BAKED SWISS STEAK

When I was first married, I knew how to cook, but my skills were pretty much limited to half-a-dozen recipes. Fortunately, the women in my new family were great cooks, so I had plenty of mentors. My mom-in-law from the mid-west taught me things like how to make gravy. She also taught me how to make good coffee, tailor a blazer, and do bookkeeping the old-fashioned way, with a ledger. Mom has been gone for just over two years, and I still miss her like crazy.

Grandma taught me about pies and cobblers. She never took the bounty of the Pacific Northwest for granted, marveling that something as wonderful as a blackberry was free for the picking. If she saw a neglected orchard, she would stop and ask for ground fall. No one could make a fruit pie better , or more economically, than Grandm. Always remembering the Depression, she was a frugal shopper, and taught me by example.


Most importantly, they taught me not to be afraid of a recipe. To adapt, create, and alter. “They’re just guidelines,” Mom used to say.

It’s true, I’ve learned. Today I can say, without too much exaggeration, that “I’ve never met a recipe I didn’t change.”

So, in honor of her birthday tomorrow, here’s my version of Mom’s Swiss Steak.

BAKE SWISS STEAK
Heat oven to 350°

1 lb. top round or other thin steak
¼ cup flour
¼ tsp. each, salt and pepper
½ cup diced onion
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 - 8oz can tomato sauce
1 cup brown gravy (from a mix or leftover homemade)
1 bay leaf

Cut the steak into four equal pieces. Using a meat tenderizer, flatten the steaks to about ¼ inch, turning frequently. Mix flour with salt and pepper. Dredge steak pieces in seasoned flour, pressing it into the meat.

Heat the oil to medium-high in a Dutch oven. Brown the meat on both sides. Add onions and remove from heat. Mix tomato sauce and gravy. Pour over meat and onions. Stir to combine, turning steaks over to coat. Drop bay leaf into sauce.

Cover and bake at 350° for 60 minutes, or until meat is very tender.

THE SAGE SEED

Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” It was ok with her. Her only complaint was the quantitiy of sage seeds and dust that inevitably came home from Eastern Oregon. At least bird season was shorter than football, and didn’t come into the living room, much.

A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.

Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.

He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukkars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.

Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.

On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.

“I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”

“Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”

“It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”

Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new. A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.

“Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”

An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.

Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.

Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.

“Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.

Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.

A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”

“Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”

Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”

Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.

THE RECIPE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

When I was a teenager I was heavily involved in 4-H with dogs, horses, textiles and food preparation. As a junior in high school, I lived for the summer activities of fairs and shows. My first venture into competitive cooking came when I was sixteen. My best friend and I decided we would enter not only the baked goods category, but also a class titled “Plan a Meal”. The object was to plan the menu for a nutritious dinner, including an appetizer course and dessert; create a table setting appropriate for the meal, complete with centerpiece; and last, but not least, actually prepare the entrée.

I had discovered a dish in one of my mother’s old cookbooks called Braised Pork Chops Creole. Having made it for my family several times, I decided that this would be my entry. The day of the competition, I got up early and prepared everything. It had occurred to me earlier that I would have to transport the saucy dish from home to the fairgrounds. Borrowing mom’s crock-pot seemed like a great way to keep the stuff hot.

I arrived at the fairgrounds purposely early. There would be plenty of time for everything to re-heat. Plugging in the crock-pot, I went on about my business. When it was time for judging, I returned to my station. My place setting had earned a blue ribbon (top 10% in the 4-H world) and my menu a red. Apparently, I went a little heavy on the starch, and a little light on the green leafy vegetables.

Now it was time for the judge to taste my dish. She sat across the table, a stack of small paper plates and plastic utensils at her side. An older lady, she had an air of friendly intimidation. Confidently, I lifted the lid to my creation. To my horror, the entire top was a pool of grease. Not knowing what else to do, I gulped and served up a portion, carefully trying to dip the sauce from the bottom. Thankfully, Madam Judge was kind. She rated the flavor of the meat as excellent, also the texture and tenderness. However, the sauce was ruined. She suggested that next time I remove the bone from the chops, and trim all possible fat.

I didn’t earn a ribbon, but I did learn something. I had not realized how much fat was hidden in the chops. I’d always served them right away, so the excess had stayed hidden within the meat. The additional heating time spent sitting in the crock-pot had released it into the sauce. Though a mildly embarrassing lesson, it was a valuable one. I have been diligent in my trimming, and always bone the chops in this dish.

Shortly thereafter, I met my future husband. One Saturday, when we had been dating for about three months, he came over to help my Dad build a fence. I cooked dinner that night, and made Pork Chops Creole. Years later, he said that was the night he knew he wanted to marry me someday. So even in the last quarter of the twentieth century, the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I imagine it still can be. Here it is, almost thirty years later, and it’s still a favorite.

For a really fabulous version, use smoked pork chops.

Creole Style Pork Chops (The one that started it all )
Serves 4

4 center-cut loin pork chops, boned and trimmed well
½ cup flour seasoned with pepper, onion powder, garlic powder and paprika
1 med. onion, thinly sliced
1 green bell pepper, cut into thin strips
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced, optional
1 - 15oz can diced tomatoes, with liquid
1 - 6oz can tomato paste
3 tbsp. olive oil

Combine tomatoes and tomato paste, and stir until well blended. Pour a little of the sauce in the bottom of a greased 2.5 liter casserole. Fold the vegetables into the rest. Add a little water if necessary. Set aside

Trim chops of all excess fat. Rinse and pat dry. Place seasoned flour in a plastic zipper bag. Shake chops in flour, one at a time.

