “mom-and-pop” thing—at Maa Pies, you will be treated not just as a guest, but as a friend and neighbor—indeed, like family. So put Maa Pies on your list for breakfast and lunch, and be sure to check out the pies and pastries, too!

The Frost Is a Coup de Grâce

2011-11-12T20:07:00.012-06:00

As usual, we’ve been keeping tabs on our argiopes—our black-and-yellow garden spiders—as the season’s progressed. We’ve had them all summer—two on the corner, among the blades of a yucca, and one in the flowerbed near our front door.

Look, spider-watching really is fun! The orb-weavers stick around all season. You walk past an argiope web every day, and you can’t help but note things like, “oh, look, she’s got a grasshopper!” And you know when one of them has made an egg case, because she disappeared from her web for a whole day and has now returned to it, half as rotund as she was before. Then you find yourself peeking around the nearby vegetation, looking for that hidden egg sac. When you clean out that bed later on, you don’t want to inadvertently pitch that spent vegetation into the composter if it’s got her babies in it!

This past week, the argiope near our front door seems to have given up on her web-making. The winds and rain were simply too much; apparently, she threw in the towel and crept away.

She’s moving slowly; she’s getting skinny.

Over the weekend, she clung precariously to the bricks above our front door, which freaked out my nephew when he was visiting (we all had to walk right under her each time we went in and out of the house).

Do you suppose the argiope just said to herself, “Oh, what the heck! My web-spinning and egg-laying is done! Let’s go out and see some of this great big world that the grasshoppers are always telling me about (right before dinner).”

Nah—I know better. She hasn’t given up; quitting isn’t in a spider’s vocabulary. It’s survival; we’ve seen it plenty of times with argiopes. If one web location isn’t good—if it’s too windy, or gets smacked into too much, or doesn’t catch enough bugs—the argiope relocates. I’ll bet that’s what she was trying to do, bless her heart. And anyway, orb-weavers tend to have poor vision; she wasn’t “sight-seeing.”

The next day, we found her just standing, rather still, on the concrete steps leading up to our front door. (I hope she hadn’t fallen . . . I’m glad no one had squished her . . . some people just squish spiders as a matter of course . . .) So we picked her up and put her into the plants in one of our front planters. It’s pretty warm there. And so far, that’s where she’s stayed.

The embers of life go out so slowly with spiders. It’s her time.

I used to get rather sad when the freeze would come and, in a single, late October night, put an end to all the spiders, all the tender plants, all the bugs, all that vibrant summertime life. But now I see: The frost is a coup de grâce.

When it doesn’t come, cold-blooded life gradually grows too cold to continue, anyway. Spiders don’t have enough food, because the insects are dwindling; they can’t spin effective webs, because it’s cold and windy, they cannot move quickly anymore, and they’re beginning to starve. Without a decisive freeze, it can be a long, drawn-out death.

Think about it: All summer long, these insects and spiders have fought hard and survived. Our argiopes have netted and trussed prey, and feasted on it; they’ve scrambled away and hidden from garter snakes and praying mantises; they’ve mated; they’ve laid eggs. They’ve endured this summer’s drought, and they’ve put up with the indignity of being sprinkled with the garden hose.

The great majority of arthropods never make it to autumn; there are a million ways for a bug to expire. The ones that are left at this time of year are the survivors, the winners, the elders—as old as any of their kind ever get. In human terms, they are going to die of “natural causes”—of old age, of senescence, of systems breaking down.

The overnight freeze, when it comes, is a gift from nature that lets them die in their sleep.

I used to think it was rather cruel, how the freeze sneaks in during an autumn night and extinguishes all those amazing little sparks of life, but now I see it’s nature’s kindest way of saying—to the humblest of its creatures: Well done; come home.

Autumn Transitions

2011-11-11T22:24:00.007-06:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about the progression of fall this year; I mean, I usually do, anyway, because it’s a dynamic season, intense and dramatic, manic-depressive. But with Teale’s Autumn across America fresh in my mind, I’m more thoughtful about it than usual.

Unlike in springtime, where there’s no clear-cut time when the growing season officially begins, in fall, the first hard frost and freeze slices a distinct boundary between animation and dormancy, juiciness and dryness—the vibrancy of “red autumn” and the dullness of “gray autumn.”

Here in Central Missouri, our average frost date is about the middle of October, which also happens to be our usual fall color peak. A hard freeze can zap the fall color pretty abruptly. Then, the abcission wind comes in late October or early November, often with rain and dreary skies, to knock the leaves off the trees and thus prepare the trees for snow and ice. (Remember the abcission wind? We talked about that last year!)

So much of autumn seems to be about preparation for the winter.

But although we had wind and rain this past week, we still haven’t had a freeze yet, or even a hard frost.

There are many pleasant things about this situation—for example, Sue and I were able to bring in our tropical plants at our leisure. We dug up the elephant ears and hibiscus a few weeks ago, and Sue brought in her bonsai that can’t survive the cold. The Fukien teas and what-all. Some years, we get caught by surprise; we put off bringing in the plants until the last minute, then suddenly they’re predicting a freeze, and we’re out there with our spades, sometimes in the dark or the rain. Which is not quite optimal!

And then there are the brugmansias, which have multiplied over the years like bunnies. Like hibiscus, they must be brought indoors during winter. We’ve found, however, they only really begin to bloom about the beginning of October, so they’re usually in full bloom when we tell them, like moms tell kids on summer evenings: Time to come in!

So we always have to trim back the bruggies so they are, say, not taller than ourselves, which usually means hacking off all the glorious, footlong flowers. And we cart them and their big pots indoors. Into the basement. It’s kind of sad.

This year, Sue couldn’t bear to chop all those blooming heads off, so she set them, pots and all, at an angle. We have sideways trees in our basement! They’re blooming right now, even as I type this on the third floor of our house, and I can smell them all the way up here.

And we swapped the screens for storm windows again. By the way, there were big numbers on the “cussometer” this year—but it’s long story I won’t go into. Here’s a picture from my parents’ collection of my Grandpa and Grandma dealing with the storm windows. It was the early sixties, and judging from their smiles, the storm windows fit better forty years ago!

I also, quite at my leisure, picked all my basil and made pesto the same day I picked it.

Another day, I picked all my cayenne peppers and dealt with them: The smallish green ones went into freezer zip bags—they will heat up my Indian curries this winter! The mature, red ones, I dried: Trimmed off the green calyx on top, sliced them once lengthwise, spread them on a huge cookie sheet, and let them enjoy the dry warmth of Grandma’s incredible oven, all night long. Next morning, I turned them into “dynamite dust.” Lookie!

I didn’t deseed them or remove the “membranes.” (Hey, want a more precise name for that pithy stuff? It’s the placenta, that middle part that the seeds grow on; and the part that connects it to the fruit wall is the septum).

Dynamite dust! It’s just whole, ground cayenne. None of that sissy stuff for me! Good for what ails ya!

With all these preparations, though, there was no rush; we just found time here and there to get it all accomplished.

And yes, it’s rather pleasant to still have flowers around—chrysanthemums, and all that autumn-purple ageratum that grows around this yard for free. My herb garden’s still going at it; just today, I picked a handful of red-veined sorrel and some mint to go in a little salad at lunch.

. . . So when will it freeze?

Edwin Way Teale’s Autumn across America

2011-11-05T21:21:00.006-05:00

Today we’re celebrating another classic work by the famous midcentury natural history writer Edwin Way Teale: Autumn across America: A Naturalist’s Record of a 20,000-Mile Journey through the North American Autumn (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1956).

This is my third “book report” on Edwin Way Teale this year: I decided that in 2011, I would reread all four of Teale’s “American Seasons” books, in their appropriate seasons! To catch up with me, click here for my post on Teale’s North with the Spring (and an introduction to this remarkable quartet of books), and click here for my post on Teale’s Journey into Summer (including a discussion of the timing of the trips and the publication of the books).

The American Seasons Series: Spring and Summer

Each of the four American Seasons volumes chronicles the automobile travels of Edwin Way Teale and his wife, Nellie, as they traverse the continent for months, following the progress of a season in as many places and aspects they can.

In the spring volume (published in 1951 based on travels made in 1947), they rode the wave of the season from the southern tip of Florida all the way up to Maine: one big, long extended springtime of migrating birds and opening wildflowers—and lots more that you never would have noticed—all the way up the coast, ending as spring does with the summer solstice.

The summer book was published in 1960, based on their travels during the summer of 1957. For that project, they started at the summer solstice in New Hampshire, traced the northern edge of the United States clear to Montana, then wandered south through the Great Plains and explored Colorado and its Rockies. Thus they experienced “the summer of the shore, the summer of the forest, the summer of the Great Plains, the summer of the mountains . . . in vacation spots—along lake shores, on the mountain heights, in the cool north woods . . . [as well as] on salt flats and in corn country, amid swamps and in areas where falling rain would be sucked up by the thirsty atmosphere before it reached the ground.”

The Autumn Project

The autumn travels, and publication of the autumn book, actually occurred between the spring and summer projects. Autumn across America was published in 1956, based on travels that occurred in 1952. Their trip began in late August, looking east across the waves of the Atlantic on Cape Cod. Why in August? Teale explains at the beginning of chapter 3:

The season of summer extends to about September 21 but the summer season ends with Labor Day. Then the newspapers begin referring to summer in the past tense. Vacations are over. Schools commence. To the popular mind, September belongs to autumn as December belongs to winter. (p. 19)

Their autumn trip starts out rather like the summer one, for they travel west from New England taking a somewhat northern route, through Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Minnesota, and the Dakotas. But here they continue west all the way to the Pacific, visiting Wyoming, Montana (and Yellowstone), Idaho, Utah, Oregon, and Washington.

Then they proceed southward into California, seeing the sequoias, Monterey, the migrating monarchs at Pacific Grove, and Yosemite. They end up on a very windy Point Reyes, north of San Francisco, facing westward across the Pacific, at sunset on the shortest day of the year.

Some Major Themes

Teale was an incredibly organized writer. Each book of the quartet offers about the same blend of topics. In each, there’s a chapter or two spotlighting individuals who make their living from the land, and he marvels at expansive agricultural endeavors, and their picturesque qualities.

And although he’s mostly interested in animals and plants, with chapters spotlighting particular species, he always includes a few chapters focusing on geological matters, on landscapes, on astronomy, and on notable environmental tragedies, or on disasters averted.

But in this volume, more than the others, there are certain subjects Teale weaves through the whole book:

Bird Migration. The Teales were avid birders! It’s no accident that their autumn trip took them across all four major flyways for migration, and Teale writes enthusiastically about the flocks they see. The map in the front endpapers has the four major North American flyways marked on it. Along the Atlantic Coast Flyway, there are “swallow clouds” at Cape May, where bazillions of migrating birds concentrate before crossing the Delaware Bay. The Teales trace the Mississippi Flyway in five states, and see the Central Flyway as they travel through the Dakotas, Wyoming, and Montana.

At some point, if you’re not really into birding, you either get weary of reading about the birds, or you begin to chuckle affectionately at Teale’s enthusiasm. At the Bear River delta on the Great Salt Lake, they experience their “Million-Duck Day,” where Teale, well, positively gushes at the thousands and thousands and thousands of birds they saw.

He keeps returning to his writerly style but always ends up helplessly gushing once again about the huge flocks: “For us who, among the depleted, overgunned ponds of the populous east, were accustomed to counting our flocks of migrant ducks in dozens and scores, the wonder never diminished in these thousands and tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of waterfowl” (p. 194). (Remember, Teale was writing at a time when conservation laws were still rather new.)

And then later, they visit the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge (on the Pacific Flyway) and see more zillions of birds: “Wherever we went the roar of waterfowl wings preceded us as mallard and pintail and baldpate and green-winged teal—perhaps some of the very birds we saw at Bear River—shot into the air from behind the curtain of the tule rushes” (p. 316). But the big deal there, that day, for the Teales, was the swarms of blackbirds! (But I’ll let you read about that yourself.)

Tracing the Paths of Explorers. Their route took them west, but they do more than just intersect with the paths of some famous explorers: They trace them. They first join the trail of Lewis and Clark at the juncture of the Knife and Missouri rivers, where, at Fort Mandan, the explorers had met Charbonneau and “his amazing squaw, Sacajawea” (p. 127).

Wait a minute—a note on that loaded term: The word squaw was not a loaded term in standard American English in midcentury. Americans didn’t know it was a deeply offensive term in the Native American language from which it was adopted. As far as any of us knew, it was a Native word for “wife” or for “woman”—same as you might refer to a young French woman as a “mademoiselle,” or a Spanish man as a “señor.” The Russian king was a “czar” and a Muslim sovereign was a “sultan.” I’m pretty sure that nearly all Americans who were not First Nation peoples had no idea that squaw was an offensive term, and Teale was simply using the pleasantly widened vocabulary of an educated man.

So let’s cut him a break, and acknowledge that the word came to have a different meaning in American English than it had in its original language. And, yes, now that we know how offensive it is, let’s please quit using it.

At any rate, it is clear that Teale admired Sacajawea, for he speaks directly about the importance of her contribution to the expedition. He mentions her often and notes places where she has been memorialized in place-names.

And so their path leads them along the Missouri, through the Rockies, all the way to where the Columbia joins the Pacific. Teale quotes from the Lewis and Clark journals, and he notes several plants and animals named for the explorers. He keeps the famous expedition in the reader’s mind as well as his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(By the way, this is not the "Lewis and Clark" we've been talking about! --Just a bit of humor to see if you're still paying attention!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another explorer whose path the Teales keep intersecting is less well-known, except among biologists: Thomas Nuttall, and his assistant John K. Townsend, traveled the interior of America in the early 1800s not long after Lewis and Clark, botanizing and collecting biological specimens. Nuttall was the curator of the Harvard Botanic Garden, and as a result of his travels, he added “more new species to the lists of science than any other man in America” (p. 28). The Teales follow Nuttall’s path, off and on, from Cape May on the East Coast all the way to Vancouver and to Monterey. And yes, the parts about Nuttall are more fascinating than those about Lewis and Clark.

