Trinity

Many cuisines have ingredients that are the backbone of their cooking. For instance, Cajun cooking leans heavily upon a "holy trinity" of bell peppers, onions and celery.  Spanish cuisine often uses sofrito, a combination of finely chopped onions, garlic, bell peppers and tomatoes. The French employ a mirepoix of diced onions, celery and carrots in many of their dishes. Middle Eastern cooking relies on spice blends such as turmeric, cumin and coriander. I am not sure if my Dutch heritage had a go-to combination of ingredients. My ancestors arrived in the upper plains over a century ago and I suspect they were more concerned about survival than finding the perfect flavor combinations for the food they put on the table. Working with what you have is probably the hallmark of the best cooks. 

Long before the farm to table movement became trendy, many home cooks were doing just that. The family farm I grew up on was providing us with milk from the family cow, no extra charge for the flavor enhancements from the cow's diet. Our chickens were giving us enough eggs for baking and cooking. My mother sold the excess eggs to the local creamery to supplement her "grocery money." Our bountiful garden pumped out enough produce for fresh eating in the summer and jars and jars of canned vegetables for the winter. I often tired of the work involved with our large garden (sorry about the whining, Mom) but I never grew weary of eating vegetables. Our cows and pigs gave us delicious meals and of course, bacon, a pig's greatest gift to mankind. 

My own cooking is far removed from my ancestors who first arrived on the stark prairie landscape. Easy access to grocery stores and on-line purveyors makes it possible to procure just about any ingredient one desires.  I recently ordered gochugaru so I can explore fermenting kimchi. This would boggle the minds of my Dutch grandparents and perhaps elicit a shaking of their heads as they muttered something about the downfall of the young 'uns.  

Despite my desire to explore different cuisines I am still a product of my past. My comfort food meals often involve a manifestation of potatoes, carrots and onions, easy ingredients to keep on hand and extremely versatile. My "holy trinity" is definitely carrots, onions and celery. Depending on the dish I am preparing, a few sweet peppers might be tossed into the mix. Standard seasonings are salt and pepper, of course, with a smidge of this and that added for flavor interest. And don't forget the mustard. Everything from whole-grain mustard to Dijon to the good old-fashioned neon yellow stuff can be found in my refrigerator. 

As I write this post, a pot of vegetable beef soup is simmering on the stove. A week of below zero temperatures provided the inspiration for a bowl of this cold weather elixir. There is nothing fancy in the soup. The beef bones are simmered with carrot, onion, celery, peppercorns, salt and a bay leaf. The broth is strained and chunks of beef are added with tomatoes, tomato sauce, thyme, oregano and more salt and pepper. And, of course, my trinity of carrots, onions and celery is needed. Barley is a final addition and voila, hearty vegetable beef soup. 

If you are looking for a super simple, but tasty trinity, might I suggest a combination of popcorn, broken potato chips and a few cheetos for a pop of color. Goodness gracious, that is an enchanting trinity.  

 

V day

Valentine's Day is a holiday that is often loathed or loved. Regardless of your point of view, this year's celebration will most likely look a bit differently due to the wretched you-know-what. One year ago, many of us were completely unaware of the chaos and ugliness that would soon enter our daily living. My husband and I were out of town enjoying a dinner theater, a place packed with people and a stage filled with singing and dancing. Just the thought of such a venue makes me shiver right now. It also fills me with sadness as we will break our decades old tradition of getting away for a few days in February. Certainly, there are worse things to feel bad about but it is a loss nonetheless. 

Truthfully, we all know deep down that showing how much we care about someone else should not be based on a day designated by the commercial powers that be. We are bombarded with images of roses, chocolates, jewelry and lovers besotted with one another. Comparing ourselves to such contrived business is foolish at best. How and when we choose to honor those who are important to us is in our control. 

Blessedly, my childhood days were free of so many of the pressures of today's world. Media was little more than a television with snowy images and a couple of channels. Magazines in our household were usually our church periodical and my dad's farm magazine. Rest assured, there wasn't a lot of Valentine's information being touted in either of those publications. The closest we got to a valentine was an occasional box of conversation hearts, taste optional. Be True.

Despite our apparent lack of Valentine observations I never doubted my parents' love for each other. I do not recall a bouquet of flowers or boxes of chocolates being shared but I always knew that they had each other's backs. Seven boisterous children and a growing farm business demanded a shared team approach. Love was often expressed in action rather than things. Occasionally Dad would surprise my mom with a gift, often appliance related. This may seem like the most unromantic gift possible but I was always in awe of how Dad knew exactly what would make Mom's life better. And nothing says love like a new 18-cubic-foot freezer. 

