Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 4

Chapter 4

August 12, 1978

The daily newspaper was already on the burn pile by the time I woke up and made my way downstairs for breakfast. Mother had decided at 15 I was old enough to make my own breakfast, particularly since I wasn’t out of bed until she had already begun thinking about lunch and dinner. I emptied a carton of 2% milk into my bowl of Cheerios and walked out to the back porch tossing the cardboard container onto the burn stack. That’s when I saw the bold headline: One Year Later: Raymond Johnson Awaits Appeal. My stomach tightened as the haunting photograph of Raymond Johnson jumped off the page. Abruptly, I turned away and hurried back into the kitchen. I took one look at the milk-soaked Cheerios and nearly puked into the bowl. Leaving breakfast on the table, I darted through the living room and up the stairs into my bedroom. Closing the door with a bit too much momentum – damnit, Dad hates that sort of thing – I crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes closed. But his face, that ugly, black, druggie, pitiful, innocent face remained on the inside of my eyelids.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen his picture. Despite my parents’ efforts to shield me from this sort of news, they weren’t by my side 24/7. I’d managed to catch a glimpse of him when a commercial for the evening news interrupted “The Love Boat”.  During the past year, I’d easily pieced together the story since everybody in town was talking about it.

The story: On August 12, 1977 at approximately 12:05 a.m. 24 year old Raymond Johnson, a known drug dealer and overall drain on society, stabbed and killed James Martin and Fred Fullmer. Martin 27, an African American allegedly owed Johnson money and Johnson got tired of waiting for repayment. As the prosecution presented it, the two men got into a ruckus in the parking lot at the corner grocery store where Johnson repeatedly stabbed Martin. Returning from his girlfriend’s house, 19 year old Fullmer, pulled his car into the parking lot, encountering the two men fighting. He and his mother lived above the store. Fullmer, an all-state football player, home for the summer from college, exited his vehicle and apparently attempted to run into his house to call the police when Johnson ran up behind him and inflicted multiple fatal stab wounds into his back. Both Martin and Fullmer were pronounced dead at the scene. Police quickly found Johnson hidden behind a dumpster in the rear of the parking lot, covered in blood and partially incoherent. Investigators found the murder weapon in the dumpster with Johnson’s prints on the handle.

This was a slam dunk case for the prosecution. The community was calling for justice. Few people seemed worried about the death of Martin, but Fred Fullmer was the town hero. The son of a single, hardworking mother, Fullmer was both an outstanding student and athlete. He and his mother, the minorities in that area of town, were constantly working to clean up the neighborhood and lend a hand to anyone who needed it.

If my sister Frances had been alive, she and Fred would have been classmates and I’m sure they would have been friends – maybe even boyfriend and girlfriend. He was very handsome and popular.

You get the picture. Raymond Johnson was going to pay for his ghastly crimes. Anything short of the death penalty just wouldn’t do.

The problem: Raymond Johnson was innocent. And I was the only one who seemed to know.

 

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 3

Chapter 3

My parents were in the kitchen, Mom standing over the stove lifting the last batch of peaches from the canner and Dad sitting at the table reading aloud from the daily newspaper. It was Saturday morning, two days after my sleepover. Dad stopped reading mid-sentence when I walked in and sat down beside him. Placing the newspaper on the table, he glanced over at me, his face instantly registering the familiar look of disapproval. “What’s that junk on your fingernails?” He asked quietly. He never yelled. He didn’t have to.

I looked down at my freshly painted pink nails then curled my fingers underneath my palms saying nothing.

“Get it off before you go anywhere and don’t let me see it again.” Then turning toward Mother, he scowled silently blaming her for my impropriety.

I sat quietly eating the Cheerios Mom had poured for me trying to catch a glimpse of the front page. Dad caught on, picked up the newspaper and departed for his bedroom. It was just like them – fretting about all of the bad things that might happen to me, yet never letting me hear or read about the awful events actually happening right in our own town.

Later that morning while I was in the bathroom restoring my fingernails to their pure God-given status, I heard the faint sound of the ringing telephone.

“Tess, Cathy’s on the phone for you.” Mom called up the steps.

I walked into my parent’s bedroom. Dad had gone out to check on his garden by then, and I lifted the receiver. “I’ve got it Mom. Thanks.” I yelled down the stairs, not wanting Cathy to start talking until I heard the click of the other receiver. No click. “Mom, I’ve got it.” I said again.