Autumn Color. Well, of course, Teale had to write about this subject. But perhaps the most surprising thing about Autumn across America is that the Teales, who lived in New York at the time, began their fall trip by promptly leaving New England! Remarkable, since New England is the official place to see a glorious riot of autumn foliage, picturesque white-painted churches, and so on. But the Teales have big plans—they’ve got to get across the continent, and through Rocky Mountain passes, while it’s still “fall.”

Teale gets around this problem by relating the splendor of New England’s fall color from memory! Then, he proceeds to witness and describe all the different colors of autumn, all across America. Autumn looks different in the Dakotas, in the treeless plains, in the Rockies, in the Pacific Northwest, in Northern California, than it does in the entire eastern half of the country.

One chapter focuses on “dusty autumn”—this is the dustiest time of year. (The early fifties, I understand, were drought years throughout much of America.) Though it is the bane of anyone trying to keep a place tidy, atmospheric dust, Teale points out, is what gives us our brilliant sunrises and sunsets, and it is what forms the nuclei of every single raindrop and snowflake: No dust, no clouds, no rain.

In his ruminations about fall color, Teale provides an especially insightful paragraph about the way we “feel” about autumn—how the lower humidity, the crisp air, the generally clear skies, and, especially, the riots of color in the landscape serve to exhilarate and uplift us:

In the forest, fall is the season of light. The aureate leaves, the golden carpet of fallen foliage reflecting rays upward from the ground, these fill the deciduous woodlands with a luminous radiance unknown at other seasons of the year. Henri Amiel noted in his Journal Intime: “The scarlet autumn stands for vigorous activity; the gray autumn for meditative feeling.” Later in the season there would come slaty skies, brown leaves, gray autumn. But now we wandered in the multicolored early days of fall, the time of vigor and elation. (109–10)

I truly appreciate that distinction between “red autumn” and “gray autumn,” for it helps me to conceptualize this Janus-faced season, so intensely colorful at one end and depressingly drab at the other. It’s almost hard to “picture” autumn for this reason. Thanksgiving usually looks very little like Columbus Day! (The dividing line, of course, is usually the Abscission Wind!)

The Pacific Coast. Of the quartet of books, this is the only one that explores Northern California, Oregon, and Washington, and it’s clear the Teales glory in these travels. About a third of the book focuses on this leg of the trip. (Here's a photo from the book--the Teales are seeing a group of sea otters, which were then just beginning to come back along the Pacific Coast.)

They’re easterners, writing for an audience that viewed the West Coast as a spectacular vacation destination. So if you like places like Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada, Monterey Bay, the Redwoods, Mount Ranier, the Olympic Peninsula, tidepooling and skirting the coast all down the length of Oregon . . . you will love where this book goes.

End of the Trip

Teale really wraps it up nicely; their autumn travels began in late August, with them standing on Cape Cod, staring eastward across the Atlantic, watching the tide rise to its fullest point and then start to go out—and they complete their journey facing west across the Pacific, on a windy crag at Point Reyes, watching the tide ebb on Winter’s Eve, the shortest day of the year. (Here is a photo from the book, of the lighthouse at Point Reyes, taken that day.)

They return the next day to watch the hands move on Teale’s wristwatch as the minutes slip away from autumn: “The sun, shining from farthest south in the heavens, ‘stood still’ before beginning its long, slow climb to the zenith of June. One instant it was autumn, the next it was winter. In this moment in the sunshine, between breaths, fall had slipped away” (p. 363).

I have to admit, I got a little choked up as I read aloud the final passages of the book. At some point, you just feel like you’re traveling along with Edwin and Nellie, and when their epic adventure—their incredible, once-in-a-lifetime autumn trip across America—draws to a close, you can’t help but feel a pang.

I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Sue and I have been reading these books together, aloud, in the evenings, or when we have some driving to do. We react to it, comment on it, discuss it. It’s very pleasant to share a book this way, and I heartily recommend it.

So now there’s just one more of Teale’s American Seasons books: Wandering through Winter, based on travels that took place during the winter of 1961–1962, and published in 1965. (That’s the year I was born—how about that! This is also the book where Teale visits Jefferson City!) Wandering through Winter was the book that earned Teale the Pulitzer Prize, when Teale was sixty-six and had some thirty books to his credit.

Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve read Wandering through Winter, so stay tuned for the final installment—I’ll probably be blogging about it about three months from now!

The Concord Grape Pie Recipe

2011-10-25T22:10:00.000-05:00

This is a relatively basic recipe, but it seems little known in Missouri. But now that Missouri’s grape industry is such big guns, it’s time we learned how to make grape pies.

Concord grape pies are delicious and deserve to be more common than they are, and making this pie will prove it to you. (I’m still groovin’ on our beautiful, glorious cornucopia of Ohio Concords!)

I’ve mentioned this recipe before, and I’ve told you the story of how I started making it back in college. It was a labor of love!

I learned how to make it the hard way. The biggest deal with cooking with Concords is processing them—getting the seeds out! (Most people don’t care to eat a crunchy pie!)

Below, I tell you how to process the grapes in record time. What I usually do is buy a big batch of grapes at once—they’re only in season for a short while. I measure them out into preset quantities (usually 3 cups), process, put into freezer zip-bags, squeeze the air out, and freeze flat so it doesn’t take them long to thaw. Grape pies are easy to make once you’ve processed the grapes!

My recipe is not groundbreaking; it’s based on a recipe in the Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook (1953, p. 308) (a delightful facsimile edition of the vintage 1953 book was recently published); plus, I’ve altered it per advice I got from my friend’s mother, and I’ve even made a few modifications myself.

And sure, you can try flour or tapioca as alternative thickeners, but good luck with that. I’ve found corn starch, and plenty of it, works the best.

P.S. Don’t forget to have some vanilla ice cream around so you can serve it à la mode!

Concord Grape Pie

3 cups of Concord grapes, including skins, processed to remove seeds (see below)
1 cup sugar
dash salt
dash nutmeg
1 tsp. lemon juice
3 rounded tablespoons corn starch
pastry for a 9-inch double-crust pie
2 tablespoons butter

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Bring grape pulp and skins to a boil and turn off heat; stir in salt, nutmeg, and lemon juice. In a separate small bowl, add a ladleful of this mixture to the corn starch and stir to dissolve the corn starch; add this to the rest of the grape mixture and stir to combine.

Roll out pie dough and arrange bottom crust in pie pan. Fill with grape mixture. Dot pieces of butter over the filling, and arrange top crust, cutting holes or slits in top. (Brush top with lightly beaten egg white and/or sprinkle with sugar, whatever you like to do.)

Bake at 400 degrees for up to 40 or 50 minutes. Keep an eye on it; if the edge starts to brown too fast, use a pie crust protector. Having a large piece of foil beneath the pie to catch potential drips is also a good idea.

It’s done when it’s done!

Processing Seeded Grapes (Such as Concords)

I have tried to deseed grapes any number of ways, from picking the seeds out by hand, one by one, with a pointy knife (not recommended!), to using a sieve . . . to my current method. It requires a food mill, which might seem a bit expensive, but you’ll be amazed at how many uses you’ll find for it.

Another note: consider your eventual use of the grapes. If you will want a very smooth consistency (say, for jam), you might chop or even purée the skins before adding them back in to the mix.

1. Pluck grapes from stems into measuring cup, measuring quantity desired for recipe use (I use 3-cup quantities for most recipes).

2. Rinse grapes in colander and wash your hands.

3. Get comfortable with two “bowls” in front of you: one a small saucepan, the other a plain bowl. Slip the skins from the grapes over the saucepan; the grape “guts” fall into the saucepan. Drop the empty skins into the other bowl. Do the whole batch. Listen to good music! I like jazz.

4. Over medium heat, cook the grape “guts,” stirring often, simmering until the pulp breaks down and seeds separate out.

5. Pour pulp, juice, and seeds into a food mill positioned over a bowl and process to remove seeds. (This is much easier than the alternative: trying to press the pulp through a wire strainer with a spoon. Or you can try using one of these old-style conical aluminum thingies—or on second thought, maybe not.)

6. Reunite reserved grape skins with processed pulp and juice; stir to combine.

7. Your processed grapes are now ready for your recipe—or you can freeze them at this point for convenient later use (I freeze each batch flat in a freezer zip-bag, squeezing all the air out).

Venison Jelly—Another Spiced Grape Concoction

2011-10-23T11:26:00.005-05:00

If you Google "pickled grapes" or "spiced grapes," you'll find a lot of fascinating recipes. But I was just poking around in another very old cookbook and I discovered a recipe similar to the “Pickled Grapes” from the Hearthstone.

In this instance, the recipe is called “Venison Jelly” and is obviously recommended as a condiment for your venison!

It’s from page 546 of The Settlement Cook Book: Tested Recipes from the Settlement Cooking Classes, the Milwaukee Public School Kitchens, the School of Trades for Girls, and Experienced Housewives, compiled by Mrs. Simon Kander [that is, Lizzie Black Kander, 1858–1940] (Milwaukee: Settlement Cook Book Co., 1921).

I must write more about this particular cookbook someday—this volume was my Grandma Schroeder’s cooking textbook from her domestic science class in 1922–1923. It’s full of great recipes! An absolute trove. You can find it online here.

Venison Jelly

1 peck wild grapes, or 12 lbs. concord grapes,
1 quart vinegar,
1/4 cup whole cloves,
1/4 cup stick cinnamon,
6 lbs. sugar.

Put first 4 ingredients into a preserving kettle. Heat to boiling and cook until grapes are soft. Strain through a jelly bag and boil the juice 20 minutes. Add sugar and boil 5 minutes, or until it jells. Turn into glasses.

The Hearthstone’s Pickled Grapes: “Especially Nice for the Tea-Table”

2011-10-21T15:30:00.002-05:00

Today I’m returning to a very old book we picked up at a used bookstore: The Hearthstone; or, Life at Home: A Household Manual [etc., etc.], by Laura C. Holloway (Philadelphia: Bradley, Garretson, 1883, yes, 1883).

Among the “Cookery Recipes” in this volume are several formulas for various types of pickles. Obviously, in the 1880s, if you wanted to have anything remotely resembling a fruit or vegetable in the wintertime (not counting potatoes, cabbage, and apples), you needed to preserve it before it went “south.”

I try to imagine what winter dinners were like before refrigeration, advanced greenhouses, and rapid transcontinental shipping: Meat ’n potatoes ’n cabbage. Potatoes ’n cabbage ’n meat. Cabbage ’n meat ’n potatoes . . .

So when Mom would have you go to the basement and fetch up a jar of pickled peaches, zesty gherkins, or zippy tomato catsup, it would turn the mundane into something you could, well, relish.

I encourage you to check out the recipes in this book. You can find digital copies of it online. Some of its pickle recipes today seem a tad unusual—including pickled nasturtiums, pickled damsons, cucumber catsup, and walnut catsup!

But the one we’re talking about today is on page 511: “Pickled grapes.” With my glorious abundance of Concords, I have plenty to experiment with. So I tried it this week!

No, it’s not as bad as you think—it’s not like dill or sour pickles. It’s more along the lines of “pickled peaches”—flavored with cloves and cinnamon, and brightened with apple cider vinegar—except with grapes, it acquires the texture of a sauce or jelly. It makes a great relish for any kind of dry meat that harmonizes with sweet flavors. It would be great on turkey, I think, or with pork chops or white-meat chicken.

Hey, maybe you could make this for Thanksgiving! The deep purple hue and the silky texture would be an interesting alternative to the usual ol’ cranberry-stuff you usually serve.

And it would be good on biscuits, and all of that kind of stuff, too. —Oatmeal? Why not!

And it’s good on crackers!

Here’s the recipe. I quartered it (those quantities and my notes appear after the official, full recipe).

Be careful not to overcook it; this recipe relies on the natural pectin in the grapes. If your grapes don’t quite “jelly,” don’t sweat it. It’s just fine when it’s on the runny side.

Here we go, verbatim from the book:

Pickled Grapes.—Seven pounds of ripe grapes, picked from the stems, and boiled until the skins will pass through a colander; three and a-half pounds of sugar, one-half pint of vinegar, one ounce each of whole cloves, cinnamon and allspice; all boiled together until it jellies. Put in glasses, and turn out in form. These pickles are especially nice for the tea-table.

But now, here’s how I did it: I processed the grapes in my usual way: I measured the cupfuls of grapes first; slipped off and reserved the skins; boiled the insides until soft and passed them through a food mill to deseed them. To ensure a fairly smooth texture, I chopped up the skins before reuniting them with the grape “guts.” Then I proceeded as the recipe says, cooking all ingredients together. I didn’t can (preserve) it; I’m just keeping it in the fridge. Depending on how much you cook it down, the quartered version will make no more than a few pints. Mine made about a pint and a half.

Here are the quantities for my quartered version:

3 cups Concord grapes (about 1.75 lbs.), processed as above to remove seeds
2 cups sugar
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1 tsp. cloves (I used powdered)
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. allspice

I wish I could give you some to try, because I think it's delicious. But maybe that's "just me." So when you try this recipe, make sure you write and tell me what you think!

Addendum: A few days after posting this, I found a similar recipe in another old cookbook, and it was recommended specifically as a relish for venison. Click here for my post on it.

Abundance; Wealth

2011-10-20T22:19:00.008-05:00

Back in the eighties and nineties, I had a friend who was fairly hung up on the idea of “abundance,” or “wealth.” She devoured all those New Agey books on the subject—you know—the ones that say that we are all wealthy by our very God-natures, and if you really, truly believe you are wealthy, believe that you already are wealthy, and you believe it so much that you act like you are wealthy, then you will become wealthy.

