tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67127291363375639502024-03-13T10:28:56.634-07:00DakotaDinerDakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-65874581655022265222012-03-03T11:00:00.004-08:002012-03-03T11:13:15.588-08:00The Plated Breakfast<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToADvt4Ht-I/T1Js3APb2kI/AAAAAAAAAFc/xXu16hIg4b4/s1600/chef%252520alain%252520pignard%252520in%252520restaurant.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715750569299925570" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 244px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToADvt4Ht-I/T1Js3APb2kI/AAAAAAAAAFc/xXu16hIg4b4/s320/chef%252520alain%252520pignard%252520in%252520restaurant.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>On a recent trip to Canada, I became acquainted with a meal called The Plated Breakfast. A curiously described meal, and yet aptly named because it is clearly distinguished from the from the Stand and & Go Breakfast offered at, let’s say a Starbucks, the daily At My Desk Yogurt & Granola Bar Breakfast, and of course, the Drive Thru Because You’re Late For Work Breakfast. </div><br /><div><br />The Plated Breakfast, at least as presented by the Fairmount Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal, marked the start of each day at the conference I was attending. The food was of superior quality, yet the ambience was pure stereotype business meeting. A congregate meal at the ubiquitous round table in the impersonal hotel conference room. The table held a vast array of plates, glasses, and cups accompanied by multiple forks, spoons, knives, and assorted serving pieces.<br />But on the second day of the conference, The Plated Breakfast became a singular event. That particular morning was distinguished by the corrective actions of our waitperson, who quite reminded me of my stern and imperious third-grade teacher, Mrs. McNulty. Visualize, if you will, a round table with seating for ten. Each place setting consisted of a bread plate and butter knife, two forks, two spoons, a knife, a cup and saucer, a water glass, a juice glass, a folded napkin. Adding to the visual spectacle, were a pair of plastic sunglasses and a neatly folded eyeglass cloth tucked into its plastic holder; a cleverly presented invitation to next year’s conference being held in Orlando, Florida. </div><br /><div><br />My friend Sally and I arrived at a table where four places were already occupied. We took chairs across from our fellow conference goers, smiled, introduced ourselves, and sat down. The problem began when I reached for the coffee pot in the center of the table and made ready for the initial pour of the day. Which cup was mine? </div><br /><div><br />I looked across the table and tried to see which direction our table partners had started. I tried counting the place settings between us. To the right. To the left. I couldn’t calculate, so I gave it a lucky guess. I poured, then reached for the bagels and cream cheese and claimed the bread and butter plate on my left. As we chatted, our waitperson arrived with the plate of breakfast. Wow! Elegance! A scoop of scrambled eggs comfortably seated in a pastry shell, flanked by tiny rounds of uniformly browned potatoes, accompanied by 2 slices of perfectly crisped Canadian bacon.<br />“Non,” said our waitperson. She then proceeded to rearrange my plates and glasses and shift my tableware. “The plate goes here. The knife and fork here.” I cowered back in chair at a clear disadvantage in this assault on my place setting. “I need this space,” she decreed like a general taking command of the battleground. Suddenly, everyone at the table who had been looking forward to what was obviously and an epicurean breakfast was thrown into disorientation. Was this my cup? No – because this is your water glass over here. No – I already drank from that one there. </div><br /><div><br />Within moments that seemed as hours, I had a plated breakfast before me and all the plates, utensils, cups, and glasses on either side of me and across the table were now completely rearranged. Our waitperson smiled at me indulgently, “Bon. Merci,” she declared and hurried off to pick up the next plates in her arsenal of breakfast. I looked down at my plate fearing which fork to pick up. “It’s OK,” Sally reassured “She’s gone now. You can eat.”<br />The conference I attended was the Society of Research Administrators. I learned a lot those three days about research planning, leadership, and ensuring the responsible conduct of research. But nothing I learned that week in Montreal would be as enduring as positioning yourself for the correct placement of A Plated Breakfast. </div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-88732811264392661012011-11-06T12:19:00.000-08:002011-11-06T12:41:21.075-08:00Freinds of the Grape - Nov2011<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvmT_yZUbzM/Trbu3ciXGiI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/yICNwypliZg/s1600/10383353-bottle-and-glass-with-wine-isolated-on-white.