Cathy waited understanding my cue.

Finally the phone clicked. At least I thought it did, but one cannot be too careful. “Hey Cathy, I’m in the middle of something can I call you back in five minutes?” I asked.

“Sure.”

My strategy: never talk on the telephone when a parent has the potential to quietly listen in.

I tinkered for a minute back in the bathroom, cleaning up the nail polish remover and cotton balls; then I proceeded down to the dining room and dialed Cathy’s number.

“Hello.” Cathy answered.

“It’s me.” I said.

“Did you hear?” She asked.

“No.” I knew what she was referring to. It was certainly all we both thought about for the past two days.

“It’s all over the local news.” Cathy whispered excitedly. “We missed a murder by about half an hour. Freaky, isn’t it?”

“What else do you know about it?” I asked, whispering as well.

“It was a double murder. Sickening actually.” She began recounting what she’d seen on the local television news. Obviously her parents didn’t censor. “This druggie killed two guys in the neighborhood. One of them was the son of that lady who owns the small grocery store where we saw the police cars.  You know that cute football player, Freddie Fullmer.” She paused catching her breath.

“When did they catch him?” I asked.

“Right away I guess. They found him crouched behind some garbage cans only a block away.”

Just then Mom walked into the room so I switched topics, “I don’t know if I can go to the pool today. Let me ask.” I said in a normal tone looking questioningly over toward my Mom, knowing she was eavesdropping. Mom nodded her permission.

“Yeah, I can go. I’ll see you at 1 o’clock. OK?”

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 2

Chapter 2

1977

First, a quick summary of the domestic landscape. The brace of female ducklings, all grown, flew off to begin independent lives, leaving their youngest sibling (me) to deal with their overly protective parents. The tragic death of sister number five caused an unnatural gap between sisters one through four and sister number six. Thus, number six was now number five, growing up as both the ‘baby of the family’ and practically an only child.

So there I was, turning out not to be an ugly duckling, though it might have been better for Mom and Dad if I had. Their constant fretting that something bad would happen to me or that I would behave badly caused me to become a skilled liar. The less they knew the better. Most of the time, I wasn’t doing anything different than what my friends were doing with their parents’ approval. Some of the time, however, I was up to no good.

By 1977, I was fourteen. I’d already experienced my first cigarette – more than one. I’d already vomited from too much cherry vodka and I’d been to second base with one or two boys. Naturally, I liked boys a lot, as did most of my friends. And liking boys is really what caused this whole mess, so let me get on with it.

I remember the date well because it was in all of the newspapers: August 12, 1977. A few boys I knew decided to camp out in the woods and had invited the clique of popular girls to come hang out with them. As was often the case when other parents didn’t want to fulfill their parental responsibilities, the verdict was left to my parents. If Tess was allowed to go, the others could go too. Since my parents almost always said no, the other parents were off the hook. As a result, none of the girls were permitted to go that night.

Whispering on the telephone with my friend Cathy, we schemed and plotted. The plan: I would sleep over at her house and we would sneak out and walk to the party. My parents granted permission for the sleepover, not for a minute suspicious of our conniving. It never occurred to them we might walk six miles round trip just to see some boys and let them cop a feel for a few sips of beer, but that’s exactly what we had in mind.

Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Cathy’s parents passed out from one too many martinis. Wanting to ensure the backdoor would remain unlocked for our return, I placed a piece of masking tape over the door lock then we slipped out, setting our plan in motion. Dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts on a night that was too hot for both, we tiptoed across the pebbled driveway and entered the narrow berm along the river road. Infrequent street lamps lined the eerie highway causing occasional passing drivers to use their blinding high beams. The river on the other side, low from a dry summer, flowed at a lazy pace, in sharp contrast with our rapid gait.

About a mile into the journey, we approached the bowling alley, still buzzing with activity both inside and out in the parking lot. As we approached the well-lit intersection, a patrol car cruised by. The officer focused his attention on the folks leaving the bowling alley giving us a moment to duck behind an 18-wheeler cab parked across the street in the trucking company parking lot.

Crouched behind the truck, wondering if we’d been spotted, we considered abandoning our mission. We’d only been out of the house a little more than 15 minutes so Cathy’s parents were surely still asleep. We wouldn’t get caught if we’d just turn around now. Too bad we didn’t.