Heat oil on medium high in heavy skillet. Brown floured chops until golden. Remove from heat. Lay browned chops on sauce in casserole dish. Pour vegetable-tomato mixture on top of the meat.

Bake at 350° for 1 hour, or until thickest part of chop reads 165°.
Serve on a bed of white/wild rice blend, with a green salad.

Variation:
Use 4 fully cooked, smoked pork chops. Remove the bone, if present, trim excess fat, and reduce the baking time to 45 minutes or until vegetables are tender.

SATURDAY NIGHT IN PARADISE - Grilled Leg of Lamb

The backyard barbecue has always been a large part of summer for our family. Being natives of the rainy Pacific Northwest, we learned from an early age to take advantage of any sunny weekend. This made for some very spontaneous parties. Often put together on a whim, the menu varied incredibly. Sometimes, especially on a Friday evening after work, we would do a “bring your own” scenario. Whoever was hosting the event would provide condiments, chips, a side dish or two, and the barbeque to cook on. Friends and their kids would come over, and bring whatever grill-able meat they happened to have on hand. This ranged from hotdogs, burgers and brats to pork chops, ribs or steak. Strangely enough, chicken didn’t happen that often.

I admit, I have been known to buy “deli” potato salad and doctor it up to taste more like homemade. Just add a couple of chopped hardboiled eggs, some diced sweet or dill pickle, and a little extra mayo. I never tried to pass it off as my own, although I didn’t volunteer the information. If anyone asked, I copped to it.

When there was actual planning involved, our patio parties were even better. Sometimes a freshly caught salmon, or a couple of smoked chickens. A butterflied leg of lamb marinated for a couple of days and grilled to a medium-rare perfection, that’s my mother-in-law’s specialty. Pricey, it was a treat usually only she prepared. There would be fresh tossed salad from our garden, pineapple-baked beans, homemade pasta or potato salads. Beverages ranged from ice tea, soda and milk, to wine coolers and beer. The kids would play on the lawn as the sun went down and the citronella candles were lit. The pungent fragrance of the candles mingled with the aroma of briquettes and barbeque. Laughter, music and conversation drifted on the breeze, the sounds of Saturday night in paradise.

Grilled Leg of Lamb

1 leg of lamb, boned and butterflied (the meat cutter at your supermarket can do this)
2 cups Italian salad dressing
2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
1 package Béarnaise sauce mix, prepared

Trim the excess fat from the lamb, making sure to remove all the “silver skin”. Place in a shallow baking dish. Rub both sides with crushed garlic. Pour the dressing over the meat. Cover and marinate overnight.

Grill over hot coals or gas, turning several times until thickest part of roast is done to medium-rare. Rest for 10 minutes before cutting. Slice thinly across the grain.
Serve with Béarnaise sauce on the side.

SUMMERTIME, AND THE LIVING IS EASY

When our kids were young, our favorite vacation destination was Detroit Lake, Oregon. The reservoir is large and deep, with incredible trout fishing. One year, at the last minute, we decided to spend Fourth of July weekend there. Not surprisingly, there was not a campsite to be found. Fortunately, there was a cancellation at the Lakeside Hotel, a tiny, mom and pop operation, just a stones throw from the marina. It was more like staying at someone's cabin than a hotel. The kitchenette was well equipped, with a full size fridge to hold the day's catch. Every morning, we found a fresh container of night crawlers on our doorstep, compliments of management.

Our boys each caught a nice rainbow trout their first time out. Dad showed them how to clean a fish, roll it in cornmeal and fry it in bacon grease. Beaming, they presented their catch at the dinner table, offering to share. We had a bite each and then left the boys to enjoy their feast. Our daughter thought the fish was delicious, but not worth the work of catching it. At eleven, she was just too grown up to handle worms. She preferred to spend her time sunbathing on the bow of the boat (with me, another confirmed non-worm person).


Just in case the fish weren't biting, we always brought something good for dinner. This recipe came from a friend that used to prepare it in the galley of a sailboat. A simple, tasty casserole, it travels well and reheats easily. The only catch is that you need an oven, at least the kind that sits on a camp stove.

Do-Ahead Chicken Pie
Heat to 350°, if using a real oven

1 box chicken flavor stuffing mix
2 cups cooked, cubed chicken (canned chunk chicken works fine)
1 can mushrooms, drained
1 can peas and carrots, or mixed vegies, drained
1 can cream of chicken soup
½ can water

Prepare stuffing per package directions. Set aside.

Combine the soup with water and mix well. Add chicken and vegetables. Mixture should be quite thick. Pour into a greased or non-stick 2-quart baking dish. (For camping, I use a small, enameled metal roaster. It's virtually indestructible and has a lid.)

Spread the stuffing evenly over the top to form a "crust". Cover. Heat slowly, 20-30 minutes or until hot.

FEEDING THE BEAR - Brownie comes home

There have been feral cats in the San Juan Islands for as long as there have been people. They have adapted, become as much part of the environment as the squirrels. The population remains quite stable, and the cats are amazingly healthy. Most likely, that's because so many of us feed them. We also have a healthy population of juncos, finches and stellar jays. I have to refill birdfeeders daily in the winter. During parts of spring and summer, hummingbirds invade the deck like swarms of bees. It's hard to keep three bottles full of nectar. The cats don't seem to bother the birds. As an added bonus, don't have a rodent problem, either.