There are a lot of problems with the circular reasoning in this scheme; the magic doesn’t “work” until you fully believe you are wealthy, and if you fully believe you are wealthy, then that’s that—mission accomplished! The problem, and the magic, is that wealth is a state of mind; it’s not a number.

Now, I’m not going to get into actual economics here—they are bleak for most people in the world, as the super-rich become ever more so, and the middle class drifts into peasantry. And yes, those doggone Wall Street financiers who crippled our economy should go to prison—or pay the amount of the bailout. But today I’m not talking about our ability to pay for the things we need.

What I’m talking about is the feeling of wealth, the sense of abundance.

It’s something I’ve felt since we returned from Ohio, and it’s something I see on Facebook when my friends share pictures of their tomato harvest (Rhoda!) or mention the quantity of fresh basil they harvested (Ginny!).

In Ohio, we visited Burnham Orchards, in Berlin Heights, famous for its fresh produce, which, in the fall . . . means apples!

You might remember me talking about “Lutheran Apples” last year about this time; well, because of storm damage to the Lexington/Waverly–area orchards (that area got a tornado the same day that Joplin got zapped), the local Lutherans’ annual fund-raiser sale of apples wasn’t held this year. So my folks didn’t buy ten million apples this fall and share ’em with us.

So this year, Sue and I turned the tables when we were at Burnham’s and purchased a half-bushel each of three different apples—golden delicious, Jonathan, and Cortland. And then we split them with my folks. It felt great to send them home with a big bunch of apples!

Oh yeah: Applesauce, baked apples, apple oat bran muffins, fried apples, apples in the stir-fries, apples in the salads, apples in the potatoes (Himmel und Erde!), apple fritters, apple dumplings, apple pancakes . . . joy!

Then also . . . while we were in Ohio, Sue’s sister and her family have a nice-sized planting of grapevines in their backyard. Concords! . . . And the vines were laden. Every time we raised a leaf, we saw a cluster of grapes.

Sue’s sister is recovering from a broken foot, so jelly-making is “out” for her this year. So she was saying to us, “Take all you want. Seriously! We’re not going to be using them. Here, let me get you some containers to put them in.”

Now, when we were in St. James, Missouri, a few weeks ago, we had bought some grapes at a roadside stand—I’d already measured, processed, and frozen them. It would be enough for about three pies. That should be enough till next fall.

So when Sue’s sister told us to pick as many as possible, my mind got to seesawing between thoughts like “how many times I’ve bought Concords at the store, and here she is, giving them away!” and all the ideas for what I can do with this windfall of lovely little purple globes: Grape pie, grape kuchen (traubenkuchen!), grape tart, grape preserves, grape jelly, grape muffins, grape pancake syrup . . .

So in addition to a bushel and a half of apples in our trunk, we also returned with more than a peck of fresh, beautiful Concords. You know how I feel about fruits; I adore them.

All the way home, the car smelled ambrosial!

. . . And I felt very wealthy, indeed.

New in Jefferson City—the Munichburg Tavern!

2011-10-17T23:43:00.013-05:00

After work, Sue and I went for a walk in our neighborhood, and we discovered that this is opening night for our new neighbor: the Munichburg Tavern!

We were thrilled when the Ecco Lounge, also in Munichburg, was refreshed and reopened—how cool is it to have a nifty, historic restaurant and lounge just a few blocks from your home?

Well, my friends, now we can multiply that coolness times two: the Munichburg Tavern’s got good food, plus they have something like twenty-six beers on tap. It’s good beers, too: microbrews and imports. (They might have some mass-produced American big-name beers available, but I think they keep them hidden away in a back room.)

It’s too early for me (or anyone) to do an in-depth food review, since the place has just opened. But I can give you an idea of what the restaurant’s like.

Lots of wood in there: booths along the far wall, and high tables with bar stools. Exposed ductwork. Industrial-type brick walls and concrete floors that bounce the sound around (with much of a crowd, it will get noisy).

There’s a nice long bar on the east side of the room, with a chalkboard above it listing all the interesting beers available, along with the alcohol-by-volume numbers (in case you’re keeping track). They’ve got a terrific selection of brews, offering a wide range to suit everyone’s taste.

I gather that the beers will be changing somewhat, and that they will have a nightly special on some individual beer selection (tonight’s special was a Spaten Premium Lager). They have a printed beer menu available, which provides brief descriptions of each of the brews.

They said that whenever someone orders a German beer, they serve it in an authentic German mug. This is a Hofbräu mug!

I asked if they have any nonalcoholic beers available yet, and they said no—but that they will get some. (Well? I have to ask. I think every place that sells beer should offer at least one n/a beer option. Who wants a sody-pop or iced tea when everyone else is sipping beer?)

The food includes appetizers, burgers, brats, sandwiches (and sides), and pizza. And desserts. We started off with simple chips and salsa. Sue had a veggie burger (they offered us a choice of veggie burgers: Boca, black bean, garden, etc.—wow, that’s unusual to get a choice), and she got it with fries.

I had a bratwurst—served on a bun. Of all things, they offer a choice of brats—herb, cheese, or pineapple. A bit of kraut and mustard was served to the side. I selected sautéed veggies as my side; other choices include potato salad, coleslaw, fries, and so on.

(Sorry my pictures aren't better; the lighting was poor and my color-correction skills are abysmal. It looked much more appetizing than this!)

The pizzas looked pretty good, from what we saw on other people’s tables. The crust looked about medium thick, and it was cut into wedges (not the ubiquitous Jefferson City “square cut” pizza). Most of the topping choices were fairly routine, though artichoke hearts, feta, and bleu cheese go a bit beyond the standard.

Again, I’m just telling you all this to give you an idea of what they’re offering right now—I wouldn’t be surprised if they tweak the menu in coming weeks and months.

I should mention that everyone there was very friendly to us. And why shouldn’t they be? It was the first night, and I was there with a camera! But seriously, I do think they’ll treat you right when you go.

Here’s some more information: They have an area set aside for playing bocce ball! That game has gotten incredibly popular here in the capital city, in part because Prison Brews (a brewpub across town, over by the former prison) also has bocce courts and has partnered with the local Kiwanis to sponsor a bocce league.

There’s something like thirty bocce teams, now, here in this town! Profits, I understand, go to charitable causes such as the local Boys and Girls Club.

Now, because the same people who started Prison Brews are in charge of our new Munichburg Tavern, I suspect the courts here will spread “bocce fever” even more.

As we sat there munching and sipping, Sue and I kept marveling about how great it is to have another quality restaurant in our neighborhood. When we moved to Munichburg a decade ago, we had serious doubts about where the neighborhood was “headed.” But this happy, clean, sure-to-be-popular place is one more piece of proof that Munichburg’s moving in the right direction.

And speaking of “directions,” I know you’re thinking, “Now, where is it again—?” It’s at 418 West Elm Street, between Arris’s Bistro and Fechtel Beverage (the local Miller distributor). Oh, here: It’s easier to just draw you a map. . . . We’ll see you there!

Munichburg Tavern
418 W. Elm St.
Jefferson City, MO 65101
573-616-1001

(You know, you can click on any of my pictures, and a bigger version should open up.)

Meet the Baxes!

2011-10-16T19:49:00.008-05:00

Hey, folks, today was the annual Fall Supper at St. Joseph Catholic Church, in Westphalia, Missouri!

And it was a beautiful fall day—sunshine, blue skies, a nice breeze, comfortable dry air.

The food, of course, was incredibly delicious: Tender, flavorful German pot roast, homemade whole-hog sausage, kraut with beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, green beans, apple sauce. Bread (you want to sop up all the good juices!), and, of course, your choice of dessert.

I always skip the cakes and brownies and go for a slice of fruit pie—whatever looks homemade and seasonal. Today my choice was blackberry/raspberry pie. Dad selected gooseberry pie!

Gosh, darn it, I forgot to take pictures of the food! I keep forgetting to do that at these church suppers. But you know how it is—as soon as you sit down, the platters and bowls of food start circuiting the table, and then your plate is full, and before you know it, you’re all done. Lickin’ your chops!

Today’s supper was special, however! Remember that newlywed couple my dad happened to photograph on October 17, 1964, as they departed through the church gates riding on the back of a manure wagon? And four days after I posted the picture, the couple had been identified: It was Elmer and Rita Bax!

Well, I met them in person today!

It was really fun to connect with them and their family, and yes, they’re all delightful, cordial, wonderful people. And yes, Rita was slicing pies when I met her! And this afternoon, Elmer was the Bingo caller!

They’re a good lookin’ couple, aren’t they!

I even got to meet Rita’s sister and brother-in-law, who are visiting from Albuquerque. This is the sister who had been casually doing Internet searches on “Westphalia, Missouri” when she stumbled upon the photo of Elmer and Rita: “Hey, isn’t that—!?”

And I got to introduce them to my father, who had taken the two photos of them in 1964, when he happened to be in Westphalia with a group of graduate students, touring the historic sites in the town. Naturally, when he saw the wedding couple riding in a manure spreader (of all things), he had to take a picture.

Rita explained that it’s a tradition in Westphalia for newlyweds to think up novel ways to ride away from the church. It’s not so much a “luck” thing as it is simply fun. Lately, she said, hay wagons have been popular. And one couple, for example, rode away on a pontoon!

The Baxes have been married forty-seven years as of tomorrow. To celebrate their anniversary, and to thank them for letting me harass them publicly on the Internet, I gave them a framed version of this photo.

(Gosh, isn’t the Internet a fascinating thing?)

Where the Heck Have I Been?

2011-10-16T11:53:00.019-05:00

I’ve been busy—yeah, I know, lame excuse! Bad blogger! But as you know, this is the best time of year to be in the Midwest, and alive, and I’ve been trying to soak it all in. This post is my list of excuses for not having blogged for a while.

The fall colors this year haven’t been especially spectacular, but the flowers (asters, chrysanthemums, etc.) have been doing well, and the trees have been doing their best, even though it was just too dry for them this summer and fall.

I don’t talk much about my work life on this blog, but this is kind of cool: One of my current freelance activities involves the Missouri Department of Conservation’s “Fall Color” website, where you can view weekly reports on the progress of autumn from foresters representing all of Missouri’s regions.

And yeah, apart from the dryness, the temperatures have been great, with the clear blue skies and dry air so perfect for hiking, and cool evenings that are optimal for sleeping.

On October 1, we visited, for the first time, the town of Versailles’s “Old Tyme Apple Fest,” billed as the state’s largest one-day festival. And it was very fun, with perfect weather. Good music! Lots of craft and food vendors!

Versailles, Missouri, as you know, is pronounced vurr-SAY-ullz. It’s the seat of Morgan County and became famous as an apple-growing area. (Remember when we talked about Jacob’s Cave, also in Morgan County? At one time, it was used as a cool storage place for the region’s apples!) Today, the town is more famous as a northern gateway to the Lake of the Ozarks.

I was certainly expecting to see more “Old Tyme Apple stuff” than I did, but there were a few vendors selling caramel apples, and the Lions had an antique steam-powered apple squisher and press and were selling apple cider, and that was great!

I was terribly impressed by one food vendor from Iowa, the “Corn Roasting Company.” They had a big yellow corn roaster and were selling ears of roasted corn—with the husks pulled back into a “handle”—with your choice of Mexican, Cajun, or “American” seasonings. They were also selling fried dill pickles, homemade jalapeno poppers (with bacon!), spicy linguiça sausage, and cute little single-serving-size smoky meatloafs (cooked and served in a pot-pie pan). This was totally not your average “festival food” (though there was plenty of that around, too).

We ended up “eating our way” through that festival, even though, in the interest of saving some money, we’d packed a lunch of baloney sandwiches, grapes, and potato chips.

We ended up having our “lunch” as a picnic dinner during sunset on the Osage, after a pleasant drive through Tuscumbia, St. Elizabeth, and Meta, and a hike through Painted Rock Conservation Area to the river’s edge.

. . . And then, last week, we traveled to northern Ohio—a driving trip, so we got to enjoy all the fall color between here and there. Driving north, I had expected to see the progression of autumn in a speeded-up, telescoped way, but the latitudinal gradient seemed to have little effect on the color this year. Moisture seems to have dictated the timing and intensity of color instead. In fact, it was greener in northern Ohio than it was in Missouri.

One of the fun things I’ve been up to—well, it’s fun for me—especially on car trips, is that I’ve been learning to recognize the various makes of trucks (yeah—as in semis, eighteen-wheelers, class 8 trucks). So I’ve been scrutinizing the shapes of radiators, insignia badges, and the overall designs of the vehicles.

Except to zip around them while ascending a hill, and stuff like that, I had never paid much attention to trucks before.

I started trying to learn to distinguish them on our way home from our Fourth of July trip to Ohio, and on this trip I was pleased to discover that I’ve gotten pretty darn good at telling a Kenworth from a Peterbilt from a Freightliner, and a Mack from an International. It’s kind of like learning how to identify the various species of birds.

Some are fairly rare. Western Stars, for example, are definitely a minority. They’re based in South Carolina, although, like Freightliner and Sterling, the company’s a subsidiary of Daimler.

It’s also rare, now, to see any kind of large COE—cab-over-engine configuration—on the interstates. The flat-fronted, less-aerodynamic design is out of vogue these days, except for smaller, in-town delivery trucks, where drivers appreciate having a better view for maneuvering.

International is currently making a model, the “LoneStar,” with a striking profile—its grille is heavy with chrome, V-shaped, steeply slanted, with a strongly retro/hot-rod feel. Its design was inspired by the look of 1939 International pickups. Compared to the un-aerodynamic fronts of classic, heavy-duty Peterbilts and Kenworths, this sleek truck might prove to be a pacesetter for future design.