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671983417040247330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvmT_yZUbzM/Trbu3ciXGiI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/yICNwypliZg/s320/10383353-bottle-and-glass-with-wine-isolated-on-white.jpg" border="0" /></a> Last night the Madison Friends of the Grape gathered for our fourth meeting for the purpose of expanding our wine palate, enjoying great food, and generally reveling in the camaraderie of new friends joined in mutual admiration of fermented grapes. <br /><div><br /><div><br />Our group was slow to get started, what with the first gathering held in October of 2010. The next in September 2011. Then October. And now November, aka last night. We’re on a roll now! The Friends: (last names omitted to protect reputations and careers) Nancy, Jerry, Kevin, Rick, Bob, Christine, Jenny, Scott, Jon, Beth. And yours truly DakotaDiner and her husband, The Farmer-Architect. </div><br /><div><br />Last night we met at Jon and Beth’s barn. It’s a barn, but only in the very loosest sense of the word. There is planned space for horses, but the remaining space is made over into a warm and cozy gathering place complete with overstuffed couches, flat screen TVs, and a well-appointed kitchen primed for gourmet cooking. Well – lacking a stove and oven – but that’s a minor detail. The decorating theme reflects an life in the great outdoors spelled out in warm earth tones, hunting prints, and touches of equine memorabilia. </div><br /><div><br />The weather paired perfectly with the wine: Cabernet Sauvignon. A big robust and lusty wine in keeping with the gusty, windy South Dakota night. Armed with an outdoor grill, two crock pots, and a roaster, Beth turned out an exquisite dinner to complement wine and weather featuring South Dakota pheasant, seasonally acquired by Jon (OK – I won’t dance around reality – the pheasants were hunted, shot, and dressed by Jon on the opening day of pheasant season three weeks ago.) </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The Menu<br />Pheasant Poppers<br />Green Salad with Feta, Toasted Pine Nuts, and Dried Cranberries<br />Pheasant Rustica<br />Wild Rice<br />Butternut Squash<br />Chocolate-Raspberry Torte </span></div><br /><div><br />Up first in the blind tasting of ten bottles, Bottle #1 everyone agreed was a nice wine, although a little lightweight for a cab. Great cab nose and flavors of cherry and plum, well-balanced, not too tannic.<br /><em>2008 Ghost Pines Winemaker’s Blend, 68% Napa, 32% Sonoma</em><br />Notable quote: “After tasting all ten, it’s still my favorite,” (me)<br /><br />#2: More body than #1, nice legs, young, some heat in the finish<br /><em>2008 Chateau St. Michelle – Columbia Valley<br /></em>Notable quotes: “I enjoy it,” Jenny; “It grows on you,” (Christine)<br /><br />#3: Big nose, nice color, too cold (OK – who forgot to take the bottles out of the car earlier?), bit peppery, more a traditional cab type<br /><em>2007 Big Vine Napa<br /></em>Notable quotes: Beth liked. “I’d push that guy off the bridge,” (Kevin – in reference to the movie It’s A Wonder Life. Can’t remember exactly how this came into the conversation, but it seemed notable at the time) </div><br /><div><br />And then –just in time - the Pheasant Poppers were served….. </div><br /><div><br />#4: Totally different than the first three, smooth, fruity but with more body than #1, an excellent pairing with the Poppers that consisted of pheasant, a slice of water chestnut, a slice of jalapeno, wrapped in bacon and finished on the grill<br />2009 Two Vines – Columbia Crest<br />Notable observation: Jenny likes this the best so far<br /><br />#5: Cold – again; different from all the previous bottles; thin mouth (me); A mouth as full as we’ve had (Farmer-Architect); do we observe a lack of consensus on this bottle?<br /><em>2009 Columbia Crest Horse Heaven Hills<br /></em>Notable quotes: “Bizarre,” (Christine); “Jenny – you’re behind!” (From the group on observing Jenny still savoring #4)<br /><br />#6: Leggy, no tannin, well-balanced, best cab nose so-far, a classic cabernet<br /><em>2008 Pedroncelli Dry Creek Valley<br /></em>Notable quotes: “You want to drink this out of a fish bowl with a long stem,” (Kevin); “This is the wine you take home to your mother,” (Bob); “It’s excellent,” (Scott); “Yes you are eating too many poppers – OMG, here’s the evidence.” (Jenny to Scott as she holds up a handful of toothpicks)<br /><br />#7: Little nose, but great body and good flavor, vanilla, a little clove, a little smoky, lays nice on the tongue<br /><em>2009 14 Hands Washington State<br /></em>Notable quotes: “I’m feeling vanilla all over the place,” (Scott)<br /><br />#8: So – now Jon brings out the aerator, with just two bottles yet to go. Aerating didn’t help this one, odd, kind of harsh; Scott says benign, Gary says lightweight, Bob says immature<br /><em>2009 Fat Basterd Thierry & Guy France<br /></em>Notable quotes: “It tastes better with the pepper jack cheese,” (me); “But I love the name,” (Kevin)<br /><br />#9: Really deep, dark color, prominent nose, makes you sit up and take notice, the taste meets the expectation of the nose, some think not as good as #5,6,7; little flat and sour in the finish<br /><em>2007 Bogle<br /></em>Notable quotes: “A spontaneous purchase – on sale for 8$ at Lewis Drug,” (Jon); “Reminds me of Dirty Diaper Salad,” (Jenny) (Note - A possible pairing? I’ll try to get the recipe.)