My husband and I refer to these felines as free-range. It seems so much kinder than feral. We had been told the old black-and-white Tom that "came with" our farmhouse was one of the founding fathers. He was long gone, but many of the cats that crossed our property bore his tuxedo markings. Not being cat people, we never paid much attention to them. Then one summer, our son found a tiny kitten, abandoned in my herb garden. He brought her inside, and Smokey became part of our family. She has not set a paw outdoors since.

Two years later, we were adopted by two of Smokey's siblings. There was dark grey JR, who looked very much like Smokey but with long hair, and golden Brownie. Both were friendly, with lots of personality. They had been living in our garden rockery since they were tiny, first with their mother, then on their own. We grew quite attached to them. As autumn approached, my husband built a shelter for them on our porch, and I started feeding them regularly. The young cats were sleek and fat. However, they were anything but tame.

That was the problem. When we decided to relocate last year, we didn't know what to do about JR and Brownie. We discussed and considered every option, from taking them to the local rescue shelter (where they would surely find homes), to taking them with us to our new location. Either way would involve actually catching the cats.

As moving day approached, I began putting their dinner in the laundry room, with the door open. Cautiously, the shy critters came in to eat, as long as no one was in there. My plan was to get them accustomed to being inside, gradually closing the door, until they would let me pick them up. After a couple of weeks, it became obvious that being tame housecats was not in these guy's plans. They would purr, and rub our legs, but would scurry away at any motion to touch them. We decided then that finding them a "new home" would do more harm than good. They had been born in the woods, had come from parents many generations free-range. My husband compared them to young raccoons.

We made the rather painful decision to leave the boys at the farm. I spoke to the new tenants, (who were happy to have resident rat-catchers), provided ten pounds of kibble to get them started, and waved a reluctant good-bye to JR and Brownie.

Smokey had lived exclusively indoors since she was four weeks old. The old house had been her whole universe. After watching her adjust to her new surroundings, I felt better about the choice we had made. She might as well have been on Mars. Fearfully, she stayed under our bed for hours at a time. At least the boys were in their familiar territory. They only "needed" us at feeding time.

I ran into the new people several times in the first month. Each time, I was told that the "little gray cat with the white boots" hung around the woodshed. They had been putting food out for him, trying to make friends. However, there had been no sign of Brownie. I toyed with the idea of making a poster to put down at the little store…just to see if there had been any sightings, but discarded the notion as rather silly. My husband and I were both certain he was alive. About 18 months old, he was sturdy and muscular. Brownie knew how to take care of himself.

Several more weeks went by, and life got back to normal. It had taken a few days for Smokey to discover the joys of wall-to-wall carpeting. After that, she was quite comfortable and happy. We were still on acreage, surrounded by forest. A herd of deer made daily foraging trips across our yard, and a flock of wild pigeons roosted in a large hawthorn tree. One afternoon, eleven of the neighbor's sheep found a break in the fence, and came over to visit us. Every so often, we would see cats near the edge of the meadow, hunting. One was a huge animal that could have passed for a bobcat, except for its distinctly domestic face.

On a sunny April morning, I was on my way to work when I saw a flash of ginger fur, just outside the door. The animal disappeared before I could get a good look at it. Over the next few days, we saw the orange cat several times, but always from a distance. Then there he was, close enough to see…the little scar on the pink nose…the kink in the tail…Brownie had found us!

Speaking softly and moving slowly, I approached the little cat. He backed off, but didn't run. His fur looked somewhat ragged and he had lost weight. I got a dish of cat food, set it on the step, and walked away, careful not to make eye contact. Brownie waited until I was in my car, then he attacked the food ravenously.

I drove to work with a smile on my face. I had really missed the little cat. Excited, I called my husband. Our new place was about a mile up the road by pavement, much less, as the cat scampers. In his cat-ly wanderings, he must have recognized our vehicles or the scents on them. It's very unlikely that Brownie had been looking for us, but I like to think he was glad, anyway. He was gone when I got home that night, and we didn't see him again for several days. Each evening I stood on the porch and called his name. I was nearly ready to give up, when one night I heard a soft meow in response. "Hey Brownie-boy," I coaxed. "Welcome home buddy. Come get some dinner."

Setting a dish of table scraps on the porch, I stepped back inside. Cautiously, the cat approached, his whiskers twitching, smelling the food. "It's ok, good fella," I crooned softly, "Come on, Brown-bear, that's for you."

Hunger finally won out over his fear. Nervously he stretched forward, grabbed a bite and darted away. I went inside, and slowly, Brownie came back to the dish to finish his meal. The shyer of the two kittens, he had always been very quiet, rarely making a sound. As I watched through the open window, I could hear him purring, the loudest purr I had ever heard.

It went on like this for several days. Every evening, Brownie would come a little closer. The day he actually started eating, before I backed away from the dish, it felt like a small victory. I had finally won a smidgen of his trust. I watched him, contentedly eating. The young cat was obviously thinner. He had been hunting mice, and eating garbage, and was probably infested with parasites. A dose of worm medicine, and some flea drops between his shoulder blades would take care of that problem.

Being on his own, away from JR, Brownie's personality began to shine through. Talkative and friendly, he was happy to rub his body on our legs, while purring and meowing softly. As spring turned to summer, he stayed near the house, sunning on the warm gravel, or curled up on the steps beside the door. He gained weight and filled out, growing into a compact cat, stocky and strong. He started to look like a little brown bear.

Over time, Brownie became quite approachable, by his standards. A good ear-scratching or back rub would earn much purring, as long as we didn't try to pick him up. We folded an old quilt into a thick pad, and placed it in the mud room, near his dish. That night at dinnertime, my husband and I watched through the window. After finishing his cat food, Brownie gave the blanket a cautious sniff, and lay down tentatively. From then on, he was very comfortable, eating and sleeping inside, as long as the door was ajar.