I’ll bet you didn’t know all this stuff!

What is this knowledge good for? I don’t know. You could say the same thing about learning to identify songbirds at a glance. Maybe I’m practicing keeping my mind active, for when I get older.

What else have I been up to? Some of you know that I started blogging when I found myself unable to play the trumpet. Blogging, I thought, might provide an alternative creative outlet. But seriously, there’s no comparison, and I never completely gave up on the trumpeting.

In the past month, I’ve gotten some news that’s given me hope, and it’s actually led me to physical therapy, which is helping. It seems I have a partial and nonclassical form of “facial paresis”—something like Bell’s palsy—making my facial muscles imbalanced. And this seems to be at the root of my trumpeting problems.

So I’ve been doing facial exercises designed to “even up” the muscles on both sides of my face. There are two goals: to make the various muscles equally strong on both sides, and to train my neuromuscular impulses and movements to be better coordinated on left and right.

Some of these exercises involve “smiling.” I do them before a mirror, to make sure the sides are balanced. I have to admit, it makes me kind of happy just watching myself do these exercises!

And I’ve been practicing my trumpet more—I’m able to play some things that would have seemed hopeless a few months ago. A few days ago, I even played a few lines of Arban’s Characteristic Study no. 2! There are plenty of frustrations, still, but this is definitely moving in the right direction. Even though it’s cutting into the blogging time.

The next thing, of course, is the “plant dance”: bringing in our tropical plants, digging up the hibiscus and elephant ears, and all that. I don’t want to wait until the last day before it freezes. Plus, there’s the storm windows . . . wonder how we’ll rank this year on the “cussometer”?

But don’t worry—I’m not forgetting about the blog!

Thanks again to Sue for sharing her excellent pictures with me! Only two of these are mine. I can't tell you how nice it is to have such great photos to use in my blog!

Celebrate: Today Is a U.S. National Holiday!

2011-10-06T13:02:00.001-05:00

Hey, folks! I received this message in my e-mail today. I want to share it with you! It's addressed to "all members and friends of the Old Munichburg Association"--and if you're reading my blog, then this must mean you!

It's from the president of the Old Munichburg Association, Walter Schroeder. (Yeah, he's my dad!) I'm inserting a few hyperlinks for more information.

ALERT!

This is a national holiday! In 1983 President Ronald Reagan proclaimed October 6th as German-American Day to celebrate and honor the 300th anniversary of German American immigration and culture to the United States. On August 6, 1987, Congress approved S.J. Resolution 108, designating October 6, 1987, as German-American Day. It became Public Law 100-104 when President Reagan signed it on August 18. Every year since, the President of the United States has issued a proclamation calling on Americans "to observe the Day with appropriate ceremonies and activities." (Go on-line to read President Obama's proclamation.)

Since we have no civic ceremonies in Jefferson City, you can choose for yourself how to celebrate with an "appropriate activity." Hamburgers and hotdogs (wieners) and beer are German. Our social security system, including retiring at age 65, was modeled after the German social security sytem of the 1870s. Our university graduate education was modeled after German higher education. So is kindergarten. The list goes on and on.

Celebrate and enjoy the day, whether you are of German ancestry or not.

. . . And I would like to add a big, fat, Hoch soll er Leben!

Wild Cooking!

2011-09-23T21:00:00.011-05:00

There’s a new blog for all my chow-lovin’ friends to look at! “Woods to Food” follows on the trail blazed by blogger Julie Powell in her famous “Julie/Julia Project,” and other cookbook-guided blogs like “Nose to Tail at Home,” “French Laundry at Home,” and the sadly disappeared “Georgia on My Thighs.” (That last one was going to be based on a Paula Deen cookbook; wonder what happened to it?)

But in “Woods to Food,” bloggers Fred and Ann Koenig aren’t grabbing headlines by challenging themselves to cook their way through some big TV-celebrity chef’s national best-selling cookbook—instead, they’re going native, going local, and that’s why their project is so very, very cool!

They’re not just going to talk about making the recipes; they will also tell the stories of hunting, fishing, and foraging the comestibles their dinner comprises!

The cookbook upon which this blog is based is a new (2011) publication by the Missouri Department of Conservation, Cooking Wild in Missouri: Savoring the Show-Me State’s Game, Fish, Nuts, Fruits, and Mushrooms, by Bernadette Dryden. Dryden recently retired from the publications branch of the MDC, and for years she’s been a leader of the local “Katy Trail” chapter of Slow Foods, not to mention a true Queen of the Kitchen.

(Look, I’m not putting in all these hyperlinks for my health: Check them out!)

Have you been holed up in a little cabin for several months, and the letter carrier’s not delivering your free copies of the Missouri Conservationist? Well, let me fill you in. Cooking Wild is a wild foods cookbook for twenty-first-century America. Yep, it uses foods that were hunted, hooked, or plucked from our own Missouri landscapes, but it approaches them with a global palate and an eclectic pantry. You might need to head to St. Louis for some of the ingredients, even if you only need to go as far as the back forty for the entrées themselves.

Here are some of the recipes, to give you an idea of the level of “foodiness” we’re talking about:

Moroccan spice-braised venison
Pawpaw frozen yogurt gelato
Cioppino, made with bluegill and largemouth bass, shrimp and mussels, and, optional, crayfish (some of this seafood isn’t quite local!)
Bass-and-crappie spring rolls
Papassinos, made using pecans or hickory nuts (What are papassinos? Well, get the book and find out!)

There are plenty of less “exotic” dishes, such as “wild turkey dropped-biscuit pie,” but throughout, the emphasis is on an elevated, sophisticated cuisine—which of course is incredibly popular right now.

Now, when you go to buy yourself a copy of Cooking Wild in Missouri, you might find yourself confronted with a choice, because there’s an excellent chance that right there next to Dryden’s two-hundred-page, full-color volume will be a humble copy of Cy Littlebee’s Guide to Cooking Fish and Game. Written by Werner O. Nagel, who was also a longtime MDC employee, this cookbook, like Dryden’s, is published by the Missouri Department of Conservation. (Actually, it was the “Missouri Conservation Commission” back in 1960 when it first came out—it’s now in its seventeenth printing!)

Nagel’s book has certainly stood the test of time. “Cy Littlebee” isn’t exactly an “author”; he was a character Nagel invented to represent an ordinary, down-home, rural Missourian, and the Conservationist used to carry his entertaining columns as a regular feature. You don’t see much written these days in Ozark vernacular (as opposed to garden-variety “Suth’un”), so it’s a treat to bathe in the grammar and cadences of old-time Missouri dialect.

“Cy” apparently was well-known in his day, but I suppose Missourians have mostly forgotten him now. (Pity.)

Here is a sample of the writing style, from the section on cooking rabbit: “You take a state where from four to six million rabbits is eat in a year, not counting tame rabbits nor any shipped in, and all you can figger is that either a lot of folks likes some rabbit, or some folks like lots of rabbit” (p. 30). (I’ll bet Nagel and Vance Randolph knew a lot of the same people!)

The Littlebee cookbook represents a base camp for cooking wild foods; its recipes, hardly changed since settler days, were certainly passed down from farmwife to daughter to granddaughter, from hunter to son to grandson. This small volume presents many recipes by women (yeah, mostly women) who sent in their best wild-game dishes. These are “good- ol’” recipes, like “baked rabbit,” “fried groundhog,” and that venerable southern favorite, “opossum and sweet potatoes.” Naturally there are a lot of venison recipes, but there’s even a recipe for skunk!

So which book do you get? Do you get the one that represents a rich tradition, our true, elemental, cultural roots, the simple cuisine endemic to our nation and our region? Or do you get the exciting, fresh, globally inspired cookbook that “figgers” the sky’s the limit? Decisions, decisions!

Well, fortunately, the answer is simple: You buy both! Dryden’s volume sells for $15, and Nagel’s little chestnut is just $3.50 a copy. So you can get both for under twenty bucks.

And then, when you have the other kind of “bucks,” then you’ll know how to fix them!

Meanwhile, let’s stay tuned to the Koenigs’ cooking adventure!

What Does Queen Anne’s Lace Look Like in the Fall?

2011-09-20T19:21:00.006-05:00

This fall, I’ve been especially enjoying the dried, curling umbels of Queen Anne’s lace, and literature has helped.

You know Queen Anne’s lace—it’s a long-ago invader from Europe that’s now a common wildflower. Also called “wild carrot,” it is indeed in the carrot-parsnip-parsley-fennel-dill-anise-celery-caraway-coriander-cumin family, the Apiaceae, which used to be called the Umbelliferae (for its type of flower cluster, called an umbel, which has the same root as our word umbrella). I’ve written about the Apiaceae before—remember pretty little harbinger of spring?

Anyway, it should come as no surprise to you that I’ve already begun reading the third of Edwin Way Teale’s “American Seasons” volumes, Autumn across America. (Click here for my posts on Teale, including the spring and summer volumes.)

At the beginning of the third chapter, he quite poetically describes the look of Queen Anne’s lace in the fall: “Now along that road Queen Anne’s lace was going to seed, balling up like fingers closing into a fist.” Here, and in so many places in his writings, you can tell he had studied the great poets of our language—indeed, his bachelor’s degree was in English, and he had apparently taught that subject at Friends University in Wichita, Kansas.

“Balling up like fingers closing into a fist.” What a great metaphor! I think I would have characterized them as delicate little baskets full of sticktights!

At the end of chapter 8, Teale reveals a moment of “autumn sadness”; he has been quietly watching migrating plovers over a pond that he recalled from his youth:

Perhaps it was a plaintive recurring note in the killdeer’s call. . . . Perhaps it was the faraway, lonely, nostalgic sound of the train whistle. Perhaps it was the singing of the September insects, that dry orchestral music that carries like an overtone the thought of swiftly passing life. Perhaps it was compounded of all of them—this wave of autumn sadness that enveloped me.

In a day, a week, a month at most, the plovers would move on. . . . And nature—absorbed with species and averages, not with individuals—cares but little whether these birds return again. All the insects singing in the grass, all the leaves still spread to the sunshine, all the dusty annuals and the waning flowers—they were all living their last days and the end was moving swiftly toward them. Life would come again in the spring—but not this life, not to these flowers, not to these leaves, not to these crickets and grasshoppers.

(Fortunately, Teale soon witnesses something that, upon reflection, offered an antidote to his melancholy.)

. . . And then, ohh, I was recently feeling all artsy-fartsy while sitting at a fashionable Columbia coffee shop reading poetry from a book that I got for free. It was free because of a shipping accident. (When poetry comes to you like that, out of the blue, you’d better read it, because you were probably meant to have it.)

And so, because I got it for free, I’m going to share a poem out of it for free (at least, until someone tells me to get it the hell off my website, since I haven’t sought permission). (But maybe this counts as a review of sorts, and a glowing one at that, so perhaps my treachery will be forgiven.)

The book is called Inverted Fire, and the poet is Alice Friman. She was born in New York but is lucky enough to have lived in the Midwest! The volume was published in 1997 by BkMk Press of the University of Missouri–Kansas City, and I strongly recommend finding a copy for yourself. Alice Friman’s website is here. She is quite accomplished; her ninth poetry collection is being published this year. I love her poems.

More than a few poems in Inverted Fire are about autumn, and naturally that reminds me of a friend of mine who died last year, who was herself a gifted, accomplished poet, and she loved autumn the best.

This poem is on page 13 of Inverted Fire. It’s delicately unified in a circular pattern reminiscent of the flowering, seeding umbel itself, and the images are carefully interwoven, like the lacy patterns of the flower. When you read it, you’ll quickly understand why I’ve been thinking so much about Queen Anne’s lace this fall, for you see I, too, was born in the autumn, and I share the poet’s view that one’s season of birth influences one’s perspective . . .

Letter to the Children

In the new cold of late September
the prongs of Queen Anne’s lace that held
their doilies up like jewels
rise then stiffen, crushing toward center,
making wooden enclosures to die in
like the ones the Celts built to hold their enemies
then set aflame. The goldenrod leans,
licks at their cages. And all that’s left of daisies
are burnt-out eyes.

I walk these back fields
past the swish of cattails in their silver
grasses, the old ones
showing the woolly lining of their suede jackets
while the thistle, dried to gray,
bends her trembling head
and spills her seed.

It is the time—the great lying-in of Autumn—
and I am walking its wards.
And I remember it was now, late September
then on into the deep gully of fall—when the hackberry
groans and the black oak strains in its sockets, the winds
pushing in the long forest corridors—
that I too was born and gave birth.

And you are all Autumn’s children, all
given to sadness amid great stirrings
for you were rocked to sleep in the knowledge
of loss and saw in the reflection outside your window,
beyond the bars of your reach, your own face
beckoning from the burning promise
that little by little disappeared. What can I give you
for your birthdays this year, you who are the match
and the flaming jewel, whose birthright consumes itself
in the face of your desire?

(Copyright 1997 by Alice Friman)

Long-Jawed Spiders, a.k.a. Stretch Spiders--Genus Tetragnatha

2011-09-18T17:23:00.016-05:00

I learned about a new spider recently, and I want to share it with you! (Autumn is a “spidery” time of year, isn’t it? It’s their last hurrah, before the frosts zap them like so many pretty flowers.)

As with the case of the picture-winged fly, this is one of those small arthropods that are so common and humble, I’ve never bothered to learn about them. But now I’m glad to have looked them up!

So today I’d like to introduce you to Tetragnatha! I’m pretty sure the species is T. elongata (though I’m not ruling out the similar T. extensa—apparently there’s a lot of variability in the drab coloration and patterning in both species). Also, the photos on this post show three different individual Tegragnathans, and they might not all be the same species, anyway.