Peaking around the side of the truck we spied the taillights of the patrol car as it continued down the street. We’d gone undetected. With renewed bravado, we pressed on.

Finally off the river road, we zigzagged through dark alleys and poorly lit side streets making our way through town. We walked and we walked hardly saying a word to each other, both knowing what would happen if we got caught. Cathy would get a good talking to and I’d be grounded until I was 32.

We reached a section of town unfamiliar to both of us. If our town had a ghetto, this was it. The neighborhood whose streets were lined with rundown duplexes appeared to be sleeping, but just in case anyone was lurking in the shadows we pulled the hoods over our heads and walked arm in arm pretending to be a couple rather than two young vulnerable females. Sweat gathered under my armpits and my shoulder length hair stuck to the back of my neck. Halfway there, we were committed to the plan.

A direct route to the woods would include passing by my house, but I was certain if I came within a few blocks of the place, my parents would sense my presence, so I charted a course to circumvent the area. You might be wondering at this point why we chose to stay at Cathy’s house instead of my own, which was much closer to the party. This is because you don’t fully understand my parents.

The last quarter mile of the journey was the most physically challenging. The hill just before the woods felt like Kilimanjaro. My jeans rubbed at my skinny, damp inner thighs and my feet hurt. We panted as we reached the peak and started back downhill anticipating the merriment ahead.

Finally, we made it to the appointed spot – the street at the edge of the woods where the boys said they would be.

“Pssst Pssst. It’s us. Tess and Cathy.” I called out in a loud whisper.
One of the boys whose name I probably shouldn’t mention emerged from the woods. Surprised we’d actually followed through with the crazy plan, he led us back to their camp. Literally – and I’m not exaggerating about this – the minute we were at the camp greeting the other boys, police sirens began blaring in the distance.

We all froze. Cathy and I looked at each other, eyes bulging, hearts racing. We’d been caught. We knew it. Her parents must have awakened, discovered our empty beds and called my parents who called the police. We were dead meat. Shit! Shit! Shit! The boys were thinking the same thing. They wanted us gone just as much as we wanted to be gone.

We retraced our path exactly the way we had come. Up and down the hill. Even faster this time. Once again we circumvented my house, though tempted for a moment to sneak by to see if any lights were on. Then, we started through the ghetto. Almost running now. And that’s when it happened. That’s when we knew we hadn’t been caught.

The previously sleepy neighborhood was ablaze with flashing lights from four police cars converged in the parking lot of the small neighborhood grocery store. I halted abruptly, lifting my arm, blocking Cathy from advancing into the chaos. We looked at each other and I placed my finger over my lips, “Shhh.” Slowly and quietly, on tiptoes we backed up and turned around. Retracing our steps, we turned into an alley paralleling the commotion-filled area. To our right, the houses and trees were flickering silhouettes created by the unsynchronized cruiser lights two blocks over. Residents now awake, emerged onto their back porches, curious about the hubbub. Arm in arm once again, hoods back over our heads, we acted as though we too, were nosy onlookers. All the while making our way out of the ghetto.

We were breathing easier, first because we were sure the sirens were not for us and second because we’d skirted through the chaos without drawing attention to ourselves. We were close to home now with only about a mile to go.

The bowling alley was no longer a flurry of activity, having closed at midnight. Cutting through the empty parking lot, we crossed into the trucking company lot closing in on the same truck that had provided us cover earlier that night. As we approached the 18- wheeler cab, I heard a shuffling sound, stones on sneakers, coming from the other side of the truck. Again, I threw my arm in front of Cathy’s body stopping her from forward motion. We looked at each other, listening intently with knitted eyebrows and expanded chests, holding our breath. Slowly hunching over, I peered under the cab. The space between the tires was empty. Whoever was behind that truck, and I was positive someone was there, must have been crouched behind the tires. I straightened up and looked at Cathy, who appeared ready to vomit.

I had to think fast. It was a stand off. I knew that he knew we were on the other side. But he didn’t know that we were two young girls. And he wasn’t moving. Did he intend to jump us as we passed or was he actually trying to avoid us? I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem to matter since we only had one option. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and raised my other hand into a fist. Slowly and deliberately I lifted one finger, than another. One. Two. On three we bolted past the truck and onto the river road.