The first truly cold evening of autumn, I let Brownie in…and shut the door. Distracted by the dishing-up of dinner, he didn't notice at first. I set his bowl down, saw him start eating, and went into the house, leaving him alone in the mud room. Good, I thought, he doesn't mind. He'll be safe and warm, with a soft place to sleep.

"How's Brownie doing out there?" my husband asked an hour or so later.
I said I didn't know, and let's go check. Peering into the dim room, we fully expected to see the cat curled up, asleep. Instead, we didn't see him anywhere. Flipping on the light, I stepped into the mudroom and called his name. Instantly, I heard a low growl. Following my ear, I saw Brownie, crouched in the corner behind a stack of flowerpots, looking terrified.

"It's okay, fella," I said, feeling terrible, "I'm so sorry, boy, I didn't mean for you to be scared." Quickly, I crossed the room and opened the outside door. Brownie was through it in a flash of ginger fur. No amount of coaxing would bring him back in, that night.

By the next day, however, all was well again. We made sure the door remained open a bit. My husband stretched a mini-bungee from doorknob to doorframe, held in place by a coffee can doorstop. Brownie had made his wishes abundantly clear. No matter how much he trusts us, confinement is not his cup of tea. So, we do what we can by providing some food and shelter, and he does his part by keeping the rodents away.

The Brown Bear was born a free-range cat, and free-range he has chosen to remain….but he still enjoys his blanket.

SPRINGTIME, FRIENDS AND FOOD

When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend, Julie and I spent spring break at her mother’s cabin near Mt. Hood. It was our first excursion without adults, although we learned later that the neighbors had been keeping a discreet eye on us. At fifteen, we considered ourselves quite self sufficient, and we really did pretty well. We hiked, shot pellet rifles, and rode our bicycles into the town of Rhododendron for breakfast one morning.

One unseasonably warm afternoon, the temperatures topped 70. We decided that it would be fun to go swimming. We dressed in some of Julie’s old cut-off shorts and t-shirts and headed for the creek. By the time we walked the mile or so, mostly uphill, to the swimming hole, we were really hot. The deep water of Still Creek looked inviting. After checking for submerged hazards by poking aroung with a long stick, Julie ran to the bank and jumped in. I was right behind her.

The cold shot through my body like an electric shock. My hands and feet were instanly numb. It had not occurred to us that it was only mid-March, and the creek was full of snow melt. (We were on the ascending slope of Mt. Hood, after all.) Our “swim” lasted approximately 15 seconds. Just long enough to get back out of the water. It had also not occurred to either of us to bring towels. Shivering, and on the verge of hypothermia, we made our way back through the very shady woods. Back at the cabin, Julie stoked the woodstove, the only source of heat. We were very glad that cooking required fire, and we had built one that morning to make coffee. Soon we were in warm, dry clothes and the pot was bubbling. Life was good again.

Julie and I, even as teenagers, enjoyed good food. Her mother was a gourmet cook, happy to cook for us, and teach us anything we wanted to know. My first taste of caviar was in her kitchen. We were both learning to cook, and found the woodstove at the cabin a lot of fun. Being true Oregon tomboys, we grew up with the lore of the pioneers, and wanted to learn all the skills. The week at the cabin was as close as we could come in the 70’s. And much of it revolved around food. We roasted a rabbit (that we brought from the butcher shop) on a spit in the fireplace, and baked potatoes in the coals. It took about five hours, and countless burnt fingers, but it was a delicious meal.

Coffee was in a stove top perculator, and not very good. We either used too much coffee, or let it perk too long. The pancakes we made on the cast iron stove top were another matter, and wonderful. Likewise the pepper-cured honey bacon that we found at the market in Rhododendron.

We lost touch after high school, but have recently re-established contact. Our lives have taken us to, quite literally, opposite ends of the country. Mine to the San Juan Islands of Washington State, hers to northern Maine. No surprise that we both live in the woods. We still both love the outdoors, and fantasize about pioneer living, although on a tamer scale. And we both still love to eat, and cook

Here in the Pacific Northwest, summer is time for fresh Dungeness crab, in my mind, far tastier than any lobster. Julie’s mother passed away a few years ago, but I asked if she would share her special crab soup recipe. I remembered it as her entry in one of the James Beard contests. I believe it won an award, but neither Julie or I can recollect the details. The original recipe was for twelve main course servings, and called for a total of four pounds of crab. I adaptation call for quantities of a more managable size, and the results are scrumptious.

Dungeness Crab Bisque
Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer

½ lb. cooked crab meat
½ lb. cooked crab legs
1 to 1½ quart half & half
¼ lb. butter
¼ cup flour
1 tbsp. onion, grated
2 drops hot pepper sauce or ¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
½ cup heavy cream
1 tbsp. Scotch Whiskey (optional)
Salt, Pepper, Chopped parsley, Paprika

Melt butter in double boiler. Add Flour and onion and cook at least 20 minutes up to two hours (the longer, the better). Slowly add most of the half & half, stirring at low heat to keep from lumping. If too thick, add more half & half. Add a sprinkle of black pepper and the Tabasco Sauce. (Up to this point can be made ahead of time and allowed to cool).

An hour before serving, heat slowly to a simmer. Stir in whiskey and add the crab meat and legs, being careful not to break it up too much. Check for seasoning and add salt if needed (often, the crab is salty enough on its own).

To serve, pour the heavy cream into serving bowls and pour the soup over it. Sprinkle with finely chopped parsley and plenty of paprika.