Pronunciation: Do you suppose it’s pronounced TET-rag-NATH-ah, or TET-rah-NATH-ah? Gnathos is the Greek word for “jaw,” and I gather the g is silent—but then I was taught that the group of “jawless fishes” (including the lampreys), Agnatha, is pronounced “ag-NATH-ah,” with a hard g. If anyone knows how to say this, please chime in!

Some folks call these “stretch spiders,” because when at rest, or when frightened, they strike a uniquely “elongated” or “extended” pose, with the two long, skinny front legs stretched straight out before them, and the hindmost pair stretched behind. With their drab tan or gray costumes and narrow bodies, they look like an insignificant little twig or piece of grass.

The third pair of legs are shorter than the other pairs, and these are used to grasp whatever they’re resting on—a cattail blade, the underside of a dock railing, or their web.

The web is remarkable—these spiders weave orb webs, but they are not orb-weavers. Yes! They are in their own family, the Tetragnathidae, which is separate from the “official” family called the “orb-weavers,” the Araneidae. (The Araneidae famously includes two nifty spiders I’ve profiled before: the black-and-yellow garden spider, Argiope aurantia, and Micrathena gracilis, which I have dubbed the “heavy-metal spider.”)

Now, most spiders that spin orb webs (you know—those beautiful, intricate wheels of gossamer to net their prey with) make them “vertical”—they’re upright, like the wheel of your car, when it’s on your car.

Well, Tetragnatha seems to usually spin its web horizontally—parallel to the ground—like a tractor tire that’s being used as the boundary of a child’s sandbox.

But Tetragnatha’s web is not usually positioned over the ground. You’ll find their webs most often over water—lakes, ponds, streams. I see them commonly on the edges of docks, where a right-angle bend makes a nice V-shaped nook for them to build in.

Now, why in the world do they position their webs like this? Are they trying to catch jumping minnows—? No.

At this point, it’s time to talk about the life history of the mayfly! Mayflies, like many insects, undergo metamorphosis from unwinged juveniles to winged adults.

And the juveniles of mayflies (and dragonflies, too) are aquatic. Without the wings, they are odd-looking armored, legged insects with antennae-like “tails” that creep around on the bottoms of lakes and ponds, acting like “bottom feeders,” for the months and even years it takes for them to mature.

When a mayfly nymph has gone through all its juvenile molts and gotten big enough to become an adult, it floats to the surface, creeps up the stem of an emergent plant, or a stick, or the leg of a dock, and slips out of its skin (much like a cicada). What emerges is the mayfly form we’re familiar with, with wings as well as forelegs folded together like praying hands. (They oughta be praying . . .)

(Note: I’m simplifying the mayfly life history here: They actually have a subadult molt that gives them functional wings prior to the final molt as the sexually mature adult. But let’s leave that discussion for another day.)

So the mayflies say goodbye to their murky aquatic existence, crawl out of the water, and transform into their equivalent of “butterflies”—delicate insects capable of flying through the bright, clear air. It’s just like when cicadas emerge from years of living in the soil to be reborn as glorious flying, singing creatures.

But right over the spot where the mayfly’s wings are just now hardening, in the morning sun, into the machinery of flight, guess who’s cast her big hunting net? Yep. Tetragnatha. The mayfly opens its wings a few times, stretching its newly discovered flying muscles, then leaps into the air for its very first flight . . .

Now, now—don’t be crying over the mayflies! They are famously numerous, sometimes occurring in swarms. Some people absolutely despise them and the greasy mess their swarms make. In their adult form, mayflies are also famously short-lived (the name of their order is Ephemeroptera—the ephermeral insects). And anyway, if you eat meat and eggs, then you can’t talk—cows, pigs, chickens, lambs, all have more “going on upstairs” than the pin-headed mayfly.

By the way, another common name for spiders in this family is “long-jawed orb weaver.” The genus name Tetragnatha itself means “four-jawed spider”—which although literally untrue (they have just two fangs like all the other spiders), does colorfully describe the fact that the fangs are much longer than those of many other spiders!

In taking my pictures, I didn’t go so far as to harass (much less kill) any of these spiders just to show you the full extent of their unfolded fangs (chelicerae—chuh-LISS-er-ee)—but if you search the “Web” (ha ha) for pictures, you’ll find close-ups of the face, of the fangs, and even of the fangs “in action”: When a male and female Tetragnatha “get together,” they lock chelicerae. They, too, are “pin-headed.” The nice long “arms” of the fangs hold off the hungry female, preventing her from devouring the male before his “mission” is complete.

Sooooo . . . the next time you’re on a dock, or walking along the edge of a lake hunting for a nice fishin’ spot, or even taking a walk to the “island” at Columbia’s wonderful Stephens Lake Park (where many of these pictures were taken), keep an eye out for skinny little Tetragnatha, and greet her by name.

Japan Trip, September 2011

2011-09-12T19:50:00.012-05:00

Boy, that got your attention, didn’t it!

Yesterday we went with my parents to Japan! Missouri!

Seriously, just as Missouri has a Paris, Florida, Santa Fe, and Mexico, it’s got a Japan, too. I adore Missouri’s place-names; I can’t help it. My dad’s an authority on them, and there was no avoiding my getting hooked, too.

By the way, the locals pronounce it JAY-pun, or JAY-pan . . . not jah-PAN like the nation.

The place-name of Japan, Missouri, has a fascinating history. At one point, soon after December 7, 1941, the town was in danger of losing its unusual name. I have no idea what they might have changed the name to, but you can’t blame them for having anti-Japanese feelings at that time.

But cooler heads prevailed—once it was explained that the town takes its name from the local Catholic church, and the story of the church’s namesakes was told, the town name “Japan” was retained.

So you want to hear the story, right? Of course you do! Actually, it’s pretty grim.

The full name is Church of the Holy Martyrs of Japan, and it commemorates twenty-six priests and fellow Christians who were crucified in Nagasaki, Japan, on February 5, 1597. (The feast day for these martyrs is February 6.) The men were killed as part of an effort to wipe out Christianity in Japan, which largely succeeded over the following three centuries.

The martyrs represented a variety of ethnicities, including Spanish, Portuguese, and Japanese. Thus in this story Japanese people are both persecutors and martyrs. And this is why the place-name was kept, even after the attack of Pearl Harbor.

At the back of the church is a mural depicting the scene of their crucifixion (see photos above), as well as other materials about the history of Christianity in Japan; the Our Father written in Japanese, for instance, and an explanation of what a “fumie” is: “A likeness of Jesus or Mary upon which . . . suspected Christians [were required] to step . . . in order to prove that they were not members of that outlawed religion.” This test of faith was used from 1629 until 1856 and possibly even later, according to a sign in the church.

The exterior of the church isn’t terribly remarkable; with its white clapboard siding and simple shape, it could be any number of churches around here, including Protestant ones.

There is a little shrine or grotto, and that kind of marks it as Catholic.

There are some beautiful big pine trees next to the church, which I thought was nicely evocative of Japan and its cultural aesthetics.

And the interior of the church is quite distinctive. The first thing you notice is the color yellow! Lots and lots of yellow. All the side windows are yellow stained glass, so all the light pouring into the church—except for a bluish rose window high above the altar—is yellow.

Even the bell-ringin’ ropes up in the choir loft are bathed in yellow.

The slogan for this parish seems to be “God’s grace in a country place.” And country it is, indeed. Here’s the view looking out from the front of this church:

Well, by now you might be thinking of visiting Japan, yourself, even though it doesn’t have any decent sushi restaurants. (Actually, I don’t think there are any restaurants there at all!)

So here’s how to get to Japan: It’s in southwestern Franklin County. Take I-44 between Sullivan and Cuba (Cuba, Missouri: that’s a whole ’nother story!). Between those towns is a little burg called Bourbon (yes, Bourbon, Missouri), and just east of Bourbon, you need to take Highway J north. (By the way, you can’t exit directly off of I-44 to Highway J—you have to get off on an access road, or do like we did: Skip I-44 and travel instead on old Route 66, which is more fun anyway.)

Anyway, from Bourbon, go north/northwest on Highway J (J for “Japan,” huh?) until you reach Highway H; veer left a little ways on that, then turn left onto Highway AE, and the Church of the Holy Martyrs of Japan will be on the left.

Or, if you’d rather get to it from Highway 50, you could go south on Highway H from Gerald, which takes you through the town of Strain . . . but hey, I don’t want to confuse you with all these crazy place-names!

-------------------

Thanks once again to Sue, for sharing some photos with me: two gloriously color-corrected interior shots, plus the one of the full mural. My blog would look really junky without her awesome images.

The Mystery Couple--Identified!

2011-09-05T21:52:00.004-05:00

Hey, folks, the Internet has been very, very nifty this week! You know my recent post about those two old pictures from my parents’ slide collection? (Here’s the link.)

A review of the story: My dad was walking around in Westphalia with a group of graduate students, surveying the German elements of the town, and by chance they saw a newlywed couple riding out of the church’s lot, not in a limousine, but on the back of a manure wagon, pulled by a farm tractor. (If you saw such a thing, you’d take a picture, too!)

I’d never heard of this strange custom, so I posted it on my blog, figuring someone could help explain it.

I also figured that it wouldn’t be long before someone would identify the couple for me, since we knew the place and the year (Westphalia, 1964), and, judging by the trees, that it was around the middle of October.

And sure enough! You all delivered, and the couple was identified! Elmer and Rita Bax—and they’re still in Westphalia!

So naturally, it made my day when I received the following message from Rita herself:

My sister sent me an e-mail from Albuquerque, New Mexico, showing me the [blog] “Spreading Joy in Westphalia, Missouri.” Yes it is Elmer and Rita Bax.

We were married October 17, 1964. It was 90 degrees that day. I was raised on a farm. So the manure wagon and tractor was our ride from the church to the K of C hall down the street. The hall is now Hilke Millard Funeral Home.

We live in Westphalia [and] . . . I will be cutting pies at the fall supper like you said.

I laughed when I saw the pictures. I had forgotten about the ride. I passed the information to our five boys so they could enjoy it too.

Our neighbor Paul Crede was driving the tractor. I called him so he could see it. I was 18 years old when I got married. Elmer was 22.

I will be reading your Opulent Opossum in the future. We enjoyed the pictures and article. . . .

Thank you for the memories.

Elmer and Rita

Well, there’s nothing much I can add to that, except that I’m definitely going to the Westphalia fall supper so I can meet the Baxes!

(And enjoy some of that pie Rita will be slicing!)

Salem UCC Annual Ice Cream Social

2011-09-04T13:02:00.017-05:00

“An annual ice-cream social brings friends and former members from many communities for an evening of fellowship and fun.”

—Moniteau County Missouri History, vol. 1 (1980)

Well, my friends, that statement in a county history book hardly begins to describe the scene on August 27, 2011, at a plain white church on Route K southeast of California, Missouri.

We went there with my folks and met up with cousins and my aunt and uncle, so we all arrived early in order to sit together. This meant we got to watch as carloads of people gradually arrived and each picnic table was filled. Here at this country church, we witnessed the true meaning of “gathering.” There is no “town” here, but there is definitely community.

A little about the history of the Salem United Church of Christ: the congregation was started in 1848 by a group of German immigrant families who gathered to worship even before their own homes were completely built.

They called their church the “North Moreau Evangelical Church.” As with many other German Evangelical churches in Missouri, they are now merged with the Reformed churches, the Congregational churches, and others to form the United Church of Christ (UCC).

Until 1889, the Salem Church shared its pastor with the congregation in California. By 1922, with the latter town’s growth, the shared pastor was based in California and supplied Salem, an arrangement that still exists today.

I think it’s pretty safe to conceptualize the early German Evangelical churches as being stripped-down Protestant churches for German-speaking immigrants. In other words, being Protestant, they shrugged off the trappings and hierarchies of Catholicism, but they also declined the regulations and expectations of the Lutheran Church, as well. What was left for Protestant Germans? In the American Midwest, one answer was “simple churches like this one.”

After seeing the gloriously decorated interiors of this region’s Catholic churches, the simplicity of the Salem Church is astonishing. The sanctuary is functional: There are pews, hymnals, and Bibles. There’s an altar, a pulpit, and a place for the minister to sit. The altar bears a cross, a few candles, and trays for offerings and/or communion. There’s a piano and a few other tables, decorated nicely, but not lavishly.

My dad (who knows much, much more about this stuff than I do) pointed out that the framed pictures of Jesus were probably not present in the early years of the church—again, out of a desire for simplicity.

And yet there is a great deal of meaning in these objects; this is a congregation that treasures its long history, and the church’s material possessions hold significance for those who know that history. For instance, the antique chandeliers in the sanctuary are the old kerosene chandeliers that have been renovated and converted to electricity. And the pews! In 1947, each family cut and donated logs that were made into the pews—a wonderful project for the congregation’s centennial in 1948.

So these aren’t “just” lights; these aren’t “just” pews. They represent history and continuity.

And as with many, many little white-painted country churches, the cemetery is right by the church, clearly visible out the windows as you sit in the pews. There are big old trees; there are tombstones with dates from the 1700s.

It’s always a fascinating and sobering thing to wander around in cemeteries like this and piece together family relationships and family tragedies.

There’s so much history here. I could go on, for instance, about how the original log church still stands right next door, was used as a German school, and now is a storage and multipurpose space for the church—but I’ll let you learn about that for yourself sometime. We need to move on to the ice cream!

Actually, it was much more than ice cream. There was enough food there to make a light dinner. They served brats and hot dogs (with all the trimmings); chicken salad sandwiches; and ham sandwiches made with locally made Burger’s ham. There were chips and sodas and ice tea, paper plates and plastic cutlery.

The trays intrigued me—they were from all over the place. They were old and mismatched, clearly donated. Some are no doubt collector’s items that would bring twenty bucks apiece on eBay. And it was really fun to eat off a tray that had originally come from Marineland of the Pacific (of all places). Sue’s tray celebrated the glorious state of North Dakota—someone decades ago must have donated a complete series of all 48 U.S. states!

