I am fortunate to have a responsible teenager who understood the ramifications if he didn’t take care of the phone he was given 18 months ago. I could hear the panic in his voice when he called (on his friend’s phone) after being pushed into a swimming pool. His phone had been tucked “safely” in the pocket of the shorts he was wearing.
My mind quickly searched for supportive words and a solution. Did I remember hearing one should put a wet cell phone into rice?
My son confirmed my thoughts as he explained he had already placed his phone into a Ziploc bag of uncooked rice. He was simply calling to let me know what happened and to alert me to the fact I would not be able to reach him on his cell phone the rest of the day. Boy, I sure do appreciate having a responsible child!
As fans of the hit television show “Mythbusters” my son and husband looked forward to testing the myth suggesting uncooked rice can salvage a wet cell phone. Several web sites suggest leaving the phone in rice for at least 24 hours in an effort to allow the rice to absorb the moisture.
Thus my son waited anxiously, fighting the temptation to open the bag and test his phone. I’m pleased to report our experiment was a success. My son revived his phone and I gained a greater appreciation for a simple kitchen ingredient.
Many years ago we inherited a rhubarb plant from my husband’s grandmother. What a mysterious plant! Arguments continue among scientists and gardeners as to whether rhubarb is a vegetable or a fruit. Originally cultivated for medicinal purposes, rhubarb is now more commonly used as a major ingredient in many culinary recipes.
I look forward to the perennial plant as it grows from the rich soil each spring. The small bright shoots embrace the spring rain and warm sun and eventually burst into elephant-size leaves often spanning a foot or more in width. But be cautious as consumption of the leaves is toxic.
The beauty of rhubarb is in its stalks below the leaves, which transforms color the taller it grows. The transformation begins with a crimson red base turning to hues of pink and ultimately ending with an iridescent light green.
Harvest the rhubarb plant by cutting the base of the stalk with a sharp knife. Remove the large leaf at the other end of the stalk. Rinse the stalk with water and dice into bite-size pieces. The diced rhubarb can be frozen in plastic bags for three or four months.
Rhubarb is quite tart and is often used in pies, cobblers and jam. My favorite use for rhubarb? Strawberry rhubarb pudding! My least favorite use? Rhubarb wine!
As I walked through the back yard this morning the sweet fragrance of roses filled the air. The overnight rain has brightened the cherry red rose blossoms and brilliant green leaves on our climbing rose bush, a sign that spring really is here. I have always been a fan of natural, wild roses.
Flowers bring simple pleasures. The rainbow colors of a springtime bouquet bring beauty to a dining room table. A collection of iris presents sophistication and elegance. And the intricacy of the lilac bloom dazzles the mind with each curling flower bursting with aroma!
My appreciation for flowers follows me to the kitchen. For years I have utilized fresh flowers in wedding cake designs. I have also enjoyed the simplicity of flowers placed delicately on a dessert plate; violets, marigolds, pansies, corn flowers, rose petals and carnations just to name a few!
Edible flowers provide a magical, sweet experience.
Looking for that truly special touch? Brush egg white onto a flower or petal and sprinkle with superfine granulated sugar. Allow to dry at room temperature and garnish your next bowl of ice cream with candied flowers. It’s simple. It’s elegant. It’s magical!
Traveling the roads between rolling green pastures and freshly tilled dirt fields planted with the season’s first crops brought peace and comfort to me as we drove through eastern Iowa this weekend. Our car hummed along as we encountered the hills and curves of the country roads.
My husband and I were raised in similar settings with the Midwest countryside being a common ground for Sunday afternoon drives. Our journeys often took us to family homes where we spent hours visiting with extended family members and friends.
I remember being annoyed with those visits as a child. Why were we wasting our time driving for miles just to talk to someone? Why can’t I be at home hanging out with my friends? Who is that person who just hugged me? Would they please stop dwelling on how much I’ve grown?
I sensed the same questions were filling my own children’s minds this weekend. One doesn’t fully appreciate family, especially extended family, until adulthood is reached.
The family tree is such a powerful image. The strong base of support complemented with branches of individuals engaged in a lifetime of activities, some joyful and others sorrowful. The family base is what gives us the strength and momentum to carry through it all.
We do grow up quickly and we should savor each moment; every birth, every graduation, every wedding, every funeral, each and every event in between. And along the way we should embrace the family members who take time to show they are proud of our place in the family tree.
One of my pastimes includes perusing the internet searching for recipes. I’m always searching for that new casserole dish. You know, the one that incorporates a variety of ingredients, is easy to assemble and will provide a well-rounded meal for the family.