DIRTY FINGERNAILS - a short essay

There is a certain kind of spirituality I can only find by gardening. A special peace and solitude, a feeling of being one with the universe. The sun, warm on my back. The feel of soil, sifting through my gloveless fingers. The scent of earth and water. The songbird’s carefree melody. Tiny seeds carefully placed in pockets of moist compost, to emerge, days later as wee green leaves. Truly a rebirth each spring.

Optimism is indispensable to having a garden. There is trust that insects and critters will take no more than their share; and confidence that there will, indeed, be a harvest. Each seed and every transplant is a gesture of faith. I plant peas every spring, mainly because I can’t wait to get out there and dig. I have yet to harvest more than a few handfuls. The birds and worms frequently get more than we do. Even so, I will plant them again next year.

The joy I get from growing food for my family is immeasurable. I can think of no better feeling than serving a meal made with my own, fresh produce. When the children were small, we grew nearly all our vegetables and fruit. The garden was a quarter acre, with everything from asparagus to zucchini. There was always enough to preserve, to share with friends, even some to sell.

I garden on a smaller scale now that the kids are grown, but it’s in my blood. I await the first radish each year with the same eagerness I had as a child. The last tomato picked before frost always makes me a bit sad. I’ve spent many winter evenings engrossed in seed catalogs. My husband says I’m happiest with dirt under my fingernails. I must say, I believe he’s right.

A KITTEN FOR KELLY - a children's story

Kelly lived with her parents and older brother in a little house overlooking the ocean. The house sat on the side of a granite hill surrounded by forest. Some of Kelly’s best friends were the animals that lived in those woods. Every morning before school, Kelly went outside to top-off the bird feeders, making sure they were full of seed. In the afternoon, she checked the old stump that held peanuts and sunflower seeds for the squirrels. She had named many of the bushy-tailed neighbors. On weekends, she would walk down to the beach and sit on the pier, watching the sea lions lazing on the rocks, or the sea otters playing in the surf.

Kelly loved the wild critters, but she had always wanted a cat. Her teenage brother, Mark, had a dog named Skipper. He was a black and tan mostly-German-shepherd, and followed the boy everywhere. Mark had found him by the road one day, scraggly and skinny, and brought him home. He had bathed and groomed him and fattened him up. Now he was a part of the family. He was friendly and sweet, but he was really Mark’s dog. Kelly was very envious.

"Mama," she would say, "Don’t you think I could have a kitten?"
Mama would reply with a smile, "You be patient, sweetie, the time will come."
So, Kelly tried to be patient, and made do with her wild friends.

Spring came to the forest and everything seemed to be growing. The leaves sprouted on the alders and the hummingbirds returned from their winter hide-away. The does appeared with tiny, white spotted fawns. They were so used to people that even Skipper did not bother them. Kelly’s dad had built a fence around the garden to keep the friendly deer out of his wife’s flowers and vegetables.

This garden was one of the little girl’s favorite places. She would stretch out on the grass under the apple tree and daydream, sure that fairies lived in the branches above. Sometimes she would set up her little farm with all its plastic cows, sheep and horses and play for hours. One day, just after lunch, Kelly was out in the garden when a huge, calico cat, appeared at the edge of the fence. Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. The cat stretched lazily, and began washing her face with a forepaw. Kelly giggled. She reached out her hand. "Here kitty, kitty," she said softly.

The cat raised her head and looked, then casually turned and left the garden. Kelly was curious. She got up to follow. By the time she got through the gate, the cat was gone.

After that, Kelly saw the cat regularly. Sometimes it was in the garden, and sometimes sunning on a rock or crossing the drive, going toward the beach. Try as she might, she was never able to get near enough to touch it. Soon she started leaving a dish of food near the garden fence. Each morning the dish would be empty, but she was never sure if it was the cat, or some raccoons that were enjoying the feast.

Kelly decided to try again, "Daddy, could I have a kitten for my birthday? I’ll be eight this year. Isn’t that old enough?"

Her father tried to look gruff, "An animal is a lot of responsibility. Do you think you could remember to feed and take care of it?"

"Of course I could!" Kelly stated, indignantly. "I’d take the best care of it!"
"Well," He gave in, smiling, "We’ll see what we can do. But you better be extra good!"
Kelly was beaming. Surely she would have her very own kitten soon.

Spring wore on. The daffodils opened, wild all over the woods, and the tulips behind the fence raised their colorful heads. The herbs in mother’s garden had soft new growth and a lovely fragrance. The bushes were alive with birds of all kinds. And the calico cat kept visiting the little girl.

The day of Kelly’s birthday was sunny, warm for late May. It was a perfect day for a party. Her mother had set up cake and games on the front deck, and several friends were expected that afternoon. It was a wonderful birthday. The girls played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and broke a piñata. After cake and ice cream, they played hide-and-seek in the woods. Kelly had a great time.

That evening after supper, the family gathered for their own little celebration. The hearth was stacked with birthday gifts. There was a big box from her father. She decided to save it for last. Some muffled noises seemed to be coming from it. There were the clothes from her mother, as usual, and a game from Mark. Finally, she tore the wrapping from the big box. Inside was a cage containing a small black and white rabbit. For just a moment, Kelly was disappointed. Then she reached in pulled the bunny into her arms. "Thank you, Daddy! I promise I’ll take good care of him!"

"I know that you will," Her father grinned. "I’m sorry that it’s not a kitten, but no one in the whole county had kittens yet. I guess it’s too early in the year."
"That’s ok," She grinned back. "This bunny is just as cuddly."