You might be wondering why I’m not showing you pictures of ice cream, but it should be obvious: You just don’t sit around and photograph homemade ice cream; you eat it!

Indeed, as we went through the line, my cousin David looked askance at me as I added a few multicolored sprinkles to my ice cream: “How can you even think of putting toppings on homemade ice cream??”

He had a point. But I kind of wondered why there should be a “rule” about it. Do we need catechizing over ice cream toppings? . . . But then I was raised in a UCC church and he’s a Lutheran, and maybe that’s the difference right there! We laughed about it; variety is the spice of life!

And that’s the point of all this gathering and celebrating, isn’t it? We get together to share fellowship and fun, enjoying the fact that some of us like sprinkles or chocolate syrup on our ice cream, and some of us just came for the bratwurst with kraut.

And even if some of us are part of an extended family-and-friends network while others are new-friends-we-just-hadn’t-met-before, who have never even driven down Route K . . . we’re all welcome to share in the fun of the cakewalk.

Hey: In reading about this church, I learned that “Christmas programs have been omitted only twice—once during the Civil War, the other during the 1918 flu epidemic” (ibid.). Something tells me this church’s Christmas program would be well worth attending! Meanwhile, I think you can depend on the ice cream social taking place each year on the fourth Saturday of August! Plug it into your calendar now, so you won’t miss it next year.

A big thank-you to Uncle Richard and Aunt Carole, who knew about this event and invited us all to attend. They also gave me some pages photocopied from Moniteau County history books—to help with this post, which they correctly anticipated I might want to write!

Another thank-you to Sue, for sharing her photos with me. The good ones in this post are hers; the so-so ones are mine!

Thanks, especially, to our family members who joined us at Salem Church. You know what Grandma S. would say: “The more we get together, the happier we’ll be!”

Spreading Joy in Westphalia, Missouri

2011-08-27T20:49:00.012-05:00

It’s a wedding tradition I had certainly never heard about, but if you search the Internet for word combinations like “manure + spreader + wedding,” you can find some information (but not much). If you have done just that, and landed on this Web page, and if you have any information, I hope you’ll post a comment or go to the Op Op Facebook page (see the link at the right) and leave a note there.

As I mentioned in my last post, we drove around south of Jeff City last weekend, and part of that was in Westphalia. While we were there, we asked a couple of locals if they knew about a tradition involving a newlywed couple exiting the church grounds not in a limo but on the back of a manure spreader.

And this couple had indeed heard of it. They said it has to do with good luck—it’s supposed to guarantee a long marriage, or something like that. (They intimated that their observations have disproven the notion, but apparently it’s a tradition that some people might still do.)

—Have you ever heard of such a thing?

The reason I asked them is that my mom has recently been scanning her old slides, and a couple of these show a bride and groom exiting the parking lot of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Westphalia, Missouri, perched side-by-side on the back of a manure spreader (thankfully it was covered with some kind of tarp!). In the picture, they are being pulled by an Allis-Chalmers D-15 tractor.

(These people, by the way, are not friends or acquaintances of my parents; my dad just happened to be in Westphalia when this occurred and took pictures, which is exactly what anyone in their right mind would do when presented with such a spectacle!)

The manure spreader’s wheels are devoid of tires—they are just bare rims—it must have been a rough ride! Also, there are two old brooms tied upright somewhat decoratively on the front corners of the spreader. A rope swings in a U-shape, hanging at each end from one of the brooms. Dangling from this rope are two stirrups from a horse saddle.

The front end of the spreader is marked “Donated by ?” (I think that’s a question mark), and the side (funnily enough) that the groom is on is labeled “HER.” (I bet, amid all the joy and rice-throwing, the couple inadvertently sat down on the “wrong” sides.) The wheel rim that’s visible in the photos is marked “wheel of” something—I can’t see the part not facing the camera.

I’m pretty sure those are strings of Stag beer cans dragging from the back of the manure spreader. Classy!

The date of this photo is almost certainly October 1964: Anyone know who this couple is? If the luck of the “manure-spreader wedding limo” has held out, they’re getting close to their golden anniversary!

Here’s a photo we took last weekend of St. Joseph’s church in Westphalia.

It’s a very attractive, historic town, and if you haven’t been there, you should make a point of visiting it. Westphalia, you might recall, is home of the Westphalia Inn, with its delicious family-style dinners and house-made wines, and its popular Norton Room, Corkscrew Deck, murder-mystery dinners, and live music. Westphalia also has bed and breakfasts for you to relax at, plus the Westphalia Historical Society now has a museum.

And St. Joseph’s, like the other Catholic parishes in the region, has an annual summer picnic (which was August 7 this year) and fall supper. The fall supper will be on October 16 this year. And you know—not even counting the delicious sausage—that’s a perfect time of year to go for a drive in rural Missouri.

. . . Though I wouldn’t recommend seeing it from the back of a manure spreader!

NOTE: The 1964 photos in this post are property of my Mom and Dad, who gave me permission to use them, so don't you dare copy them. Be nice; ask permission first!

Micro-Trip Sunday

2011-08-22T16:12:00.017-05:00

Busy Sunday! It was yard work, and then it was a micro-trip.

Recent Yard Work

The yard’s been a fright all summer. I got behind this spring on account of my busted ankle. (And spring is a bad time to get behind.) Then we had all that rain and bad weather. (I’d like to propose a new word just for the spring of 2011: tornadoiest.)

Then it got too darn hot! And who wants to do anything outside in hundred-degree heat? Might as well ask me to do yard work in two or three feet of snow!

So with the somewhat cooler weather we’ve been getting, I’ve started banging away at the yard again. It’s sheer biomass out there—the weeds, plus all the stuff that simply needs trimming on a regular basis. I would love it if one day Jeff City had curbside pickup of yard waste, like Columbia has, but I guess that would be too much like socialism or something, so it won’t “fly” here.

Anyway, I finally got around to weeding and dressing up a few of our flowerbeds. Mulch hides a multitude of sins. This year I discovered a brand new weed: black nightshade. We had (and probably still have) it in abundance in a flowerbed along the back of our house. Durn stuff snaps off easily right at ground level—I’m sure a lot will resprout.

After reading about the plant, I’m going to tentatively blame the catbirds for its presence in our yard—apparently black nightshade produces juicy, black, edible berries. And you know how catbirds love them berries. For a while this spring, the catbirds were building a nest in the mock orange right near that flowerbed.

Ah well. Just like catbirds love them berries, we love them catbirds.

We’ll find a way to deal with the black nightshades, mulberry seedlings, wintercreeper sprouts, poison ivy starts, and all the other catbird-distributed berries that take root in our yard.

The Micro-Trip

I like that term, don’t you? I made it up just now—though I suspect others have used it, too. It’s something shorter than a “staycation,” even shorter than a “day trip.” It’s more than a single-destination trip; it’s a miniature tour, an adventure that starts at Point A and leads to several more points, including a few surprises, before returning home.

What got us out of the house, after we’d cleaned up from the work outside, was the summer picnic at St. Thomas the Apostle Church in St. Thomas, a little burg south of Jefferson City.

One of the things we like to do at church picnics is step inside the church and look around. It’s really cool to see how different congregations (and denominations, and religions) have decorated their holy spaces.

St. Thomas has a really nifty old pipe organ up in the choir loft. I think it’s being repaired or renovated, as there were pipes lying on the floor next to it. (I hope all goes okay with that process!)

I’ve blogged about the St. Thomas summer picnic before, but here’s a refresher: Fried chicken and roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, fresh tomatoes, sauerkraut with potatoes in it, applesauce, homemade bread, and a dessert, chosen by you off the opulently enticing dessert table.

At St. Thomas, the dessert table is actually organized by dessert type: Slices of peach pie, strawberry pie, blackberry pie, rhubarb pie, pumpkin pie, coconut cream pie, lemon meringue pie, cake, cookies, etc. It’s even labeled. I don’t know of any other of the church suppers in the area that are that careful. Usually, the desserts are spread out on tables willy-nilly, in glorious disarray, and you might have to guess about what kind of pie to choose.

Anyway: St. Thomas! Good fried chicken. Long wait. We had tickets #1770 and 1771, I think, and about the time we got in the door, we saw people with tickets 2120 or something. And this was still three hours or so before the end of the serving period.

Quilt auction. Cake walk. Country store (bake sale, homemade preserves, fresh produce). Stuff for the kids to do, including pony rides. The beer wagon. Country music. And much more. I’ve told you about these local church suppers before.

Sue’s been using an old twin-lens reflex camera—you know, the kind that uses film—and developing her own black and white negatives. (She can scan negatives herself, so she doesn’t need an enlarger or whatever.) So we walked around the town of St. Thomas, where she found lots of fun “textures” to photograph.

Also, St. Thomas has one of the post offices that, according to recent announcements by the U.S. Postal Service, will probably soon be closed. We had to get a few pictures of it. They don’t build ’em like this anymore.

Back on the road, and we drove through the town of Meta, whose big industry is the making of pet foods; formerly, it was a hub for charcoal manufacture.

Meta is a town that reminds me of Eureka Springs, sort of; it’s hilly and decorated with some truly nifty old houses. Unfortunately, Meta hasn’t experienced much of a renaissance, and many of the old homes are quite dilapidated.

We drove on, cruising through the “wide spot on the road” known as Babbtown, and stopping next at Koeltztown. You generally hear it pronounced “kelts-town.”

By far the most prominent building in Koeltztown is the St. Boniface Catholic Church, which in 2008 celebrated its 150th anniversary; the congregation dates to 1858, though the current building apparently went up in 1877.

It’s a lovely church, adorned with remarkable paintings, including the Stations of the Cross on both sides of the sanctuary.

Perhaps more remarkable is the large, elaborate, handmade stone grotto or shrine outside the church. A plaque on it reads: “Donated by Henry J. Lueckenhoff, in memory of Joseph and Anna Lueckenhoff.” It’s really something to see.

The stones were carefully chosen and placed. At certain places, whoever built this (Henry J.?) attached particularly intriguing or beautiful specimens—big chunks of crystals, or rocks with prehistoric mud cracks, and more.

It’s kind of like a geology field trip, just looking at it.

And of course, after a morning of yard work, I couldn’t help but look at it and think, “Hey, maybe I could make a planter like this. We sure have lots of rocks I could use . . .”

From there, we drove back home, stopping briefly at Westphalia, which I guess will have to have a whole separate post.

All in all, a satisfying day—good yard work accomplishment, good country food, and a relaxing drive. And we needed it.

The Peach Fairy Was Here!

2011-08-13T13:05:00.006-05:00

. . . I'm sure that's what the woodchucks, "Beth" and "Little Beth," think whenever we set the morning's pile of peach peelings out under the walnut tree.

I've told you about woodchucks before. We have a few on our block that apparently live in burrows around some of the vacant and semi-abandoned and marginally maintained "rental" housing nearby. (We used to be unqualified preservationists, but some of the houses on our block are beyond repair and are simply waiting in line to be torn down.)

It's not like we're "feeding" the woodchucks, particularly (we don't even set seed out for the squirrels, to keep them from the bird feeders, anymore)--we just feed the birds, and seed falls to the ground, and the woodchucks come to vacuum up the scraps. Sometimes the woodchuck sits there on the ground right next to the mourning doves, who are similarly interested in Hoovering up spilled millet, cracked corn, and what-all.

But on these mornings when I peel three or four peaches to have with our breakfast, we have a choice of where to toss the peels and pits. Should we scrape them into the garbage can (where they would soon get boozy and draw fruit flies)? Or put them into our backyard composter? (It's a plastic bin that is always full of weeds and seems rather creepy with spiders, picture-winged flies, mold, and more--it's kind of hard to face in the mornings; plus, peach peelings seem too sweet and precious for the composter.)

So instead, we put them in the yard, where a hungry and appreciative mammal can find them.

Ever since that lengthy, dry, hot spell we had (practically from June through July), we've been setting our cantaloupe rinds and fruit peelings under the walnut, where we know that Beth and Little Beth walk past, on their way to our bird feeders, and where (we know) the local opossum(s) and raccoon(s) amble past during the night shift.

The scraps always disappear within twelve hours. Although I haven't seen it, Sue says that once or twice, she's seen the woodchucks discover a fresh pile of peach peels.

She says they fall on it like prospectors on the mother lode.

To them, it must seem like manna from heaven, a supreme ambrosial treat--especially given this hot, dry summer of crackling, brown grass and a dearth of anything remotely resembling "succulence."

To them, it must seem like the "Peach Fairy" came and granted them a special boon! If woodchucks are capable of rejoicing (they always have such a deadpan expression), this would inspire it.

And as far as we're concerned--as long as the woodchucks refrain from burrowing under our house--they are quite free to enjoy the sweet peels that we don't want.

Voted “Meanest Common Name Ever”

2011-08-12T18:23:00.009-05:00

Many amazing animals on God’s green earth have been vilified, abhorred, hated, persecuted by humans, needlessly—out of fear and ignorance. Out of prejudice, and in complete denial of our own human wickedness and insensitivity.

Spiders generally fall into this group.

And the people who “like” spiders tend to fit into a sort of “type” (trust me, I saw a lot of these guys when I worked at the pet store)—these are the same people who think piranhas, snakes, and any other seemingly “ferocious” predators are “cool.” I used to get the idea that these guys (and they usually were “guys”) didn’t “love” their pets so much as they liked the “bad boy” image those pets conferred upon their owners. (Probably “compensating.” Am I right—?)

But I contend that with a better understanding of their biology, and a willingness to translate their lifeways into the kinds of issues that matter to us—our children’s welfare, our survival, the pain of hunger—we can see them not “just” as predators but as animals more or less like all the other animals, ourselves included.

