Food: Cold 'mater Soup
In a continuing vein of my last post about having a jillionity-milliointy options, I have been also thinking about in relationship to food (which was the convi I had with Eva_Prawn that I mentioned).
We have so many options, and I dunno about you, but much like music, I want to HAVE IT ALL, right in my face. Now, please.
Those of you that know me in MeatSpace know that I likes to eat. I like to eat a lot. Good food, bad food, burgers the size of a large head, bulgar, TVP, big honkin' ribeyes, pho, shrimp, carrots, prunes, craisons, pear salad, baby spinach, whole roasted chickens...
Basically, there's not a lot I don't eat (liver, [stuff]mush/ hash, tuna, and salmon). Other than those few things, I'll eat it and be pretty happy about it.
But for quite a long time now, I've been desperately missing my Grandmuzzer. Not only 'cos she was such an integral part of my life and had insane amounts of infulence on my life, but 'cos there were certain things she made that I never had anywhere else 'cos no one else made 'em. A few years before she died, I asked for a receipt for one of these things - she called it "icebox summer soup," and it was this awesome concoction of tomatoey goodness that was somewhere between gazpacho and salsa. The answer I got was essentially "Oh, just put some tomatoes with some vinegar and sugar, and maybe some other diced vegetables, if you want, and mix it all up." And y'all?
That was NOT HELPFUL.
I spent one whole summer trying to get the proportions right and threw out a LOT OF TOMATOES (which is pretty much a crime against summer right there, frankly. And we all know how I feel about summer).
I was never able to quite get it right, and when she died, I think there was a part of me that mourned that 'mater stuff right alongside her.
'Cos see, I'd been down this road before when my Papa Don died. He made the best coarse-texture mustard slaw in the whole world -- and no one else could ever quite get it right. It was one of my favourite things about the coming of summer - knowing I'd get that cole slaw.
Anyhow. So, the last time I had that icebox soup was probably eight years ago. And maybe it's just me, but sometimes, your mouth just gets set for something and you want to eat it, and nothing else will quite get it done. You can TRY, but nothing is quuUuuuUU--iiiIIIIiitttte right, and you just end up being kinda cranky and generally dissatisfied with everything, no matter how good, 'cos it's not what you're jonesin' for.
Which explains a lot about my general state of mind and why mebbe this whole 57 channels with nothing on thing gets to me so much, but perhaps that's another post for another time, eh?
At any rate: for eight years, every spring and summer, my mouth gets fixed to have some of that 'mater stuff, a craving that never gets satisfied. And so I eat any number of other fresh yummies and try to put it out of my mind, carry on with my life and try not to cry too much about it 'cos hey, I coulda never been able to EXPERIENCE it at all, and that would be a much greater tragedy.
Onward, ho.
A few weeks ago, I was having one of those "missing Grandmuzzer" moments. I decided one of the best things I could do was poke through the cookbooks I inherited when she bit it (HA HA, Uncle Alphabet! You may have all of hte art work she wanted me to have, but I have her cookbooks - with notes and bits of magazine and index cards covered in her handwriting) - I was also looking for a copy of her cheese biscuits anyhow.
What is super-rad about the particular cookbook I was poking through is that it was her favourite cookbook - I got about 20 books when she died, but it's pretty clear which ones she used the most, and this one in particular was well-loved.
You can tell by the way the front and back covers are held to the body with rubber bands, the pages are taped back together at the binding to reassemble the punch holes, and that the insert pouches have the texture of fine cloth.
This cookbook - like many great Southern cookbooks - was put together by the local Junior League. It's not as famous as Charleston Receipts or Teatime at the Masters, perhaps, because Hartsville is not quite as popular with tourists as Charleston and Augusta. Nonetheless, it's quite a nice little cookbook, and Grandmuzzer (and I, frankly) was quite enamoured of the little envelopes that were included at the beginning of each section.
[Actually, it is really rad - each section of the cookbook - h'ors d'ouvers, cocktails, poultry, cakes and pies, etc - has an envelope at the header that is hole-punched and has some corresponding illustration, so the enterprising homemaker can clip interesting receipts from her Ladies' Home Journal and keep it handily near the rest of her receipts!]
So I was emptying the pockets and looking at the notes she had jotted and the index cards from her friends with receipts for coffee cake and jello moulds and chicken pies and... Wait, what's this "Jane's Cold Tomato Soup" receipt?
...
...
...
Oh. Holy. SHIT! THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!
... I think.
Anyhow. So that was a few weeks ago, and what with being sick and the weather insanity and being broke (no grocery store trips that are off schedule!) -- I haven't been able to test it to verify that this index card, covered in her neat, slanting script is actually the icebox soup I've been craving.
'Til last night when HotRod sed "Hey, so let's go get some groceries," and I snatched up that lil' card and sed "let's go!" And when we got home, I mixed up a batch of the Stuff while Das 'Rod sliced meats and I made taters in the oven, and then COULDN'T TRY IT.
'cos you have to let the flavours meld, of course.
So it was with great trepidation I ladled a bunch out into my ghostie bowl this morning to bring with me for food today. But by 10 this morning, I just couldn't bear it anymore, and I HAD TO KNOW.
... Y'all?
It totally is icebox soup. And it totally freakin' rules.