Kelly named the rabbit Hoppy, and played with him every day out in the yard. Sometimes the calico cat would watch them, probably hoping for a rabbit dinner, but she never came very close. The girl made sure Hoppy was safely tucked into his cage before she went in for the evening. She loved her bunny, but she still dreamed of a kitten curled up in her lap when she did her homework. Of course, she never told her parents. They had tried the best they could.

Spring turned into summer and school let out. The long lazy days stretched out in front of her. Playing in the woods and in the garden, going to the beach and fishing off the pier. She noticed that she hadn’t seen the big cat in quite a while.

One Saturday in early July, Kelly went to town to shop with her mother. They went to the mall and had lunch at a coffee shop. In late afternoon they drove back home, tired and happy. As they turned up the drive, Kelly spotted Mark on the front porch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them. What’s he up to? She wondered.

Mark came out to help unload the car. "Hurry up," He urged, "Dad has something to show you."

In the family room, Dad was stretched out in his favorite recliner. He put his fingers to his lips as he saw them come in. Lying on his chest, wrapped in a dishtowel, was a tiny kitten. It raised sleepy eyes and uttered a tiny meow. "Where did it come from?"

"It was the darndest thing," Mark piped up, "I heard Skipper barking by the garden fence, and he wouldn’t stop. So I went to see what was going on, and there was this kitty, lying in the herb garden under the apple tree."

"All by itself?"
"Uh huh, all alone. And look, it can hardly walk, it’s so little."

Kelly took the kitten from her Dad. He could hold it in the palm of one hand. It was black, with a white bib, white whiskers and white hind paws. Its eyes were still blue, only having been open a few days, at most. She held it up to her face. It smelled of lavender and sunshine.

"How did it get there?"
"All I can figure," her father answered, "is that she got separated from her mother. They’ll leave them sometimes, the littlest ones. But I haven’t seen any stray cats around here."
"I have," Kelly said, entranced, "A big black and orange one."
"I’ve seen that one too," Mark nodded. "Maybe that’s the mom."
"What are you going to do with it?" the girl was almost afraid to ask.
Her Dad smiled. "As I recall, I did promise someone a kitten."
"Really?" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I can keep it? It’s so cute! Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Pretty sure it’s a girl. But we’ll have the vet check her all out anyway." Dad said, "I’ll bet she was born right around the time of your birthday."

Skipper came into the room. The tiny kitten arched her back and hissed at the huge dog. Skipper gave her a sniff, then with a slurp licked her from head to toe. Everyone laughed. "Well, I guess it’s official," Mom said, "That little thing is part of the family now."

Kelly went to bed happy that night, a basket full of kitten purring by her side. She was sure the old garden cat had not abandoned her baby, but had left the kitten just for her. Why else would she have been in the garden, under the magic apple tree?

AFTER THE STORM - Orcas Island, Feb. 2006

The wind shrieked through Obstruction Pass, a driving rain crashing against the windows. Gale force winds roared like a monstrous freight train. The old farmhouse rattled and groaned, the gutters overflowing. Broken branches scurried across the deck. At some point, the wind chimes ceased to ring, they just got too tangled.

According to the radio, gusts in Seattle and Everett were around 55 mph....We knew they were much harder here, over 70 at times. A row of giant Douglas firs bent like reeds. The roar was regularly punctuated by the crack of a tortured limb, now amputated. Sound sleep was impossible, as the storm raged on through the night.

Daylight brought some relief. The ancient trees settled into a rhythmic dance. They had survived worse. Finally, by midday, the gusts stopped coming. Was it over? The wind had calmed considerably, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

With no small apprehension, we went outside to scope out the damage. A blanket of fir needles and twigs covered the gravel of our parking area. Several widow-maker limbs lay across the driveway, with some smaller boughs scattered randomly. On the front porch some planters had been knocked over. A branch the size of a small tree hung off the edge of the deck. In the back, a hundred foot alder went down, just tickling the edge of our roof with its top branches. Stunned by our good fortune, we couldn’t help but laugh. No real damage, just an enormous mess.

Critters of various kinds were out after the storm. Stiff from a night of huddling under cover, the farm cats emerged from their hut. A raccoon waddled out of a brush pile, looking bewildered. Nature’s hand had created shelter in some places, while destroying it in others. Small birds were on the ground, gleaning insects and seeds, enjoying the freshly fallen bounty. Always opportunistic, the deer took advantage of downed fences to feed from the neighbor’s succulent perennial garden.

Our power had not gone out. (We would later learn that our tiny area was the only part of Orcas that never lost it.) The morning newscast from Seattle was full of storm stories. The floating bridge was damaged and shut down. Power outages were massive. This was of great concern, and for more than just the obvious reasons: It was Super Bowl weekend. The first time in team history the Seahawks were in the big game. Over 100,000 homes with no electricity, no television!

A late afternoon trip to town showed us some of the destruction. As always after a big storm, there were changes in the scenery. Trees stood stark, stripped of all twigs and vines, leaning slightly, all in the same direction. The cattails lay neatly, looking like sheaves of harvested wheat. Several homes, previously screened, were now noticeable.

Amazingly, there were no trash cans, or trash can lids in the ditch. That was more common early in the storm season, when people were likely to be caught off guard. Most everyone battened down the hatches by October.

A whole row of recently planted poplars had snapped like twigs. An enormous alder had gone down next to the road. It was now stacked in cords of future firewood. In its place was an unobstructed view of Mt. Baker. At Buck Bay, the high water had re-sculpted the tidelands. In the park, huge trees were uprooted. A fair size limb dangled precariously over the middle of the road, just high enough to be completely out of reach.