Several yards beyond the truck, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to see if we were being pursued. That’s when I saw him clear as day. Standing in the place where I’d pictured him moments earlier. Leaning against the large cab tires, illuminated by the streetlight above, he looked relieved. That is, he looked relieved until our eyes locked. For a split second, a flash in time, a frozen moment, I saw him plain as day. And I saw something else too. His shirt was ripped and there were dark stains down the front. Abruptly, I skidded to a halt causing Cathy, who was still gripping my hand, to stumble. She quickly regained her balance, grabbed the corner of my sweatshirt and pulled me back into a sprint. The man didn’t move.

We made it back to Cathy’s driveway at record speed. At least it felt that way. The house remained completely dark. Avoiding the stones covering the driveway, we tiptoed through the grass, and up to the unlocked backdoor. A single floorboard creaked as we crept up the stairs to her bedroom.

Safely in her bed, stripped down to t-shirts, too wound up to sleep I asked, “Did you see him?”

“No.” She replied, “Did you?”

“No.” I lied.

Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 1

Chapter 1

1987

My parents believe everything that happens is God’s will. When my father was born with bad lungs, it was God’s will. When my mother had four miscarriages, birthed six girls, and no boys, it was God’s will. When my sister was struck and killed by a car while walking home from school, it was God’s will. So you can imagine how irritating it would be for my devout parents that their youngest daughter wasn’t particularly interested in getting on God’s good side.
While all of the other little ducklings fell in line, obediently trailing Momma down the center aisle and humbly kneeling in the middle pew, the last of us bristled under the covers refusing to get out of bed. At the wise age of six I was already questioning “If God wants me to go to church, why don’t I want to go?” or “Why does God plan mass so early in the morning?”
Since I was only four when God killed my sister Frances, sending the rest of my family into a tailspin, it didn’t occur to me to be particularly angry with Him. I have no memories of that sister. However, as the years passed and my parents become fearful tyrants, barely letting any of us out of their sight, I became increasingly pissed off at Him. I believed in God back then, and if everything else was God’s will, than it followed that it was God’s will for my parents to become fearful tyrants. See the logic?
Sophomore year of college during an Introduction to Philosophy class Dr. Edgar Martin introduced me to a God alternative: a theory called Hard Determinism. According to this theory, God has nothing to do with it. I listened and watched as Dr. Martin explained the theory to the class. It was mid-semester and I hadn’t seen him get this excited about any other theories he’d presented. He obviously believed this one was the theory of all theories. Dr. Martin was an atheist! The first one I’d ever met.

The theory of Hard Determinism states:
All events in the material world are governed by cause and effect.
All human actions are events.
Therefore, all human actions are caused. (NOT BY GOD!)

This explained an awful lot. For example, instead of God killing my sister, I could trace a series of events that caused her death. Let me do that for you now. The clock struck 3:10 p.m. causing the nuns to dismiss the children. Two third grade girls, my sister and her friend, walked out of school down the street toward the crossing guard. The rule: if you live on the other side of the street, cross with the guard or don’t cross at all. The main street through town is a busy thoroughfare with the Catholic school on one side and my house, several blocks down on the other. On that particular day, the two girls were involved in an animated conversation about one Mathew Stahl whose antics earlier that day caused Sister Anne Mary to grab him by the shirt collar and toss him into the coat closet. The girls’ dialogue caused my sister Francis to continue walking with her friend on the wrong side of the street. Realizing she’d be in trouble for disregarding the crossing rule, Frances decided to cross the street two blocks before arriving at our house. Waving goodbye to her friend, head turned away from the street, Frances stepped into the path of a 1967 Chevy. My sister didn’t see the car because she was looking the other way. God didn’t kill her at all. She simply walked in front of a Chevy causing the Chevy to kill her. Since the lady driving the Chevy was controlling the car, it follows the lady killed my sister, not God.
It was bound to happen. Not because it was God’s will. According to the theory of hard determinism, it was determined to happen simply through a series of material causes.
I wrote a paper using my sister’s death as the perfect example demonstrating the theory of Hard Determinism. I got an A. I became Dr. Martin’s favorite student. Cause and effect: writing a paper espousing the merits of Hard Determinism causes professor to like me.
Hard determinism became my God alternative. And, it’s how I’m going to explain the story that I really want to tell. Here is the thing I still haven’t been able to resolve. Get this. If everything that happens is God’s will, it doesn’t seem fair to blame anyone for anything. If, for example it had been God’s will for my sister to die, you couldn’t blame her for disobeying the rules and you couldn’t blame the woman driving the Chevy. If it was Hard determinism, you couldn’t blame anyone either. Hard determinism, it seems, takes away culpability just as much as the God theory. If a series of causes produces some effect and decisions are effects, you can’t really blame anyone for their decisions, can you?
Anyway, you can decide for yourself after I tell you the whole story.