[In other news: I have a buttload of apples, grapes, and baby carrots as well to nosh on. NOMNOM! Get in my belleh! Also: Roasted cauliflower FTW!]
We have so many options, and I dunno about you, but much like music, I want to HAVE IT ALL, right in my face. Now, please.
Those of you that know me in MeatSpace know that I likes to eat. I like to eat a lot. Good food, bad food, burgers the size of a large head, bulgar, TVP, big honkin' ribeyes, pho, shrimp, carrots, prunes, craisons, pear salad, baby spinach, whole roasted chickens...
Basically, there's not a lot I don't eat (liver, [stuff]mush/ hash, tuna, and salmon). Other than those few things, I'll eat it and be pretty happy about it.
But for quite a long time now, I've been desperately missing my Grandmuzzer. Not only 'cos she was such an integral part of my life and had insane amounts of infulence on my life, but 'cos there were certain things she made that I never had anywhere else 'cos no one else made 'em. A few years before she died, I asked for a receipt for one of these things - she called it "icebox summer soup," and it was this awesome concoction of tomatoey goodness that was somewhere between gazpacho and salsa. The answer I got was essentially "Oh, just put some tomatoes with some vinegar and sugar, and maybe some other diced vegetables, if you want, and mix it all up." And y'all?
That was NOT HELPFUL.
I spent one whole summer trying to get the proportions right and threw out a LOT OF TOMATOES (which is pretty much a crime against summer right there, frankly. And we all know how I feel about summer).
I was never able to quite get it right, and when she died, I think there was a part of me that mourned that 'mater stuff right alongside her.
'Cos see, I'd been down this road before when my Papa Don died. He made the best coarse-texture mustard slaw in the whole world -- and no one else could ever quite get it right. It was one of my favourite things about the coming of summer - knowing I'd get that cole slaw.
Anyhow. So, the last time I had that icebox soup was probably eight years ago. And maybe it's just me, but sometimes, your mouth just gets set for something and you want to eat it, and nothing else will quite get it done. You can TRY, but nothing is quuUuuuUU--iiiIIIIiitttte right, and you just end up being kinda cranky and generally dissatisfied with everything, no matter how good, 'cos it's not what you're jonesin' for.
Which explains a lot about my general state of mind and why mebbe this whole 57 channels with nothing on thing gets to me so much, but perhaps that's another post for another time, eh?
At any rate: for eight years, every spring and summer, my mouth gets fixed to have some of that 'mater stuff, a craving that never gets satisfied. And so I eat any number of other fresh yummies and try to put it out of my mind, carry on with my life and try not to cry too much about it 'cos hey, I coulda never been able to EXPERIENCE it at all, and that would be a much greater tragedy.
Onward, ho.
A few weeks ago, I was having one of those "missing Grandmuzzer" moments. I decided one of the best things I could do was poke through the cookbooks I inherited when she bit it (HA HA, Uncle Alphabet! You may have all of hte art work she wanted me to have, but I have her cookbooks - with notes and bits of magazine and index cards covered in her handwriting) - I was also looking for a copy of her cheese biscuits anyhow.
What is super-rad about the particular cookbook I was poking through is that it was her favourite cookbook - I got about 20 books when she died, but it's pretty clear which ones she used the most, and this one in particular was well-loved.
You can tell by the way the front and back covers are held to the body with rubber bands, the pages are taped back together at the binding to reassemble the punch holes, and that the insert pouches have the texture of fine cloth.
This cookbook - like many great Southern cookbooks - was put together by the local Junior League. It's not as famous as Charleston Receipts or Teatime at the Masters, perhaps, because Hartsville is not quite as popular with tourists as Charleston and Augusta. Nonetheless, it's quite a nice little cookbook, and Grandmuzzer (and I, frankly) was quite enamoured of the little envelopes that were included at the beginning of each section.
[Actually, it is really rad - each section of the cookbook - h'ors d'ouvers, cocktails, poultry, cakes and pies, etc - has an envelope at the header that is hole-punched and has some corresponding illustration, so the enterprising homemaker can clip interesting receipts from her Ladies' Home Journal and keep it handily near the rest of her receipts!]
So I was emptying the pockets and looking at the notes she had jotted and the index cards from her friends with receipts for coffee cake and jello moulds and chicken pies and... Wait, what's this "Jane's Cold Tomato Soup" receipt?
...
...
...
Oh. Holy. SHIT! THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!
... I think.
Anyhow. So that was a few weeks ago, and what with being sick and the weather insanity and being broke (no grocery store trips that are off schedule!) -- I haven't been able to test it to verify that this index card, covered in her neat, slanting script is actually the icebox soup I've been craving.
'Til last night when HotRod sed "Hey, so let's go get some groceries," and I snatched up that lil' card and sed "let's go!" And when we got home, I mixed up a batch of the Stuff while Das 'Rod sliced meats and I made taters in the oven, and then COULDN'T TRY IT.
'cos you have to let the flavours meld, of course.
So it was with great trepidation I ladled a bunch out into my ghostie bowl this morning to bring with me for food today. But by 10 this morning, I just couldn't bear it anymore, and I HAD TO KNOW.
... Y'all?
It totally is icebox soup. And it totally freakin' rules.
[In other news: I have a buttload of apples, grapes, and baby carrots as well to nosh on. NOMNOM! Get in my belleh! Also: Roasted cauliflower FTW!]