So today I’ve been thinking about a particular species of spider—a running spider, a wolf spider—that has gotten stuck with a most repellent name. Even the scientific name is unfortunate: Rabidosa rabida. You can probably guess right now what that means.

Here’s the common name: Rabid wolf spider. Rabid? Rabid?? It’s just silly. Invertebrates like spiders don’t carry or suffer from rabies; mammals (like ourselves) do.

I haven’t been able to find an explanation for the Latin name or the first word of the common name. So your guess is a good as mine. Meanwhile, our forever calling it “rabid” can’t do anything to help the PR efforts of this robust, athletic hunter.

For lots of interesting pictures of this species, click here.

The “wolf spider” name is fairly apt. This family of spiders, the Lycosidae, are swift runners. They don’t build webs; instead, like wolves, they have to chase down their prey on the ground. (A better metaphor, however, is a cat—for these spiders are intensely solitary and don’t hunt in wolflike “packs.”)

Wolf spiders, you might be interested to know, are lie-in-wait predators, kind of like pikes, cheetahs, and herons. They sit relatively still and quietly wait for prey to wander by—and then Boom! They’ve got ’em! Nailed! (Duck, turkey, squirrel, and deer hunters do about the same thing, only they “cheat” and use weapons—imagine how hard it would be if they had to chase after and grab their quarry!)

I think wolf spiders’ instinctive hunting strategy is what accounts for their sudden, jerky, fast movements. They’re not trying to be scary—it’s just that their movements only seem to have an “on” and “off” switch—stop, and GO!

When they’re hungry, they have to be able to distinguish between their prey and the “scenery,” which is why they sit so still: They’re looking for motion. Think of a cat frozen in place, zeroing on the movements near your birdfeeder!

Wolf spiders have pretty good eyesight, unlike the spiders that hang around in webs hoping to net and truss their prey. All wolf spiders have the same arrangement of eyes: On the lowest part of their “face,” a row of four little eyes; then a little higher, two quite large eyes, sort of like goggles; then, higher still and facing more to the sides, two medium-sized eyes.

Wolf spiders, by the way, can often be located as you walk around at night, if you hold a flashlight against your temple, right next to your eye, and beam the light parallel to your gaze, against the ground—these spiders have eyeshine like cats and rabbits, and their little “goggles” will reflect back at you like tiny mirrors.

One of the most remarkable things about wolf spiders, however, is the intensity of their maternal instinct. Female wolf spiders lay their eggs and enclose them into an egg sac, then attach the egg sac to the end of their abdomen, against the spinnerets. They drag this sac of eggs everywhere they go, even when they hunt. The egg sac can be almost as big as themselves, and nearly as heavy, too.

They are famous for the intensity of their search, should the egg sac fall off for some reason. They have been described as “frantic” as they hunt for their eggs; if they don’t find the egg sac, they sometimes instinctively attach another rounded object, like an empty snail shell, in its place.

The maternal instinct doesn’t end there, oh no. When it’s time for her eggs to hatch, the wolf spider allows all two or three hundred of the tiny spiderlings to scamper up her legs and onto her body, where for the next six months or so, they ride around, safe, on her abdomen. Again, while she hunts and carries on her life.

This doesn’t seem very “rabid” to me—it’s actually more like “family values”: a mother carefully tending to her children, the way nature intended.

The reason why I’m on this subject is that yesterday, while I was doing a bunch of yard work, I uncovered a female “rabid wolf spider” and her egg case. It was like a pale blue marble. It was about the size of a blueberry, or a green pea, and about as heavy.

In her haste (I was getting rid of an old brush pile that was her home), she dropped the egg case as she darted up the nearby walnut tree. I continued my work, figuring she would either come back for it or not.

About fifteen minutes later, after she’d gotten over her shock, she crept tentatively back down the tree trunk, retracing the steps of her flight, heading to where she’d dropped her egg sac. And indeed she hunted for it. Carefully. She was pretty wigged out at having her brush pile utterly “disappeared.”

But she was evidently quite relieved upon rediscovering her eggs. She put her whole body over them. She seemed to be checking them out. She carried them around. She did not reattach them, however.

I took photos of her, but when I stood to continue my yard work, she ran away again, abandoning the egg case. It was still there when we went in for the night. This morning, it was gone.

Two scenarios come immediately to mind: either she came back and retrieved them (which is my hope, since it was my doings that separated her from her eggs in the first place), or else some critter came along and enjoyed some spider caviar. That wouldn’t be such a bad fate, I guess, since the eggs would at least have done some good, somehow. It would be sad if they just rotted or got squished or something.

But I’ll keep my eyes open for her; if she did reclaim her egg sac, surely in a few weeks the eggs will have hatched and she’ll be walking around with her babies. And that would be pretty cool to see.

But we seriously need to come up with a better name for this creature—“rabid wolf spider” isn’t fair, and it isn’t kind. We can’t change the scientific name, but common names are, by definition, mutable, regional, fickle, inventive. Anyone have any suggestions?

Ummm, for the characteristic stripes . . . “Bacon-backed wolf spider”—? (Who doesn’t love bacon, even in secret?)

“Chocolate-striped wolf spider”? Chocolate has a lot of happy associations!

“Skechers wolf spider”? They remind me of those spiffy brown-striped casual sneakers so popular these days. And they are definitely a running spider . . .

Or . . . well, what do you think?

Ginger-Peach Oat Bran Muffins

2011-08-07T13:04:00.010-05:00

Peaches are in season—hallelujah! And you know how it goes: You get a big mess of ’em, then soon discover that your strategy of “doling out” those precious, special gems isn’t working—you wake up a few mornings later to find they’re getting softer than they ought to.

And this is why people bake with fresh peaches. Otherwise, you would just suck them up raw, like you should’ve done in the first place!

And anyway, it’s time to share with you a new oat bran muffin recipe! Click here to see the ones I’ve posted so far.

Here’s why I’m addicted to oat bran muffins: They’re delicious, compact, and portable. They’re filling without being fattening (that is, they have lots of fiber), but they never make me feel, well, bloated. With all that fiber, it’s good for the, ah, digestion. And then there’s the whole oat-bran/cholesterol thing.

Also, I believe one or two oat bran muffins, plus some good, fresh fruit, makes an excellent breakfast for losing weight (kind of like “Slim Fast,” minus the spooky additives and outrageous price tag). Great for snacking, too.

Ginger-Peach Oat Bran Muffins

As I’ve mentioned before, the basic recipe’s a blank slate that can be taken in all sorts of flavorful directions, and I can make up mixes ahead of time, making a morning’s baking very easy.

Note that the basic recipe doesn’t include the egg yolks, and uses instead only two tablespoons of vegetable oil (or olive or canola—your choice). Additional liquid can be skim milk or 2 percent, or evaporated skim milk, or low-fat yogurt, or fruit juice . . . take your pick.

So, here’s the basic recipe (for convenience, I usually buy a big bag of oat bran at the bulk store, then make up several batches with the dry ingredients, then store in the fridge in zip bags):

(((Preheat oven at 425 degrees F)))

2 1/4 c. oat bran cereal
1/2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. baking powder
1/3 c. brown sugar

To the basic dry ingredients, I add these special flavors for this recipe:

--1/4 or 1/3 cup chopped candied ginger (see below)
--a small pinch of ground cloves (optional)

In a separate bowl, mix together the wet ingredients:

--3 egg whites, or equivalent in egg substitute
--2 tbs. vegetable oil
--3 very ripe peaches, pitted, peeled, and mashed, including all their juices

Add the wet ingredients to the dry, then stir to combine. If necessary, add additional liquid (yogurt, milk, water, etc.); consistency should be similar to corn muffin batter.

Spoon into prepared muffin tins (use paper muffin cups or spray with Pam). (Makes 1 dozen.)

Bake for about 13 minutes and check; they might need to go for about 15 or 17 minutes total. Don’t overcook them. They’re done when they’re a little golden on top and a toothpick comes out clean.

About Candied Ginger

Oh, yum! If you haven’t yet “discovered” candied ginger, you’re in for a real treat! For baking, it’s a wonderful “secret weapon.” Baking tends to mellow its intensity and bring out its pure sweetness. I like to add chopped candied ginger to a pumpkin pie. Ooh, I bet it’d be good with cooked sweet potatoes or butternut squash, if you’re taking it in the “brown sugar/cinnamon” direction.

Also, I think it’s delicious as a zippy little snack—sweet and hot, very intense!—or as an addition to a really good cheese platter, just like you might include a few dried apricots or nice big golden raisins. A little goes a long way.

(Okay, now my mouth is watering!)

Where do you get candied ginger? Well, you can often buy little bitty jars of it in the “spices” section of a regular supermarket—for an arm and a leg! Seriously, that’s too dear for general cooking. Like cardamom, candied ginger is something worth going to an international grocery or bulk store for.

You can buy bulk candied ginger at Global Foods in St. Louis, for instance, or at the Dutch Bakery in Tipton. The price might vary widely, from three to five dollars a pound, but this is more or less like the price of dried apricots, so it’s not outrageous (and still better than buying it off a supermarket spice rack). Like raisins, candied ginger keeps well on a shelf, and it’s great to have on hand for any number of purposes, so I encourage you to try it out!

More Little Travels

2011-07-31T17:34:00.006-05:00

I’m sure it says an awful lot about my life that I’ve been so itchy for travel these days. In part, it reflects my summer reading, including Teale’s Journey into Summer and Graham Greene’s Travels with My Aunt.

But here in Central Missouri, this hottest part of summer presents us with another kind of “cabin fever,” analogous to the kind we experience in the icy-cold winter months.

So yesterday we took another little in-state road trip, in part on a quest to check out some restaurants that have been “on my list.” But mainly, just to enjoy a change of scenery and see something new.

East on 50, North on N

From Jeff, we headed east on Highway 50, through Linn, Missouri, home of “Linn Tech” and possibly one of Missouri’s narrowest towns (check it out on a satellite view—it’s basically a widening of Highway 50, which is its Main Street; at most the town is about two blocks “wide”).

We turned north at Freedom onto Missouri Route N in Osage County and continued through Ryors to Hope. How about that! We went through Freedom and Hope in about fifteen minutes’ drive!

That area there—Route N and Route J, and the land between those roads and the Gasconade—is really pretty and makes for a nice drive.

Pershing and Hop’s Hideaway

Our first stop was at Pershing, Missouri, a community that you simply don’t arrive at “by accident.” It’s in Gasconade County, at the end of Highway OO (double letters = extra small). Imagine a town situated at a dead end! (Well, the roadway splits and continues as two gravel county roads.)

I’d heard about a restaurant there called Hop’s Hideaway. According to a man we talked to once at a church supper at Bonnot’s Mill, Hop’s Hideaway is a hidden treasure, absolutely worth checking out. The buzz online about it is pretty good, too.

From what I’d gathered, the restaurant was pretty remote and kind of “backwoods”; I’m not sure what gave me the impression, but I had the idea it was in a low area, off in the bushes or something. But it’s nothing at all like that.

Pershing, the town, is perched on a ridge and has marvelous views of farmland to the north and south. Hop’s Hideaway is right on the side of the road, with a sign and everything. It’s in an old store of some kind—maybe a hardware store, or a grocery—one of the few storefronts that was probably ever in Pershing.

Pershing, by the way, has an interesting place-name history. It was named in 1921 for General John J. Pershing, the great commander of American troops in World War I. Originally, however, the town’s name was Potsdam, a name transplanted fondly from the Old World by the Germans who settled the area.

(Robert Ramsay, in Our Storehouse of Missouri Place Names, points out that Wilson Avenue in Columbia was once called Keyser Avenue—after a family with English roots, no less—but “Keyser” was too close to Germany for comfort, and patriotic Teutoniphobes changed the name. Ramsay mentions his relief that efforts to rename sauerkraut as “liberty cabbage” were unsuccessful. I feel the same way about more recent attempts to rename french fries.)

What’s Pershing today? A very small town with an awesome view. A place completely off the beaten path. A town where several old buildings are crumbling, where you can take a lot of neat photographs of decrepitude.

But it’s also a place, we noted, where several of the homes had many hummingbird feeders and purple martin boxes. We saw lots of pretty flowers—hollyhocks, zinnias, that sort of thing—growing in the hot sunshine and smiling.

We parked in a gravel lot next to Hop’s Hideaway and admired the view across the roadway. How far could we see? Northward, at least a couple miles to the hills on the other side of the Gasconade. It was so refreshing, compared to going to restaurants in the city, where the scene out the front window is constant traffic and passersby.

And there was no traffic. As we stood in the parking lot, a young girl emerged from the side door of Hop’s. (We would later realize the side door is where everyone goes in and out—not the front door, which is the door we used, being ignorant strangers from out of town.) She started absent-mindedly pitching rocks from the driveway toward the blacktop and soon approached us and asked us where we had come from.

We certainly weren’t from Pershing! We chatted a bit and learned that she lives in Hermann but was vacationing with her grandma in Pershing. She said she really loved it there; she loved the quiet atmosphere and the friendliness of the people. And she had discovered Elvis Presley via her grandma’s record collection! She seemed to know every soul in town.

I’ll save an “official” review of Hop’s for later, when we’ve had a chance to visit it again and really sample the menu. As it was only late afternoon, we weren’t very hungry yet, so we just had some onion rings and beers. (Don’t worry, folks, I had a Busch N/A, but it tasted more or less like a beer. I was glad to see they offered an n/a option besides soda and milk and stuff.)

So no review for now—but let me briefly say that it was fun to get there, and relaxing to be there, and we didn’t regret the trip for a minute, even if just for libation.

But we weren’t done yet. We backtracked to J and to N and continued north on N. (By the way, y’all, there’s another fun restaurant called “The River’s Edge,” a little north of Pershing, off of J, at the “burg” of Fredericksburg, which is right on the Gasconade. But we didn’t go there yesterday. But someday I’ll get around to “reviewing” that place, too!)

