The Perfect Danish

Sometimes it is easy to get caught up in the feeling that the world is out to get us. Thoughts swirl about as we face one hurdle after another and we convince ourselves that we are always picking the short straw. This, of course, does no good in the attitude department but there is some perverse pleasure in rolling around in its murkiness.

Recently, I had a week of craziness that piled its load of short straws on my back day after day. It started with a raging head cold, complete with oozy phlegm and achy body joints. Somehow, between sneezing and blowing my nose, my students received a lesson of sorts. In addition, it was my turn for before and after school supervision duty. I would rather fall on a fork than wrangle three hundred students in one room waiting for the day to begin. If you are picturing cherubic faces with their noses buried in books and homework, think again. It is like a birthday party for three-year-olds and Chuckles, the clown, hasn't shown up yet. My mantra is, "Ignore everything but blood." Easier said than done.

The "quick" trip after school to sign papers for a vehicle purchase also became grueling. The dealership was short on office staff so we were queued up like cattle in a chute. Ahead of us, was a very grumpy pants couple who had been given misinformation by their salesman. This, quite naturally,  resulted in a lengthy visit with the manager and more waiting time for us. Just as we were on the homestretch, the salesman offered us one more add-on package to consider. Timing, buddy, timing. I spat out a "No" before the eager little guy could give us one more reason why we were crazy not to jump at his peace of mind protection offer.

The weather threw a curveball for the final day of school. The two to four inches of predicted snow became twelve to fourteen inches of fluffy icing on our cars, streets and parking lots. Best of all, the after school busses were late so five busloads of pre-hyped middle schoolers were herded into the gymnasium to await their yellow missiles. The bleachers were filled with a roiling mass of noise and varying degrees of environmental awareness. After all that fun, I floundered my way to the parking lot, through knee deep snow, and excavated my car.

It took until Saturday to break the short straw curse. One of my favorite guilty pleasures (besides chips and cheesies) is a cream cheese danish. It is a game of russian roulette each time I visit the grocery store bakery. Sometimes there are no danishes. Sometimes the danishes are overbaked and sometimes there are only apple and lemon danishes. This particular day I spied the Holy Grail of danishes. It was filled with cream cheese and it had been given just the right amount of oven time. Best of all, there was a crumble of extra goodness perched in the middle of the danish. I have no idea what the crumbly mixture is made of but I always enjoy each bite. The danish was immediately added to my cart and I felt the world becoming a little less cranky with me.

Sometimes, in a world gone seemingly mad, all we really need is a well crafted cream cheese danish and a bus that arrives on time.

Going Home

The holidays are moving toward us at warp speed and plans are being made for gatherings, large and small. Whether your roundup involves a herd of relatives or just two people, one theme stays the same. Home. Distance, logistics, in-laws and life's detours often dictate our plans such that we may not be able to assemble at our childhood home base. Nevertheless, we have been blessed with the capacity to go home, not always physically, but surely mentally. Our senses trigger our ability to shift back in time.

The fragrance of sage and thyme sends me back to the turkey dressing we made in our childhood days. Homemade bread cubes were tossed with chopped celery, onions, poultry seasoning, butter (the real stuff), salt and pepper. No diced giblets, oysters or secret ingredients. No recipe, just the basics, please. Delicious, without a doubt. I still crave that herby bread transformation whenever I cook turkey. And for the record, it tastes best when baked in a well loved 9x13 metal pan.

Pies are the taste of the holiday with pumpkin often being the most beloved. For me, it is a pecan pie. Rich, nutty goodness nestled in a flaky crust. A small wedge is all that is needed. We did not have the luxury of ready made crusts so the rolling pin was called into action. Flour, ice cold water, egg, vinegar, lard (not a misprint, folks) and a pinch of salt melded into a doughy disc, ready to be flattened and transferred to a pie pan. Syrup, sugar, eggs, butter, Watkins vanilla, pecans and a pinch of salt completed the filling. Bake, cool and serve with a dollop of whipped cream, compliments of the family cow. One of my brothers did not like nuts so my mother sometimes made a pecanless pecan pie for him. No comment.

Elaborate tablescapes trigger no visual memories for me. The plastic tumblers used for glassware during the week were just fine for a holiday meal at our house. Holiday decorations were deemed cluttery and superfluous. We did, however, pull out the glass serving bowls and platters for the big meals. My very organized mother wrote out meal components on little slips of paper and placed each slip in the appropriate serving vessel. The mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes went into the large yellow Pyrex bowl. The farm grown corn, bathed in butter, was placed in the clear dish.  The sliced turkey was arranged on two platters. The turkey gravy went into another large Pyrex bowl with a ladle, no small gravy boat would ever do for serious lovers of the sauce.

The percussion of clanging pans, rattling dishes and murmuring voices stirs up thoughts of an awaiting meal. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room, kids chasing through, penultimate sounds of the final event. Finally, the women nod at at one another and the call goes out, "Let's eat." Chairs scrape across the floor as bodies wedge around a groaning table. A prayer of thanksgiving is shared as bowed heads pause for a moment of gratefulness.

I will not be able to go to my mother's home for the holidays anymore. Her new apartment in the assisted living facility cannot accommodate large groups and her ability to host events is no more. I am, however, able to go home with the fragrance of turkey dressing, a bite of pecan pie, the sight of a Pyrex bowl and the sound of meals being shared.

Hope you are blessed with a peaceful Thanksgiving.