There is no perfect moment or ideal gift in the game of appreciation. Give yourself enough grace to do what makes sense to you. Hallmark will continue to sell cards and gifts, with or without you. Chocolate covered strawberries will be just as tasty in July as in February. Flowers are available any day of the week. 

Take a moment to appreciate those who are important to you. A pot of homemade soup can speak volumes of care for someone else. Cleaning out the basement storeroom can be just as powerful. And, of course, a new freezer is always a home run.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Battle

Shoveling snow is an art form in the upper plains. Our equipment and techniques are based on years of battling the elements. We have learned how to read the consistency of the snowfall and choose our weapon(s) and strategy accordingly. A soft fluffy snow may only need a quick shoveling with basic equipment. Wet, pre-cement snow will need heavy duty shovels and a course of action designed to save fragile back muscles. A snow plow's windrow in the driveway can mean another skirmish with the white stuff, cussing optional.  

Our neighborhood represents many of the game plans used in snow removal. Ready Randy is usually the first one out of the gate, ready to tackle the latest snow project. His garage door will slowly open and he will appear dressed for battle with his armor and weapon of choice. He is responsible for his driveway and a small section of sidewalk. He takes this task seriously and wants it done well and soon. Steady Stan is a bit more calculating. He usually waits until he is sure the last flake has descended. His large corner lot means he has quite a bit of snow to tackle. Often, that calls for a machine, the snowblower. Stan has a heavy duty blower so he is able to methodically and decisively take care of his property. 

Nancy and Ned Newlywed are still finding their way in property caretaking. The first snowfall caught them with barely a shovel, a car left in the driveway (another place to collect drifts) and recreational outerwear. Subsequent snowfalls have resulted in a couple of shovels, an unobstructed driveway and boots with tread. Serious Stu is a veteran snow mover and is ready for anything with his big gun, the riding snowblower. He is able to make quick work of his corner lot and he occasionally is gracious enough to take care of our sidewalk as well. Loosey-Goosey Larry has more of a git-er-done strategy as he is known to clear his corner lot with just a shovel and his attire is a pair of shorts, no hat and some klompy boot situation. 

My husband and I often take a divide and conquer approach. Our baby lot does not have a lot of snow coverage but we are also responsible for our neighbor's large corner lot (they compensate us adequately so no need to feel sorry for us, most days). My husband loves his snowblower and likes to wait until everything "settles down" before making a game plan. I am a little more jumpy and anxious to get the neighbor's driveway finished. I do not run the snowblower so I am only useful if the snow is a reasonable depth and it is not too moisture laden. I also do not own coveralls so if the windchill is below zero I am inept. In other words, I am a Goldilocks snow mover.  

Our latest snowfall was of the light and fluffy variety but it came with a sneak attack. I had completed the shoveling on the neighbor's driveway and sidewalks when my husband said that it looked like we might get another shot of snow. Grrr. He wisely waited and sure enough, another dump happened just as night was beginning to fall which is early this time of year. My husband owns headlamps and his snowblower is equipped with lights but I do not shovel in the dark unless it is an emergency. We decided the snow would still be there in the morning and we would join Ready Russ in another round of shoveling. 

All in a day's work. 

                                                                    

Shot

The ugly words of recent months such as "unprecedented", "mandate", "quarantine", "community spread", "asymptomatic" and the creepiest one of all "C-19" (I refuse to use its full name) are ever so slowly being eclipsed by the phrase "light at the end of the tunnel." That light is none other than a stick in the arm, a.k.a. vaccination. There is much ado concerning the process of dispensing the vaccine but I suspect that will work itself out as time marches along. Our community is currently working through level 1C. The really good news is that willing participants in senior centers have received their first round of the vaccine. My mother with dementia has been on lockdown in an assisted living facility since last March. A blessing of her dementia riddled mind is that she doesn't fully comprehend the gravity of the pandemic but she knows she is unable to see her children and grandchildren as freely as before. 

When I talked with her about receiving the new vaccine, she said, "I will give them my arm or my butt or whatever they want if it means I can get vaccinated." She didn't need to read the literature provided or watch the videos from health officials to understand the power of vaccines. In her 92 years she has seen enough death and suffering from diseases such as polio and tuberculosis to know that vaccines change lives.