One Pot Wonder – Hamburger Soup

The first time I made hamburger soup was in my home economics class, 7th grade, 1973. Mom used to make vegetable soup on a regular basis, but as a kid I didn’t like it much. When I was introduced to a soup with fewer veggies and ground beef instead of stew meat, I was thrilled. I came home from school that day, insisting we make a batch together. Mom liked it too.

A lot has changed since 1973. I now like vegetables in soup. Home economics is now called “Family and Consumer Science” – seriously. Beef in any form is not really viewed as a healthy choice.

What hasn’t changed is the ease and irresistible flavor of this simple recipe.

Ingredients

1 lb. lean ground beef
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 32 oz. box beef broth
1 can San Marzano whole tomatoes (I like to put the whole tomato in and after it cooks I stir through and cut each in half or quarters.)
2 cans water
4 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
2 bay leaves
1 T. Oregano
2 tsp. Herbs de Provence
1.5 c. uncooked ditalini (more or less your preference)
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation

Using a 6 quart pot, brown ground beef. Add all other ingredients except ditalini. Bring to boil. After boil, reduce heat and simmer until carrots are tender. Add uncooked ditalini. Boil until dilalini is al dante.

Variations: add a few diced potatoes. Top with your favorite cheese when served.

Total prep and simmer time about 2 hours to allow flavors to meld together.

Enjoy!

I’m Listening – A short Essay

I wish they’d stop talking about me as if I can’t understand a word they’re saying. I’m right here in the same room with them.

How insensitive! How insulting!

“She’s had a good life.”   “We’ve done our part.”  “Maybe she’s suffering more than we know.”

Stop it! I can’t stand it. I’m right here!

Sure maybe I have an accident here and there. I am old. That’s what old folks do on occasion. But, I’m not ready to go. Not yet. I have had a good life, mostly. And, sure they’ve done their part. Taking care of me, making sure I’m fed and warm at night. But, why now? Why are they so hell bent on killing me now? It is killing after all. Unless I die, say of natural causes, it’s still killing. They’re claiming it’s “merciful” for Pete’s sake. How is killing me, ending my life when I don’t want to die, merciful?

She looks at me and cries. She says, “I’m sorry.” and “I love you.” Apparently she thinks I can understand some things.

And him! The things he says about me. Calling me mentally challenged just because I don’t do what he wants me to do. Ha! It’s called passive aggressive asshole. I do what I want, when I want. I’m neither mentally challenged nor demented. Far from it.

She took me to the doctor the other day. You’d think a doctor with so much experience would know better than to talk about me when I’m in the room. Seriously. I couldn’t look at either one of them. I turned and faced the corner of the room. She said to the doctor, “Oh my God look at her, she won’t look at us! Do you think she understands what we are talking about?”

“No, of course not.” The doctor replied. “She’s just not happy to be here.”

I most certainly was not happy to be there while she poked and prodded me. Listening to my heart murmur and squeezing my bladder. “Yes I do understand you!” I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just sat with my back to them listening as they discussed the ‘situation’.

“Do you think I’m being selfish?” She asked, needing validation from the doctor.

“I’m not judging you if that’s what you mean.” The doctor replied. Though I think she secretly was judging just a little. “She’s definitely got issues and I understand it’s difficult for you to care for her at this point. It’s messy and gross at times.”

“But I mean, do you think it’s time? What would you do in my situation?” She persisted.

“Only you and your husband can decide. It’s really not for me to say.” The doctor replied, but I know if I were living with the good doctor she’d keep me around. I’m not that much trouble. I sleep most of the day and when I’m awake you’d hardly know I’m around unless I fart. The farting is more frequent, I’ll admit it.

When we returned home, they were talking. She said, “I just can’t do it yet. It’s not that bad. She still has some life left in her and I’m not ready to say good-bye.”