Following the Missouri

So, north on N to Highway 100. Now, if you’re not familiar with these east-west routes, Highways 50 and 100 both run basically parallel to the Missouri River, both on the south side of the river. Highway 50 is farther south of the river and is more of a beeline; Highway 100 is a curvy-windy route that is more scenic.

Once we got to 100, we continued east on it, through the town of Gasconade, which is on the Gasconade, and then we crossed over the Gasconade. Highway 100 then angles northeast to Hermann (which seemed lousy with tourists), where we got on Highway 19 to cross over the Missouri on that new-fangled, wide Christopher Bond bridge (which lacks the, um, drama of the old Hermann bridge—but then I creak with age, so what do I know).

We weren’t on 19 for long, because just a little north of the river we turned onto Missouri 94, which is a lot like Highway 100, just on the north side of the river. It’s scenic, too. In fact, just beyond Pinckney, almost halfway to Treloar, there’s a place where 94 gets within feet of the river’s edge.

Our destination? Marthasville.

Marthasville

To be quite honest, I don’t know much about Marthasville, except that it is the home of one of Missouri’s—and possibly the nation’s—top heritage festivals, Deutsch Country Days, held every October (in 2011, it will be on October 15 and 16). We don’t hear much about Deutsch Country Days here in Central Missouri because it draws heavily from St. Louis and doesn’t need to advertise much to the small fry in Mid-Mo.

Outside of that, I’m truly ignorant about Marthasville—it’s on the Katy Trail, it’s small, it’s got some neat old buildings, it’s north of Washington . . . and Daniel Boone is or was buried just southeast of Marthasville, and the marker there is something to see.

There aren’t many restaurants in town—three, maybe. One of them, however, was the entire reason we’d aimed our car for Marthasville in the first place: Philly’s Pizza, which is currently rated by Urbanspoon as one of the top restaurants in the whole state.

Well, again—I’ll save Philly’s for a separate post, but overall, yeah, I can totally see why people are so excited about the place. Considering that the local grain elevator is right across the street from it, this restaurant’s pizzas—made with local ingredients from veggies to meats, by the way—are pretty damned good. Which shows you that “awesome pizzas” don’t always come from a dirty city with cars, taxis, and brusque people whooshing by.

By the time we left Philly’s, it was dark and time to head home. To make the drive as easy and quick as possible, we drove south on Highway 47, which included the current detour between Marthasville and the river (MoDOT—“bridge maintenance” at Tuque Creek). The detour would have been scenic if it hadn’t been dark!

Really, the drive home—south through Washington and then west via Highway 50 all the way home to Jeff—was pretty uneventful, except that we were pulled over twice by highway patrol officers.

—What!?

Well, my left headlight must have gone out sometime after Rosebud! The second patrol officer, in Linn, told me to just drive with my bright lights on. So if you were out driving on Highway 50 last night and were annoyed by my glaring lights, I apologize, but the Law told me to do it!

So, it was a pretty good little trip for an afternoon and evening, and just as we’d had to trouble finding adventure, we had no trouble getting to sleep.

It’s Been Hot

2011-07-29T22:39:00.003-05:00

It’s been a hot summer. Like it does so many years, once we hit Memorial Day, it’s like the “tap” got shut off. Our wet spring is just a memory; and the threat of the river flooding seems more and more bizarre—and remote.

It does seem strange to have the river so high, while our weather’s been so hot and dry.

Ice cream. We’ve been hitting Sparky’s a lot when we’re in Columbia. And Zesto’s here in Jeff. We’ve been staying inside.

It’s interesting how one’s appetite diminishes when it’s really hot outside. Our dinners have been like little picnics: A few pieces of bread, some pesto, olives and peperoncinis, wedges of ripe tomato, slices of sausage, some ricotta, a hard-cooked egg.

Sue said she read an interview with a Georgia peach farmer, who said that the peaches are loving the hot nights—even though it’s uncomfortable for us—the peaches love it. And yes, ripe peaches are one of the great treasures of summer, and of life itself.

Our grass has turned brown and gone dormant. C’est la vie; that happens to some extent most summers. In fact, it’s kind of nice, since we don’t have to go out and mow the yard so often. But this year, since the temperatures have been in the upper nineties so often, we’ve been running the sprinkler for a while some evenings, beneath our trees, to make sure they’re getting enough moisture.

We were lucky enough to have been in Columbia last night when a small thunderstorm went through (it didn’t even get close to Jeff City). We were at my parents’ house, and the thunder was the first sign.

“Was that thunder—?”

You know it’s been a while since it’s rained when you’re not sure you even recognize the sound of thunder.

When it started to rain, it felt like a miracle, like we’d somehow received a great boon from a power beyond imagining.

Sue said she felt like going outside and dancing around in it.

I looked at her: “I’ll do it if you do it.”

So out we went—down the back porch steps—into my folks’ backyard. We ran around and waved our arms. We jumped around in circles. Our shoes splashed in the water puddling in their yard. We lifted our faces to the sky and let the water come right at us.

It was pouring down, and it felt great. When it’s been so hot, rain like this feels just right. Our hair and shoulders got soaked. So what?

We were soon driving back home, and by the time we crossed I-70 (not even out of Columbia yet), we’d seen the last of the rain. (When will we have rain again?)

By the time we got to Ashland, it was feeling pretty good to have the air conditioner blow on our wet shoulders and hair.

And Jeff City was pretty much like we’d left it: Hot and dry.

Fortunately, we have peaches to get us through.

Roadtrip to Excelsior Springs, Missouri

2011-07-25T19:06:00.000-05:00

Here’s another fun place for Central Missourians to visit—a perfect spot for a “staycation”—one that you might not be familiar with: Excelsior Springs. It’s northeast of Kansas City on Highway 10, and it’s a Missouri analogue to Hot Springs, Arkansas.

The Springs and the Hall of Waters

In order to understand Excelsior Springs, you must first understand that natural spring water, of various types, has historically been viewed as a healthful, even medicinal substance. There are plenty of biblical mentions of healing waters, and it was only with our post–World War II understanding of microbes and antibiotics that spring and mineral waters lost their broad appeal.

(Realize: many folks still stand behind the restorative and even miraculous properties of various types of waters. Spas, soaking, and steaming are still quite popular; people are more persnickety than ever about the purity of the water that comes out of their taps and innumerable plastic bottles; and look at the concept of “holy water.”)

For more information about Missouri’s springs and spas history, I heartily recommend Loring Bullard’s book Healing Waters, which provides an informative overview of the mineral water craze that gave rise to dozens of spas, resorts, and towns in our state. It also functions as a sort of guidebook to the specific areas where Missouri’s healing springs and spas were located. Most are in ruins today, but often evidence remains. Fun reading!

Anyway, among the many towns that arose when people flocked to an area to “take the water,” when a local spring had caused some kind of “miracle cure,” Excelsior Springs is the one in Missouri that remains mostly intact. The town’s beautiful Art Deco–style Hall of Waters was built in the 1930s with PWA funds (we would call it “economic stimulus money” today).

Actually, the architectural style might officially be termed “Mesoamerican-revival/Flash Gordon–influenced Art Deco.” It is truly an interesting place.

The Hall of Waters should be your first stop in town! At the heart of the building is a completely groovy, retro “water bar,” which during its glory years dispensed four types of mineral water: Calcium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate, sulfo-saline, and iron manganese. Some were for “drinking,” others were more for medicinal use.

Currently, the Hall of Waters serves as the City Hall; a large, rectangular swimming pool (directly below the water bar) is unfortunately unusable due to flood damage some years ago. Too bad, because I think it would be neat to go swimming there.

Also located in the building are baths, showers, steam chambers, and other facilities for people to soak in and get sprayed with the waters. A “Scotch Douche,” by the way (apart from being a tremendously alarming idea, even to someone who loves good whiskey), is actually a form of hydrotherapy where you get blasted by jets of alternately cold and hot water. It’s supposed to be very, um, stimulating.

Yes, medical doctors used to prescribe various water treatments for such diseases as arthritis and polio. (I need to go look at some elderly medical texts to see what the doctors were saying about it at the time!)

I understand that the town would love, love, love to have someone come and reopen a spa in this groovy building. Think of the tourism from Kansas City!

The area was first discovered and developed as a mineral-water mecca in the 1880s. There are many springs around here, and what made them so notable originally was that the chemical composition of the waters varied—in a single town, you could find waters with, say, diuretic, blood-building, or mild laxative properties for treating gastric troubles, liver problems, rheumatism, and so on.

The citizens of Excelsior Springs are doing a fund-raising project in order to construct old-style gazebos over many of the historic springs, sort of how Eureka Springs, Arkansas, has made many of its spring openings into little city parks. I’m sure it will be excellent for tourism.

Unfortunately for anyone considering “trying it,” a majority of the local waters are no longer available, although the Excelsior Springs Bottling Company does sell a basic (and local), high-quality mineral water, in plastic bottles.

It tastes pretty good! Eight ounces contains 2 percent of your RDA of calcium; a liter of it has 91 mg of calcium, 6 mg of potassium, 330 mg of bicarbonates, and 23 mg of magnesium—and no sodium.

Excelsior Springs Museum and Archives

Another place you must see in Excelsior Springs is their local museum, downtown in a historic building that used to be an exquisitely appointed bank. It’s worth visiting even just to see the architecture and the glorious old bank vault.

The collections include lots of water-belia, such as old bottles and even older jugs, photographs, and a miscellany of antiques from local donors.

There’s an entire old-fashioned dentist’s office in there, which looks rather scary, and it’s fascinating to inspect.

As museums go, this one is, well, local. It’s a labor of love, devotion, and dedication. It is not a slick, big-city museum. Well, they have very little budget to work with! The two-dollar admissions fees, memberships, donations, and fund-raisers provide their income.

Does it sound rinky-dink? I would hate to make you think that, because everything in there is fascinating and real, and the people who work there (volunteers) are friendly, knowledgeable locals who are eager to answer your questions. They’re open Tuesday through Saturday, 11–4.

Ray’s Diner

There are plenty of good places to eat in Excelsior Springs, but Ray’s is notable for both nostalgia and its proximity to the Hall of Waters and history museum.

Ray’s opened in 1932: They still use the same perfectly seasoned grill that was used back then. Same lunch-counter stools, same cash register. The nifty red sign hanging above the entrance isn’t quite as old; it only dates to 1944!

Harry S Truman liked the chili! And there’s hamburgers. Pork tenderloin. French fries. Breakfasts. You know what I’m talking about. We found the service to be both fast and kind. (No surprise there!)

What more do I need to say about this, really? Only that the prices are entirely reasonable!

Okay—there’s one more thing you’d better take note of: This is a true, old-style diner. They open at six in the morning and close at two in the afternoon; and they’re closed on Sundays. (Also: they don’t take credit cards.)

The Elms

On a very different note, another fascinating place is the Elms Resort, not far from downtown. The present building was built in 1912, though the Elms hotel, as a business, was created in 1888 (two previous incarnations of it burned down). It’s a magnificent building on sixteen wooded acres with nature trails, and it has a lot of history.

During the height of its popularity, Excelsior Springs drew people from all over the country—not just for the water, but as a peaceful resort community. The Elms was the premiere hotel for well-to-do visitors.

Primary among the notable events that occurred at the Elms is that Harry S Truman was staying here the night he unexpectedly won the presidential election against Thomas E. Dewey.

The hotel was also a favorite relaxation spot for gangster Al Capone. And as if that weren’t enough, there is speculation that at least one ghost haunts the premises.

The Elms is still open today, and although we didn’t stay there, it looks quite welcoming. It offers spa treatments and vacation getaways as well as a place for events—weddings, conferences, etc.

The restaurant looks promising, too; I noticed they have a Friday night all-you-can-eat buffet featuring prime rib, seafood, and pasta, which might be right up your alley. If you’re a Missourian looking for an interesting, relaxing, and beautiful “staycation” spot, you should consider the Elms.

The Waterfest

The town’s annual Waterfest was what drew us to Excelsior Springs—that, and my desire to see the retro-futuristic Hall of Waters.

A lot of small towns have created—or have resurrected—annual, colorful festivals celebrating something unique about the town. Thus, nearby Richmond, Missouri, has a mushroom festival to celebrate the annual appearance of morels. California, Missouri, has an annual Ham and Turkey Festival, which celebrates two of that town’s main industries. Hartsburg, “Missouri’s Pumpkin Patch,” has its beyond-popular Pumpkin Festival. And Dixon has “Cow Days.”

So Excelsior Springs naturally has a Waterfest to celebrate its mineral water. This year, it was held the last weekend in June. There’s live music, arts and crafts, festival food, car shows, a parade, fireworks, and more. Some of the activities did involve water—a dunking booth and water games for children and a Little Mr. and Miss Waterfest contest, for instance.

There’s Lots Going on in That Area

I guess you’ll have to wait for almost a whole year for the next Excelsior Springs Waterfest, but I suggest you go ahead and visit the town before that. I noticed that the nearby town of Lexington will be having a 150th anniversary commemoration of the Battle of Lexington on September 16–18, with a parade, living history events, film festival, and a reenactment of the Civil War battle that put the famous cannonball into the column of the county courthouse.

Also, more immediately, Lexington’s having its “4th Annual Missouri Peach Days” from July 30 to August 7. There are lots of orchards in that area, so this might be a fun (and tasty) event, indeed!

I already mentioned Richmond’s mushroom festival, and that town’s statue of Alexander W. Doniphan is worth seeing, too.

Anyway, we had a great time exploring Excelsior Springs and the nearby communities, and I really think you’ll enjoy it, too.

As usual, the best photos in this post were taken by Sue, and I am forever grateful for her willingness to help me with this silly blog!