Past Blogs

When our son was little, he informed us that the only food not improved by butter was ice cream. I’m in complete agreement with him.

For the last thirty years our family has celebrated at The Spaghetti Factory restaurants. My son and I don’t need menus as we always order the same entree… pasta with browned butter and Mizithra cheese. It’s gloriously decadent.

Greek cooks have transformed the excessive use of butter into a culinary art form. Filo dough doesn’t work unless it’s drowned in a butter bath. Many Greek recipes begin with “take half a pound of butter.” How can spanakopita and baklava not be good?

The French aren’t slouches in the butter department, either. Many women of my generation remember Julia Child warning of the dire consequences of using substitutes for butter. “If you’re squeamish about using real butter, just forget about mastering French Cooking,” was her basic message.

Since the French know how much butter is inside their food, they don’t offer much butter on the table. The Dutch, on the other hand, seem to go by the theory, “if you can’t see the butter in the food, put more on the outside.” It’s a good thing these folks ride their bikes everywhere.

Here in the Midwest our local dairy features a large glass window for viewing the butter making area. Yesterday we arrived just as the giant churns had completed a batch. A woman was filling a huge, metal cart with a mountain of butter, a beautiful sight for many of us butterophiles.

I recalled a late August dinner my mother would make after a trip to our farmers’market: corn on the cob with butter and fresh leaf lettuce salad tossed with 2 tablespoons of hot, melted butter. Ice cream for dessert was optional.

I recently took a road trip out West and saw a lot of alligators on the roads. These were not the reptilian kind. “Alligator” is trucker talk for the long rubber strips that explode off retread tires and litter the roads and shoulders.

All professions have their verbal shortcuts. When I worked in grocery stores, I learned that an “endcap” is that most desirable shelf space at the beginning of each aisle. At the library a “truck” was a book cart.

Diner lingo provides some of the most witty vocabulary. “A stack with Vermont and a blonde with sand” translates to pancakes with maple syrup and coffee with cream and sugar. Or how about “Adam and Eve on a raft, wreck ’em, and a spot with a twist.”  That’s two scrambled eggs on toast and tea with lemon.

I’m particularly fascinated by truckers’ jargon as I had a part time job for five years that involved driving big diesel straight trucks. I developed a sincere admiration for truckers and their skills… my own truck driving skills were marginal.

Here’s some over the road chat. If you need help translating it, befriend a trucker.

I was driving my reefer down the concrete slab, wishing I were bobtailing. A real window washer was rolling in, and a vulture appeared overhead just when I was thinking of putting down the hammer. Good thing there were lots of lollipop sticks along the road. I don’t mind those cat’s eyes looking out for me. It will be a long time before I see a coffeepot or my coffinbox. I’ve got miles to go and lots of alligators ahead. The last thing I need is a pumpkin.

Dinner at our house has always been the time to come together and share the events of the day. The other night my husband said with a grin, “I saw something really weird today.” Then he added, “You better finish the food in your mouth before I tell you about it.” I dutifully chewed and swallowed.

My guy had been to Fleet Farm’s huge sporting goods department checking on canoe prices. “You will never guess what they had in with the hunting and fishing gear… sexy women’s underwear. And not just a few, but racks and racks of fancy camouflage lingerie.” He painted a picture of a veritable Frederick’s of Fleet Farm.

I started to laugh, pondering the purpose of scanty, camo undies. Is a girl supposed to put down her rifle and strip in the middle of the woods to attract a buck? After all, those guy deer are all in rut in November. Might save money on corn and apples. Or is the lingerie show her guy’s reward for bringing home the buck? On the other hand, maybe female hunters just don’t want to go into the woods unaccessorized.

At any rate, my curiosity was aroused, and I decided to check out the merchandise. Sure enough, a sizable amount of floor space between gun safes and footballs was given over to female underwear. And I’m fairly certain these garments weren’t designed to keep a girl warm in the woods.

Skimpy baby dolls, bras, camisoles and bikinis were all available in two basic patterns, leaf and deer camo or blaze orange camo. Trim was black lace or hot pink piping. The hang tags read: “Wilderness Dreams – It’s not a passion, it’s an obsession.” I am not sure what the “it” refers to. I do know that somebody could make a fortune reselling this stuff in trendy, New York boutiques.

The dictionary defines picnic as “an outing or occasion that involves taking a packed meal to be eaten outdoors.”

I love eating alfresco, perhaps because so few picnics are possible in my frigid state of Wisconsin. Picnics vary in personality. Here are a few types – please feel free to comment on your favorites.

• The Spontaneous Picnic – When we are traveling, a perfect picnic spot often presents itself. Lacking a kitchen, we go to a grocery store for cheese, crackers, fruit and cold drinks. Napkins are the only other necessity… instant picnic.
• The Basic Picnic – Sunday summer nights were always picnic nights when our kids were growing up. We headed to a scenic local park, put down a sheet on our “picnic hill” and ate the following: tuna sandwiches on good rolls, finger fruits or vegetables and chips. Dessert of ice cream cones came later at the local custard stand. This basic picnic is fun, easy and doesn’t entail excessive equipment or dishes to wash.
• The Elegant Picnic – I’m still aspiring to have one or two of these picnics in my lifetime. They occur before the Ravinia type outdoor concerts or Santa Fe Opera.  People who own silver candelabras, Belgian lace tablecloths, bone china and sterling ice buckets bring said items to the concert lawn or parking lots. The food matches the elegance of the dinnerware – poached salmon, artichokes, brie, etc.
• The Communal Picnic – We’ve all experienced these large picnics with family, work or volunteer groups. They are characterized by two things; an over abundance of food and an eclectic array of offerings. Everyone brings “a dish to pass”. The success of this type of picnic usually rests on the shoulders of one woman. She is the one who remembers the serving spoons, large knives, spare utensils and paper products, bug spray and bandages. She is also the one who sees that all the serving dishes, platters and lids get returned (washed) to their rightful owners. And, most noble of all, she is the one who ends up with a refrigerator stuffed with weird food when the other picnickers blithely say, “Oh, you can keep the leftovers.”

Last Saturday we had dinner with the goats. The goats were on the roof. Mid-meal, I glanced out the restaurant’s large glass windows and found myself staring directly at a goat on the edge of the low roof. He was leaning over to munch on the tall juniper bushes that surround the building… dessert, no doubt.

Wisconsinites will recognize the locale, Al Johnson’s Swedish restaurant in Door County. In traditional Scandinavian style, the building has a grass roof, and goats are used as lawnmowers. (Note to ecologists: your “green” roofs are not a new invention.)

I am fascinated at how people will flock from miles around to see ordinary animals in incongruous settings. I am definitely one of these people. I love the goats, and I’m also a fan of the ducks.

Get me within 100 miles of Memphis and I’ll need to go to the Peabody Hotel to see the ducks swimming in the elegant lobby fountain. The ducks are a tradition at the Peabody, dating from the 1930’s. The ducks reside in a penthouse suite and are ushered down each morning in the ornate elevator by the duckmaster. A red carpet is rolled out, and the ducks parade to the fountain. The reverse happens during the evening cocktail hour. Hordes of well-dressed and well-heeled guests, drinks in hand, cheer the ducks as they parade back to the elevator.

My niece recently informed me that the ducks have started a franchise in Orlando and are also adding class to Little Rock.

I have not yet caught up with the penguins. They stage a daily parade (or walkabout in the vernacular) at the Edinburgh Zoo in Scotland. I’m saving up for a trip.

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