“OK.” He said. What could he say? “Just do it! Just kill her and get it over with!” No he wouldn’t do that. Too much blame on him. He couldn’t handle the guilt. No, it has to be a joint decision.

So it looks like I’ve got a reprieve for a while. I’m trying really hard not to make any messes. I haven’t peed myself for several days now. I’m on a roll. The farting – well – I can’t help that and they don’t really seem to mind. In fact, they chuckle when I pass that smelly gas.

She walks by me and pats my head. “Oh Sadie, you silly dog. I love you. We’re gonna keep you around a while longer, girl.”

Yes, she thinks I understand some things. And I most definitely do.

Pineapple Upside-down Cake in a Cast Iron Skillet

Winter in the northeast is definitely my time for baking – and packing on the corresponding inevitable pounds from the fruits of my labor. When I look out the window at the completely gray and dreary sky or when the snow is falling and I can see nothing but white, all concern for a svelte physique diminishes and the desire for massive amounts of carbs takes hold. Can anyone relate to this?

Yesterday, while remaining in my flannels ALL DAY LONG, I made bread. White bread for that matter. Nothing healthy about that. I had eaten several warm, fresh slices when my dear friend called and asked if she could come over. The slightly icy roads didn’t hinder her travel thus she was rewarded with a slice of homemade bread drizzled with honey and a hot cup of coffee. After some great conversation about what exciting events 2015 will bring for us both, I sent her off with half a loaf to share with her husband. Certainly I don’t need it all.

Today I had a hankering for an old favorite. Don’t worry, this too I will share with others. It’s the cooking, not the eating, that gets me through the long winter. Pineapple upside down cake is fun to make, pretty to look at, and mighty tasty. It occurred to me as I was writing the previous sentences, I didn’t know just how old this favorite might be, so I took a gander at a few websites to find out. It turns out, placing fruit on the bottom of a skillet and cake batter on top has been around for centuries. When you think about it, cooking over an open fire using a cast iron skillet, the combination makes complete sense. What better way to make a sweet treat? Cherries, plums and other seasonal fruits were used. It wasn’t until Mr. Dole started canning the ever familiar pineapple slices in the early 1900’s that pineapple upside cake became popular. Then, with the mass production of baking pans and development of ovens, the skillet was no longer necessary, and the dessert took on a different look (and taste if you ask me).
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I remember as a kid not liking this dessert and thought it was only for the old folks. So, when I was reintroduced to it about 15 years ago, I was surprised to see it being made in a cast iron skillet. If you’re going to make this dessert, the skillet is the way to go. Hands down.

The following recipe is from my husband’s grandmother – I think. I’ve changed it slightly to add more goop on the bottom. And I insist on the cast iron skillet to achieve the true caramelized topping.

Ingredients:
6 Tablespoons Butter
1 ¼ Cup Light Brown Sugar
1 Can Pineapple slices
Maraschino Cherries
3 Extra Large Eggs (I had small eggs so I used 4 this time)
1 ½ Cups of Sugar (split see below)
½ Cup Boiling Water
1 1/2 Cups Cake Flour
1 Teaspoon Baking Powder
¼ Teaspoon Salt

Preparation:
I think it’s best to follow the steps in this order.
Have all ingredients at your fingertips.
Preheat Oven to 350°. Use middle rack.

Bowl 1: Sift all cake flour (1 ½ cups) with 1 cup of sugar, 1 tsp. baking powder, and ¼ tsp. salt.


Bowl 2 and 3: Separate eggs. Whites into small mixing bowl for whipped whites and yolks into larger mixing bowl (need room for more ingredients)

Separating the eggs
Separating the eggs

Heat the cast iron skillet on the stove. Melt butter then add brown sugar. Heat just enough to mix and evenly distribute the mixture. Arrange drained pineapples and cherries in the pan.
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Using a glass measuring cup, microwave ½ cup of water until it boils.

Whip egg whites until peaks form. (bowl 2)

Add rest of sugar (1/2 cup) to yolks, beat while adding boiling water until thoroughly mixed.


Slow mixer to lowest speed and add flour mixture (bowl 1) to the egg yolk mixture. Mix at slow speed just until mixed.
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Gently fold in the whipped egg whites. Don’t play with the batter. Just get the whites folded in as quickly and gently as possible. You don’t have to have perfect folding technique to get this part right.