An extreme high tide had combined with the winds to wreck havoc on the shoreline. Several private docks had been badly damaged. Crescent Beach, usually so calm, was devastated. What looked like a decade’s accumulation of driftwood had been hurled up onto the roadway. The beach looked scrubbed. The county crews had already bulldozed the wet mess back toward the waterline. The access path was buried under a pile of debris five feet high. White, sun-bleached logs stuck out at odd angles. The pavement had heaved and buckled in several places. A procession of orange cones marched along the broken asphalt edge.

In town, many businesses were closed. A pick-up truck in the parking lot had one side of the bed crushed down, obviously the victim of a fallen tree. There was more trash here. Remnants of flyers dotted the shrubs bordering the street. The banner announcing Orcas Center’s latest production was twisted around itself.

The market was running on emergency power. Minimal lighting cast an eerie glow across the aisles. We ran into friends, shared gossip. How are things on Buck Mountain? In Deer Harbor? At Rosario? Good news, no one was injured, no one’s boat sank, and no one’s roof blew away…at least not all of it. Bad news, a neighbor’s tractor had wound up on the beach in a mud slide. The linemen had been working non-stop for over twelve hours. “The worst blow in quite a while” was overheard more than once.

Electricity was restored all over the island by Saturday evening. The rain eventually stopped altogether. Sunday the sun came out, for a little while. By Monday, the tattered look had left the trees. The Seattle news reported thousands of homes still without power. And the Seahawks had lost the Super Bowl.

In the islands, life went on. Already the driftwood had begun to settle. Clean up would continue for weeks, storm repair for months, but for now we could relax. Take a deep breath and let it out. Smile and enjoy the brief calm between winter storms.


© February 5, 2006 - Mary Cibulka Brown

THE BEACH HOUSE - it's Great to be Eight!

When I was in second grade, my parents and their best friends rented a cottage at the beach. The two families would spend spring vacation together in Lincoln City, Oregon.

There were four kids, including myself. This was thrilling to me, as an only child. Built-in playmates! Amy, the oldest, was my age. Her brothers, Andy and Paul, were slightly younger. I couldn’t wait!

We got to the cottage on a Saturday. The Johnson’s had arrived the night before. Amy ran out to meet me and show me around.

Leaning slightly, the cottage was wind-worn and faded. The clapboard siding had not seen a paint brush in years. The place was great, it looked like you couldn’t hurt anything if you tried. There was a big, open, kitchen and living room downstairs, and several bedrooms upstairs. Tough clean and neat, the place definitely had an air of casualness. The furniture was old and comfortable and nothing matched. There was a tire swing in the backyard, and the beach was across the street. The kids’ bedroom had two sets of bunk beds. Amy and I called “dibs” on the top bunks.

That night we had a bonfire on the beach. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched the sun go down over the Pacific. I remember dozing by the fire, lulled by the lapping of the waves.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bunk to the smell bacon. After breakfast, we grabbed buckets and shovels and ran to the water. The day was foggy and cool, and the tide was way out. We were going clamming. With just a few tries, I got the hang of digging and flipping clams up onto the sand.

I remember the smell of salt air and seaweed on the spray, and the cries of the gulls, swooping overhead. It was a magical morning, mysterious and still. We pretended the clams were treasure, and that a pirate might appear from the mist at any time. We chased seagulls and played tag, and eventually brought the filled bucket of clams back to the house. There would be fritters or chowder for dinner that night.

By midday, the fog always burned off and the sun came out. Amy and I would roll up our jeans and wade in the tide pools, playing with the sea anemones. The wet sand squished between my wiggling toes. I wanted to bring a starfish home, as a pet, but my father explained that it couldn’t live without saltwater. Reluctantly, I put it back where I found it, to continue its starfish life.

One afternoon the four of us built a huge sandcastle, surrounded by a fence made of oyster shells. As we finished, we saw the tide had crept up, unnoticed. We dug moats to protect the castle, but quickly got overwhelmed. The water surged around our feet as we frantically scooped sand. In no time, we were soaked to the skin. When Paul fell, face first, into the rising water, we realized it was no use. Starting to shiver, we ran back to the cabin. In the morning there was nothing left to mark the spot but a few oyster shells from the fence.

There was no television at the cottage, and none of us missed it. We were seldom inside, anyway. There was always something to do. On our last day, it rained. After a morning of board games and puzzles, and watching it pour, our parents decided to reward our patience. We all piled into the station wagon and drove to town.

Lincoln City was a small, quiet town, home to fishermen and loggers. It was still a decade or more away from being discovered as prime vacation real estate. It drew its share of tourists, though, and did its best to offer things to entertain them.

At the Aquarium, we fed sardines to seals in the front lobby. Crossing through the turnstile into the main gallery was enchanting. Dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the glow from the tanks, the effect was of an undersea cave. Maritime objects decorated the spaces between displays. We saw fish of every size, shape and color. The center of the room was sunken, a wide pool, filled with creatures native to the northwest. An octopus drifted by, changing color as it went, blending in with its surroundings. Sea cucumbers and Dungeness crabs shared space with rock cod and flounder. It looked like an underwater anthill, there was so much activity.

When we were done with the tour, we made our way down the boardwalk. Andy and Paul wanted to ride the bumper cars. But when stood by the red line, they were not tall enough to ride alone. After just a tiny bit of pleading, our dads agreed to take all of us on the ride. Amy and I climbed in with my dad, while the boys got in with theirs. We giggled and squealed as the carts zipped around, bumping and whirling, in a crazy game. Our moms stood by, laughing and waving. On the way back, we had purple snow cones.