Over the years I have become quite good at putting a personal spin on the recipes I discover. It is very common to find recipes incorporating the infamous can of cream of mushroom soup. Ugh! If I read another recipe with that dreaded ingredient I will scream!
Long ago I created a homemade cream of mushroom soup replacement. Following is the recipe:
Cream of Mushroom Sauce
4 oz. mushrooms, minced
¼ white onion, minced
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. butter
4 Tbsp. flour
1 ½ cups chicken broth
¼ white wine
In a sauté pan heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil; add minced mushrooms and onion and cook until soft. Set mixture aside. Melt butter in a small saucepan. Whisk in flour to create a roux. Slowly add the chicken broth and continue to whisk, blending with flour mixture. Add white wine and whisk until well blended. Stir in mushroom mixture and use sauce in recipes calling for the dreaded can of cream of mushroom soup!
A large robin, whose chest was bursting with a flaming deep orange color, greeted me as I opened my car door. We made eye contact as he watched me stretch my arms above my head. I inhaled the fresh air and took time to observe the nature that surrounded me.
This wasn’t my first trip to Dyke Arboretum of the Plains in Hesston, Kansas. Each time I arrive at this beautiful setting I am reminded of the tranquility nature can bring.
My first encounter with this setting was several years ago when I catered a wedding at the facility. The ceremony took place next to the fresh water pond. Watching the wedding party from afar I observed the carefree, gentle spirit of true love as vows were exchanged and the flower girls pranced across the freshly cut grass.
While dinner was served inside the main building guests had a breathtaking view of the grounds and walkways bursting with seasonal prairie flowers, each tagged appropriately so the amateur and professional gardener could identify their favorites.
The wedding cake was served on the stone patio. Chinese lanterns hung in the trees. Sidewalks were lined with candles in mason jars. The cool summer breeze brushed across one’s face. And the sun began to set with hues of pink and orange.
Established in 1981, Dyke Arboretum provides the public opportunity to explore the wildflowers of the Great Plains. The revolving garden is complemented with a walking path, an education center, a gift shop and a pavilion.
Dyke Arboretum provides the perfect setting for celebrations, workshops, seminars, photo shoots and moments of simple solitude. I am grateful for this oasis just 20 miles from my home!
Springtime in our household means a time of cleansing. It’s a time to rid our family dwelling of clutter and unused items. This week I have focused on our kitchen and discovered we own one of the most useless kitchen gadgets. The bread machine!
We invested in the bread machine during the rage of having a machine mix, proof and bake a loaf of bread. Our pantry became full of ingredients we would normally never purchase; wheat bran, gluten flour and dark rye flour just to name a few. Each product had to be specifically designated for use in a bread machine, a cost factor we hadn’t considered.
Mixing the dough was simple enough as long as you put just the right amount of the costly ingredients in the machine at just the right time. Don’t forget to press the right button in the right order!
As the bread began to bake, the aroma gave a glimmer of hope that the work and expense involved was worthwhile. Those thoughts were quickly shattered as the metal pan was removed from the machine and we dumped a block of bread onto the cutting board.
The crust was hard, the loaf shaped like a large brick. Our bread knife sawed through the brick only to reveal a tasteless, over-uniformed slice of bread. How boring and disappointing!
We quickly returned to purchasing bread from the local grocery store and continued searching for the “perfect” bread recipe to create by hand. Knowing that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, our bread machine now awaits the next garage sale!
This spring my husband and son have been working on a lawn project. Their ultimate goal? Rid the luscious green grass of all dandelions, a seemingly daunting task in my eyes! While many consider the dandelion a nuisance I find the plant complex and intriguing.
My first experience with the dandelion was as a young child. I’d sit cross legged in our backyard surrounded by handpicked yellow blossoms, complete with pale green stems, and weave necklaces, bracelets and crowns. My hard work not only resulted in a set of jewelry but also in yellow stained fingertips!
From a culinary perspective I have been impressed with the many uses of the dandelion. The dandelion has been referred to by many sources as a multi-faceted herb. Salad greens. Soothing teas. Medicinal purposes. Wines. Bee nectar. The list goes on and on.
My favorite use of the dandelion? Telling my brother to close his eyes and open his mouth for a big surprise. Caution: Choking can occur while inserting the "puffball" into one's mouth!
For many Good Friday is a somber occasion as it reflects upon the death of Jesus at the cross. The Christian observance is the precursor to Easter morning when the resurrection of Jesus Christ is celebrated. What an intense, meaningful weekend!