Pour batter into pan.
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Place in oven and bake between 35-45 minutes. My cake took 35 minutes.

Remove from oven and invert on to cake serving dish. BE CAREFUL! The goop will be very hot and if it gets on your skin will burn like a son of a gun! But, you can’t wait until it cools or it will stick to the bottom of the skillet.


I serve this dessert with homemade fresh whipped cream.

Enjoy!

Therein lies the Rub…NOT

I’m not such a big meat fan. A piece of animal flesh is merely a conveyor of other flavors, an instrument for my taste buds. Even a juicy burger is best served smothered in cheese, ketchup, mustard, and onions. So why not go vegetarian you ask. Certainly veggies and tofu could serve the same purpose you might argue.

I don’t have an answer. Why eat meat? Habit? Entertaining? I suppose it’s a number of things. But, until I make the move, until I plunge into the world of black bean burgers and edamame, I will continue to explore ways to maximize the flavor of the flesh.

This brings me to today’s recipe. I was entertaining a few friends last evening and wanted to flavor a pork loin for a simple, no hassle meal. My web search brought me to this recipe for a rub.

http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/pork-tenderloin-smoky-espresso

But here’s the beef I have with rubs. They just don’t do enough for me. I want the flavor to penetrate the meat not remain on the surface. Even with a tender cut, I want the flavor all the way through. So, I altered the recipe to create this rich marinade (or perhaps more accurately called a wet rub) and I reduced the hassle of stovetop browning as you will read below.

Ingredients:
2 tablespoons instant decaf coffee
½ teaspoon smoked paprika
3 pressed garlic cloves
1 shot whiskey
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon brown sugar
salt and pepper
1.5 lb pork tenderloin*

Mix first 7 ingredients. Use your judgment about salt and pepper – you know what you like. Place tenderloin on a plate or in a plastic bag. Pour marinade over meat. Marinate for 2-3 hours. This is a powerful marinade so I wouldn’t marinate much longer than that.
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Preheat oven 450° (I used convection roast on rack close to broiler but general high heat should do the same thing).
Scrape off most of the marinade.
Lightly coat a roasting pan with olive oil. Place meat on pan and roast for about 15 minutes until browned. (LOVE the no mess of stovetop browning!)
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Remove from oven, pour remaining marinade over meat. Cover. Reduce heat to 350°. Bake until tender, approximately 1 hour.


Most recipes for pork tenderloin call for baking to a thermometer read of 160°. I prefer to cook mine a bit longer. However, if you enjoy the “slightly pink” pork, go for it.

*This was a very small tenderloin for a small group. The marinade above could easily accommodate a 3 lb. tenderloin. If you are doing a larger tenderloin and need to double the marinade, you could increase each ingredient proportionately except the coffee. I’d advise limiting the coffee to the 2 T measure. Also allow more time for baking.

Let the meat rest a few minutes before cutting. And speaking of cutting, there’s nothing like an electric knife for cutting meat. My guests got a huge kick out of the old school approach.

When serving, drizzle each plate with the juices.

As part of this light, hassle-free meal theme, I served mashed garlic cauliflower and a simple salad of greens and veggies tossed in olive oil, seasoned rice vinegar, balsamic glaze, salt and pepper.

Autumn Soup: Butternut Squash with Honey Cinnamon Croutons

Autumn in the Northeast. The leaves are falling, the temperature dropping. The corn will soon be harvested and the jackets are out. There’s nothing like a bowl of soup and a snuggly blanket in late October…

I’m on a fennel kick. Fennel and fish. Fennel and chickpeas. And now fennel and butternut squash. After perusing several cooking blogs and the food channel site, I came up with my own version of Butternut Squash Soup. Here it is.

2 butternut squash, peeled, seeded and cut into cubes
1 fennel bulb, greens removed and sliced
1/2 granny smith apple peeled, cored and diced
olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, pressed
2 springs fresh thyme (stems removed)(or 1/2 tsp. dried)
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 cup white wine
1 32 oz. box of low sodium chicken stock (I generally use organic)
1/2 c. heavy whipping cream
salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven 400° or 375° convection bake.
Prepare the butternut squash and place on baking sheet
Prepare the fennel bulb and place on top of squash
Toss on just enough olive oil to coat both. Lightly salt and pepper
Roast in the oven for about 20 minutes stirring once
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In a 6-quart pot, pour enough olive oil to lightly coat bottom of pot.
Sauté onion until partially cooked and slightly browned.
Add all other ingredients and cook until apple feels tender, approximately 45 minutes to an hour.
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Allow to cool for either the blender or processor. Either blend or process in batches as it fits into your machine without making a huge mess.