My childhood included its share of diseases no longer prevalent at this time. Measles and mumps were still common and unpleasant, not to mention potentially deadly. We all experienced chicken pox and many of us had it at the same time due to its contagious nature. My mother told us not to scratch so much or we could develop long-term scarring. Easier said than done! We slathered ourselves full of calamine lotion in an attempt to mitigate the situation. I think we only succeeded in making ourselves look like a pack of pink panthers. My mother was a saint to deal with all our whining and discomfort. 

My parents never questioned vaccines even when many of them were in nascent stages of development. I remember an incident where I was told to eat a sugar cube laced with a pinkish liquid, no questions asked. It was the first oral polio vaccine being made available en masse. As kids, we were aware of the horror of "iron lungs" and children crippled for life. We gobbled down the sugar cube with all its fringe benefits. We were also on the tail end of the need for a smallpox vaccine. The nasty scab it produced left a scar many of us still sport today. 

The day my mother received her first C-19 vaccine was a day of rejoicing for me. When I asked her if she remembered getting her shot she quite naturally did not remember but she said, "Let me check for a band-aid on my arm. Yep, I've got a band-aid." Bingo! Round one in the books.

My subgroup for receiving the vaccine is last on the list so I will be queuing up with college kids when the time comes. I will be there with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes. And I won't even ask for a sugar cube chaser. 

Comfort

My husband and I often watch reruns of MASH while we enjoy our evening meal. It is true, we are on a slippery slope toward being a TV tray couple. Be that as it may, we rarely tire of the antics of the 4077 gang and it always seems better with dinner and dessert.

Recently, during a commercial break, I made the comment, "I think I should get a comfort monkey."

Silence.

More silence.

My husband finally looked at me and asked, "What are you talking about?" I could see in his eyes that he was hoping the drug commercials would soon be over so we could return to the show rather than explore the current non sequitur conversation. 

Not willing to be stopped, I clarified my comment. "I feel I am going to suffer from a form of PTSD if and when we get through this C-19 stuff and I may need some kind of animal to keep me company when I go out and about. It would be like those folks who have little dogs or iguanas or some type of animal to calm them down." 

More silence.

Finally, my husband, a man of precise and carefully chosen words, said, "I feel like an animal would cause you more stress."

Wiser words were never spoken. 

The truth of the matter is I have a complicated relationship with most animals, despite my upbringing on a farm. I am terrified of dogs. Chickens have a psychotic dark side. Cattle are best viewed behind fences. Mice make me shudder. Raccoons are shifty. Monkeys have scary hands. Pigs have grunty appetites. And opossums, don't get me started.

I like cats, perhaps due to their aloofness and independent nature. Birds always make me smile, albeit an ostrich might give me pause. Bugs, spiders and snakes are neutral for me, unless venom or constriction is involved. 

Clearly, my list of acceptable animals would likely not make very good in-public-comfort animals as most of them have issues with social skills. And my husband is correct in that any animal would give me stress as I am not one who enjoys the care and maintenance of indoor litter boxes, cages, and food bowls. I will have to adopt different ways to cope with the aftermath of the past year.  

2020 was a devil of a year and its ramifications are not over yet. Without a doubt many of us will be in need of comfort as we continue to move forward in 2021. I will not be using a comfort monkey but I plan on using my tried and true techniques.

For starters, a stack of library books gives me joy. The fermentation projects fizzing away on my counter give my gut microbiotica a happy treat. A bubbling pot of soup can calm the edgiest of days. Phone calls with friends and family help shift perspectives when gray clouds gather. A DVD workout reminds me to keep active, albeit begrudgingly. And there is nothing like another episode of MASH to point out that problems are a part of living.

Cheers to a New Year! May you find what comforts you.   

A Christmas gift from my husband
included, Sven, a comfort reindeer. 

Dip It

Many memories can seem strange to us as we navigate a different environment than just a few months ago. Thoughts of tourist packed travel destinations with nary a mask in sight can catch one's breath now. Photos of holiday gatherings with several generations passing bowls of food around the table can be painfully raw in a wave of nostalgia. Concerts filled with ardent fans packed shoulder to shoulder in an enclosed venue feel strangely distant. Shopping in crowded stores with crowded aisles can feel like swimming in a petri dish. Watching my favorite polka show almost makes me weep as I watch a dance floor filled with smiling twirling elderly folks, social distancing of no concern.  