I marvel at the beauty of this holiday and reflect upon the simplicity of the egg used to symbolize rebirth. My mother taught me to decorate eggshells in many shades of color. Purple and green were my favorite. Sometimes we created decorations on the eggshell with crayon before dipping them into the dye. The results were stunning.
Preparation for our egg decorating was a year-long process. Whenever my mother needed an egg for cooking she would poke a hole on each end of the egg with a knife. She proceeded to blow the egg white and yolk into a bowl. The process was tedious as the holes needed to be large enough to extract the egg content but small enough to keep the egg shell from cracking. If you blew too hard, the eggshell would shatter.
My mother collected the eggs in a brown grocery store bag and by the time the annual holiday arrived my siblings and I had a plethora of eggs to decorate. We’d carefully place an egg in the dye mixture, push it down with a spoon and let it fill with liquid. The weight of the liquid kept the egg immersed until the desired color was achieved. Once removed from the liquid, we blew the contents from the egg and placed them on paper towels to dry.
The decorated hollow eggs provided the perfect tool for safe, repetitive Easter egg hunts.
At the end of March my husband and I closed our restaurant, Amics Mediterranean Café and Tapas bar, after seven years of operation. Amics was known for its creative food and relaxed dining atmosphere. Our appreciation for other cultures was the foundation of its existence.
Many cultures incorporate the afternoon or evening meal to celebrate life. Socializing with family and friends over a nourishing meal is essential to building relationships for the Spanish, Italian, Greek and many other countries of the Mediterranean.
My husband and I were both raised in the Midwest and an important part of our childhoods was focused around the dining room table. Our families consumed meals together while discussing the day’s activities, relishing in each other’s successes and offering support when frustrations arose. The family meal was a true time of nourishment.
Over the years our restaurant became the focus of our lives and we neglected many things in our personal lives, including family time with our children now 11 and 13. Our family mealtime was replaced with routine restaurant activities.
This weekend we returned to our family table. Our round antique table was full of conversation, jokes and exuberant discussion as we engaged once again in each other’s lives. It felt good to be home!
During spring break I travelled to Branson, Mo., with the McPherson Arts Council Children’s Choir. The week was full of activity as the children performed pre-shows at professional theatres, attended vocal clinics and enjoyed a free day at Silver Dollar City.
Amidst the activity were many meals at area restaurants. Our first meal was at the Dixie Stampede show incorporating country western music, animals, stunts, comedians and an all-American meal.
My favorite part of performance was watching the servers! Our waiter, dressed in a Civil War uniform representing the North, single handedly served the meal for our group of 33. The meal consisted of a creamy vegetable soup followed by a garlic biscuit. He soon returned with a tray full of Cornish game hen and with a pair of tongs delivered each hen safely to its plate. A slice of pork followed along with a baked potato. The finale included an apple turnover.
As the meal began I watched anxiously to see how the children would react when they realized there was no silverware. It didn’t take them long to embrace the fun of consuming the entire meal with their hands!
Springtime brings many fond memories of my childhood. My family lived in an old farmhouse on three acres but we had the luxury of city life as the town of Lawrence was built around our homestead. It was the best of both worlds.
I remember running through the grass laden with morning dew looking for the first flowers of the season. Daffodils, lilacs and hyacinths. But my favorite discovery was the crocus. The simple flower appeared in elegant colors of purple, yellow and white. The first crocus sighting meant Easter was not far away.
Little did I know as a child that my favorite flower, the crocus, would become one of my favorite spices! According to a New York Times article, saffron is “the only spice that you see, you smell, and you taste with such power.”
Native to the Mediterranean, saffron is cultivated primarily in Spain and is the most expensive spice in the world. The golden red pistils of each crocus flower are hand picked then carefully toasted dry bringing out their full flavor. More than 225,000 stigmas must be picked to produce one pound.
Your palate will enjoy a pinch of saffron in many dishes including risotto, paella, stews and sweet breads.
I have been a Yankees fan since birth as my mother was born and raised in the Bronx.
She was born in the early 1930s and was the child of an Italian Catholic woman and a
Protestant German man. My great grandparents’ marriage didn’t last long as the two
families discriminated against each other. In fact, my mother never met her father.
As a young child my mother lived in a traditional brick apartment building with her mother’s
Italian family. On several occasions a young man would knock at the front door demanding
to see her, but she was rushed back to the bedroom and was told (in Italian) not to come
out until instructed. To this very day my mother is convinced that man was her father.
By the time my mother was twelve years old both her grandmother and mother were
deceased. She was raised by her Italian grandfather until his death and then spent time
being shifted from relatives to neighbors until she was old enough to support herself.
Mother lived a lonely life as an “orphaned” only child.