Pour back into pot and add cream.
Salt and pepper to your taste.
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I liked the soup a lot. But, I wanted something more. What could I add to make it more interesting? The following day, in preparation of eating the leftovers, I got an idea. Cinnamon, honey croutons! Here is what I created with some leftover Ciabatta bread.

2 thick slices of ciabatta bread, cut into cubes
2 T. softened butter
2 T. honey
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
pinch paprika

Mix all ingredients except bread together. Melt in pot or in bowl in microwave. Place bread on cookie sheet or baking pan. Coat bread with the melted butter mixture. Bake in oven until browned. I used a 400° oven and watched carefully. The length of cooking time depends on your oven and the freshness of the bread. Be careful, though, browning comes quickly and croutons can easily burn!

These croutons added just the right touch to this very creamy, thick soup.
Enjoy.

Breakfast food: (Reasonably) Healthy Granola

My husband wakes up with a veracious appetite. His routine: brew his imported Costa Rican coffee, stroll down the lane for the newspaper, then settle in for 1-3 bowls of cereal. Over the years, he’s grown tired of the old American cereal selection and lamented the lack of good, healthy muesli or granola he’d been able to find while traveling in Europe. There are plenty of granola cereals available today in U.S. grocery stores, but most are either too bland or too sweet. So, I started making homemade granola a few years back. The problem is, he eats so much; it hardly seemed worth the mess to make small batches. Thus, I started working on recipes for large quantities, which I could then freeze. Yes, frozen cereal. Equipped with 2 multi-rack convection ovens and 6 cookie sheets, I can make enough cereal to last him 2-4 weeks.

I haven’t always liked the results of my concoctions since I never wrote anything down and I experimented with various combinations of flavoring – all the while trying to keep it as healthy as possible yet not entirely bland.

The following is the recipe I finally did write down and is, indeed, my best batch to date.

Making granola, in general, is a bit of a pain because of the mess. Stirring in the oven for even toasting invariably leaves stray oats in my oven and on my kitchen floor, so making a large batch less frequently was part of my goal. Included in this recipe are a few tips for preparation that I think are very important for the overall quality of the batch.

I begin with a 42 oz. (that super large container) of Quaker Oats (old fashioned not quick cook). This I divide into 2 parts. I use a wide low bowl to mix in the wet ingredients because it’s easier to stir facilitating even distribution of the liquid. Oats quickly and unevenly soak up the liquid, so dividing the batch really helps. I also, stir the liquid into the oats first then add the other ingredients and stir them through because I want most of the flavor from the liquid to soak into the oats. Everything else in the granola has some flavor without the sweet goop. Most of the time, a wooden spoon just doesn’t do the trick so I work the oats with my hands.

Next I add in the coconut, toss it and finally I add the nuts. Any nuts and any quantity you want to use should be fine but I wouldn’t overdo the coconut.

I line 6 cookie sheets with parchment paper – another trick for easy cleaning. Granola REALLY sticks to an unprepared pan (yes, the voice of experience).

Liquid Preparation:
In a medium saucepan at medium heat
Add
1 1/4 c. canola oil
1 c. honey
¼ c. brown sugar
1 tsp. salt
Stir until sugar and salt are dissolved

If you split the oats into 2 batches, you also have to split the liquid. You will notice the liquid separates very quickly with the oil rising to the top. Whisk the mixture as you pour to make sure it doesn’t separate.


Once the batch is mixed, placed onto the cookies sheets. This recipe requires 6 sheets so that each sheet has a very thin layer. The oats will not toast evenly with too much on each cookie sheet.
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Bake at 300° (convection multi-rack) for 25 minutes. Stir at 10, 15, 20 minute increments. (again a pain and a good reason to make a big batch)

Once removed from the oven, any choice of dried fruit can be added to the warm granola. We prefer craisins.

When completely cool, I use the original oatmeal container to store the first batch for eating and place all remaining in a ziplock freezer bag and freeze to preserve. Simply thaw when you need more.