Perhaps an activity from my past that seems particularly anachronistic now is the classic fondue. My first (and only) fondue pot was a wedding gift my husband and I received in the 70's. This was the heyday of the burgeoning dip and eat fad in our country. The activity had been around for a couple of centuries in various formats, particularly in ski communities where warm goo was needed to keep cold participants happy. For reasons left to marketing and timing, fondue took off after a Swiss exposition at the World's Fair in New York City in 1964. Soon fondue parties were being featured in magazine ads selling cheese or fondue pots or both as a way to spice up the mundane. 

It is hard to do better than melted cheese in my book but my first fondue party featured bubbling oil and cubes of beef. The fondue pot was, of course, harvest gold. Other popular choices of the day were copper and avocado green. The fact that I had never seen or tasted a real avocado made that color all the more exotic back in the day. My sister and her soon to be husband and another couple joined my husband and me in our cold basement apartment for the big party. The space brightened up quickly as we used our tiny little fork wands to stab chunks of meat and jockey for a spot in the cauldron of oil. Having grown up in cattle country, none of us were concerned about the optimal temperature for cooked beef so the timing of the sizzle was quite arbitrary. Sometimes our little cubes were a wee bit crispy, but most often we were content with a quick dip and call it good. 

Our favorite part of the fried meat process happened during the follow-up, the sauces. I do not remember any specific recipes but I know we had fun dipping and analyzing. One particular sauce seemed to rise to the top as a favorite, so much so that my future brother-in-law declared it to be "good enough to eat on a napkin." We were giddy from all the fried meat and his comment made us choke with laughter. For years to come, we used that phrase whenever we were together and enjoying a tasty meal. 

My little fondue pot is long gone and sadly, I have no recollection as to its fate. Most likely I sold it on a rummage sale when its appeal started to fade. I do miss what it represented, though. For me, it was the ultimate in interactive cuisine. It was impossible to fondue without sharing many moments of camaraderie as chunks of food were either won or lost in the game of dipping. 

Fondue is certainly out of the question for now but there is nothing stopping us from enjoying melted cheese, chocolate or sizzling oil. Tap into your inner Gouda and stay inspired until we can unabashedly dip again. 

Neighborhood Noise

I am a card-carrying bird enthusiast. I stop short of calling myself an expert bird watcher, however, as I have so much more to learn. I also do not chase over hill and dale to add new bird sightings to an ongoing list. I am not opposed to such activity, but I am a bit too lazy to immerse myself to that degree, yet. The bulk of my bird watching happens through the windows of my home. I participate in a citizen science program called Project FeederWatch through Cornell University which involves recording backyard bird numbers throughout the winter months. I greatly enjoy having a purpose to my hobby and it forces me to identify the ubiquitous little brown birds. 

Recently, my mid-morning coffee break has been jostled by a clatter of squeaking chatter and whistles. A quick peek out the window reveals a flurry of activity. The leafless trees are filled with robin-sized birds conversing in their bird-like manner. The birds cluster together, at rest and in the air. And they are oh so vocal. 

Upon further investigation, my bird visitors are identified as European Starlings. I am not going to lie, starlings are not my favorite birds. I do not like it when they bully their way to the front of the line on my suet feeders. They have long yellow beaks and are able to pull apart a block of suet with surgical precision. And they are always en masse with all their avian buddies.

Despite my lack of wholehearted love for the starlings, I do enjoy watching their antics in my neighborhood. It is like watching a playground in the sky. The birds dip and dive as they chase each other from tree to tree. They form patterns when they move in rippling groups of roiling black shapes. They seem to have boundless energy and as quickly as they arrive, they can take off for the next neighborhood playground. 

Another bird that likes to hang out in groups at my feeders is the House Sparrow. Like the starling, they seem to enjoy flitting around with their fellow bird mates. They often jockey for the best position on my hanging tube feeder and they squabble back and forth while they enjoy their snacks. They are no less vocal than the starlings and it is easy to know when they have arrived.

Both bird species are classified as introduced species because they are not native to our country. The starlings were brought here by a group of folks that wanted America to have all the birds mentioned by Shakespeare. The House Sparrow was released in America as a way to control the ravages of a certain moth. Both bird species arrived during the 19th century and clearly, both species embraced their adopted home with vigor. It is tempting to blame them for making it more difficult for other native birds to thrive but I remind myself of the truth of the matter. I can enjoy them for their quirky antics and busybody ways or I can let them irritate me. For now, I feel it is best to enjoy my feathered friends and admire their plucky willingness to cohabitate with humans. 

All God's creatures. 

A few of my little brown birds.