Despite the sad times my mother is able to recall some fond memories, all reflecting her
heritage. Her grandfather emigrated from Northern Italy where he was a farmer and where
he sang at La Scala, the world renowned opera house in Milan. While I’d like to say he was
a famous opera singer, he only participated as a nameless chorus member!
Her grandmother, also a native of Italy, spent hours in the kitchen creating homemade
spaghetti sauce and pasta. The aromas filled the apartment and her work was evident even
in the bedroom where she laid the ravioli out on the bed to dry.
Mother remembers her grandfather hoisting her up onto his broad shoulders and strolling
down the neighborhood streets where various ethnic groups lived. She was a true member
of the American “melting pot” with Italian, Greek, German and Asian neighbors.
Many afternoons were spent on the apartment rooftop watching her grandfather tend the
garden. My great grandfather would till the dirt with his hoe while singing songs from “The
Marriage of Figaro” with his deep Italian voice.
Learning to embrace diversity requires one to reflect upon his or her upbringing and
heritage. I was raised in a university town in northeast Kansas (Rock Chalk Jayhawk!) and
my childhood memories include traveling to my paternal grandparents’ home to celebrate
various holidays including Easter, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Father’s Day
often coincided with my birthday.
My grandparents lived in a white two-story home in Horton, Kansas, a small rural
community located in Brown County. My grandfather’s family emigrated from
Czechoslovakia. My grandmother was Irish.
Each holiday had its traditional meal including ham at Easter, turkey at dinner and the
option of chili or oyster stew at Christmas. Many meals were complemented with Jell-o
salads, mashed potatoes, green beans, pickled beets and white dinner rolls. And Christmas
was always celebrated with cherry kolaches!
As a result of my oldest cousin’s inability to say “Grandpa,” my grandfather’s nickname
was “Bump.” The name remained through the birth of eight grandchildren and many great
grandchildren.
My grandmother’s name was Opal. In my early teenage years I remember asking my
mother why we didn’t call her “grandma.” My mother’s response caught me off guard as she
replied, “Because she’s not your grandmother!”
Not my grandmother? It was then that I learned my paternal grandmother, Bernice
Gormley, was a victim of ovarian cancer and passed away before I was born. I yearned to
know why this information had never been shared with me.
My mother must have read my mind. She explained my grandmother had lived a difficult life
and for many years displayed an angry demeanor, perhaps caused by depression or mental
illness. The family refrained from talking about her because of their unhappy memories.
There was little else my mother could tell me as Bernice died before my parents married.
Over the years I gathered stories from my father, some that gave me a glimmer of hope
that my grandmother indeed experienced happiness taking care of her family. She was
known for her baking skills, specifically when it came to making kolaches. Even with her
Irish background she was able to master the Bohemian treat!
When Opal, the grandmother I always knew, joined the family she embraced Bernice’s
culinary gift by learning to bake kolaches. To this very day the pastry remains a Christmas
tradition in our family.
Some of my fondest memories of being married go back to the early years when we lived in
Quincy, Illinois. My husband was in the first years of pursuing a career in education. I was
waitressing at a restaurant that sat atop a pier overlooking the Mississippi River. After our
day’s work we would head to the gym with friends and lift weights followed by dinner at the
local pizzeria where we would share stories over a pitcher of beer.
I often yearn for those uncomplicated days. Rent was $250 per month with utilities
included. Much of our income was put into savings. Weekends were spent exploring Illinois
sites. And our daily lives were consumed with enhancing friendships through conversation,
food and activities.
It was during this time my interest in culinary arts and travel was strengthened. My job
at the restaurant led to an apprenticeship with a caterer during which time I gained an
understanding and appreciation for the many recipes, ingredients and techniques that
encompass the culinary world. This experience is what inspired me to return to McPherson
and establish my own restaurant.
We also traveled to Spain for a belated honeymoon and my husband introduced me
to Barcelona where he had studied during college. Ah! Beautiful Barcelona! There’s
nothing more refreshing than sitting in the Mediterranean sun enjoying a pitcher of sangria
and artful tapas while being surrounded by a breathtaking blend of gothic and modern
architecture.
Many years have passed since those first years of food and travel. And just like a good
wine, it only gets better with time. Our lives have been enriched by embracing other
cultures. We relish in the lessons we’ve learned by exploring foods, languages, traditions,
history, architecture and art. The list goes on and on!
The best part of the whole experience? We now share those moments with our children.
Through food and travel we strive to teach our children to embrace diversity. The world
extends beyond our everyday lives and once we offer an open mind and heart to that world
an unforgettable journey will begin!