That night, Amy and I sorted our collection of shells and other treasures we’d found while beach combing. We stayed awake late, whispering in the dark. I watched the full moon outside the window, and wished our vacation didn’t have to end.

Although the adults talked about it, we never did get back to that cottage. A busy, happy summer came and went. The Johnsons moved away not long after school started, and Amy and I lost touch.

I thought of my old friend the other day, when I found a photograph taken during that long ago vacation. Two eight-year-old girls wearing toothless grins and dragging a massive piece of driftwood, on their way to a new adventure. It all came back in a flash, after more than thirty years. The wonderful week at the crooked old house in Lincoln City.


© 2005 Mary Cibulka Brown

A DRIVE TO REMEMBER

Today, the radio said that Snoqualmie Pass was closed due to heavy snow, and Stevens Pass was requiring traction devices. Holiday travelers were told to expect delays. It reminded of a Thanksgiving trip we took in 1979. Newlyweds, my husband and I were living in Central Oregon, while our family all lived in Portland. That’s a trip of 180 miles or so, usually about 3 hours, if "obeying" the 55 mph speed limit.

It was Sunday. We had spent Thanksgiving Day with my in-laws, and Friday and Saturday visiting friends and family. That day, we had brunch with my mother before getting on the road back home. The forecast was calling for more snow in the mountains, with a traveler’s advisory for the Santiam Pass. Fretting as we prepared to leave, Mom fixed us a care package. “This is way too much food for me,” she said. “You kids take this home.”

Before we reached the highway, we heard that the Pass was closed. Pat had to be at work the next day, so we wanted to get home, if we could. We turned around and headed toward Mt. Hood. Up and over the mountains, then Highway 97 all the way home.

At the base of the mountain was a roadblock, traction devices required beyond that point. Fortunately, we had chains for our old, two-wheel-drive, pick-up. Unfortunately, the sheer number of vehicles chaining up created a massive bottleneck. A single lane of traffic was open in each direction. We started the up-hill climb, amidst hundreds of holiday travelers. Creeping slowly, bumper to bumper in driving snow, progress was minimal. About halfway to the summit, the line of eastbound cars ground to a halt. Minutes passed. The occasional O.D.O.T. truck or county vehicle would pass going the other way. Every so often, we would move a car length or so.

The snow continued to fall hard, the wind blowing. Time dragged on as we sat, trapped in an icy caravan. After four hours, we had yet to reach the summit. I was nine months pregnant with our first child, due any day. Cranky and uncomfortable, I was ready to be home. Pat was worried that I might go into labor, and I was trying not to think about it. He tried to keep the old Ford at a comfortable temperature, but it seemed we were always too cold, or too hot. A thermos of coffee helped, while it lasted.

Brunch was a long time ago, and we were getting hungry. We remembered mom’s care package. Inside was a piece of ham, a brick of Swiss cheese, and several ripe tomatoes. We had excellent sandwich fixings, with no bread or utensils. Laughing, we cut chunks of ham with Pat’s pocketknife, broke bits off the cheese, and ate tomatoes like apples. Food never tasted so good.

Inching along, we finally reached the summit of the pass, the marker barely visible through the snow. The downhill grade did nothing to speed things. As dusk fell, the snow and wind stopped simultaneously. We had been sitting in the truck for nearly seven hours. The line of vehicles stretched as far as we could see, both in front and behind. There seemed no logical explanation for the hold up. No emergency vehicles had gone by, in either direction. We realized that nothing at all had passed for hours.

Three cars ahead of us, a yellow International Scout suddenly put on his turn signal. He pulled into the available left lane, and started down the mountain, oncoming traffic be damned.

Pat looked over at me, “what do you think?”
“Go for it.” I was as sick of the mountain as he was. He pulled out, following the Scout.

The chains bit easily into the new snow, and we progressed steadily. Passing literally hundreds of cars, we encountered no obstacles. Eventually, we reached the front of the line. At its head was a small white sedan, traveling at a snail’s pace. Everyone else had apparently fallen in behind, dutifully staying in line, until it caused an eleven mile traffic jam.

Soon we were off the mountain. The snow behind, the road clear, Pat pulled over and removed the tire chains. Finally, we were able to make some time. The desert shimmered under a layer of frost as we drove through the moonlight. The road spun out before us, long and straight. A far-off flashing red light announced the turn to Warm Springs. Up ahead, we could see taillights. Probably Mr. Scout, we hadn’t seen any other cars. He reached the stoplight…and didn’t even slow down.

“Look at that crazy bastard!” Pat exclaimed. “He just ran right through that red light!”

A moment later, we came to the light…and slid right through it. The entire surface of Hwy. 97 was coated in black ice. We continued, slower and wiser.

Finally reaching Bend, we pulled into the Denney’s restaurant at the edge of town to thaw out, and eat. The place was packed. We got a small booth, and ordered soup and coffee. As we waited, we gazed idly out the window. There was plenty of snow here, and the road was hard packed, plowed. Just then, a huge Buick station wagon approached the diner. Trying to slow, the wagon slid, turning sideways across the four-lane road. We could clearly see the faces in the car. Dad was white-knuckled on the wheel and mom looked terrified, while the kids in the backseat laughed, waving at the people in the restaurant.

We waved back as Dad corrected the skid and continued down the street, completely unscathed. He’d had the entire block to himself

By the time we got home, we had been on the road for over ten hours. We were exhausted, and caught colds, but were otherwise fine. It was another two weeks before our daughter was born.

That was twenty-eight years ago, but when traveling on Thanksgiving, we always remember our first trip home over the mountain.