<br /><br />#10: Cold again, medium cab nose, fruity, yet odd; something medicinal, sweet and yet a metallic taste<br />2006 Clois du Bois- North Shore<br />Notable quotes: “Something in the middle of the taste I just don’t like,” (me); “Tastes like polio vaccine,” (Kevin) But how would he ??? --- don’t even ask! </div><br /><div><br />It was a perfect evening – the barn, the food, the wine, the friends. We have the date set for next month’s tasting and planned a brunch gathering in a couple weeks, to feature a scone bake-off.<br />I’m not sure how I ended up as official scribe to this group. But it’s an honor I intend to live up to. In doing so, I must give recognition to the first Wine Group I belonged to in Morgantown, West Virginia. I dedicate this blog post to the great memories they created and what they taught me about great wines. Sante, Rena, John, Jeff, Ted, Chris, Jay, Chris and Adam.</div></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-52100190782861291572011-11-06T12:05:00.000-08:002011-11-06T12:19:02.526-08:00Cooking In My Daughter's Kitchen<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ISBVH7-_PqQ/TrbqBPYShYI/AAAAAAAAAEs/iuKhlZKMFfs/s1600/mydaughterskitchen.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671978087748896130" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ISBVH7-_PqQ/TrbqBPYShYI/AAAAAAAAAEs/iuKhlZKMFfs/s320/mydaughterskitchen.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>For fourteen years I was a single parent of Elizabeth. I look back upon those years as the Trifecta of my life. At the same time I was parenting, I was building my career in research administration and going to graduate school. When all was said and done after those fourteen years my daughter had a high school diploma and was successfully launched into her freshman year of college, I had a master’s degree and a Ph.D. in political science, and was the director of sponsored programs at Frostburg State University. In Elizabeth years – that was age 4 to age 18. </div><br /><div><br />Clearly during those years, I didn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Although I enjoyed cooking, a ‘from scratch,’ home-cooked meal for the two of us happened only sporadically. On rare occasions I’d host a group of friends and pull out all the stops for a sit-down dinner party – soup to nuts to elegant dessert with wines matched to each course. </div><br /><div><br />I learned during those years that it was possible to instill concepts of good nutrition even when dining out regularly, but I was always concerned that Elizabeth wasn’t learning proper cooking techniques and meal preparation. The one exception was our ‘Monday Night Menu’: fish sticks and Kraft macaroni & cheese with green peas. Elizabeth excelled at macaroni and cheese from the box. This meal was our Monday night special that followed my weekly aerobics class and was accompanied by the latest episode of Anne of Avonlea on PBS. I consoled myself with the thought that across town my friend Audrey, also a working single parent and graduate student, was serving her daughter beans and wieners while watching Jeopardy. I thought my dinner was nutritionally superior. As I look back now - it’s hard to see the distinction. </div><br /><div><br />Earlier this summer, I spent vacation time with Elizabeth and my son-in-law Nate at their home in Charlotte, NC. We were eating dinner one night and I reminded her of the time she had her best friend at our house for a sleep over. I made from scratch lasagna for their dinner. As I was dishing it out of the pan, Elizabeth informed me that she didn’t like home cooking. I paused for a moment and considered that instead of three hours making lasagna in our postage-stamp sized kitchen, I could have been spending quality time with the American Political Science Review and working on a paper that was due in two days. Nor did I mention the grant that was due the following week that had yet to have the budget complete and the evaluation section finalized. My reply to her: “This is dinner tonight. Bon appétit.” As I left the dining room to go attend to my computer, I turned and said, “Oh and by the way we’ll be having lasagna leftovers three nights this week.” Elizabeth did not remember this incident. </div><br /><div><br />These days, both Nate and Elizabeth are immersed in building their respective careers. So one day, during my vacation in Charlotte, I decided to fix dinner for them. It was a week night and they both had left early that morning and were coming home late. I had a happy maternal feeling knowing that they would come home to a nice dinner on a weeknight. And I remembered how much I would have loved if someone had done that for me during those Trifecta years. </div><br /><div><br />About the time that Elizabeth was moving out of our house and prepping for dorm life, I was remarried and getting ready to join Gary (my farmer-architect) and his fully equipped kitchen in Ohio. Much of my Elysian Avenue kitchen was packed away for the day Elizabeth was ready to set-up housekeeping. Now eleven years later and newly married, Elizabeth’s kitchen reflects Martha Stewart, Crate & Barrel, Calphalon cookware, Mikasa flatware and Riedel stemless wine glasses. The latest and greatest and most up-to-date gourmet-equipped kitchen.As I poked around Elizabeth’s kitchen looking for pots and pans, measuring spoons, and mixing bowls, I kept happening onto remnants of our Elysian Avenue kitchen. The all-purpose stainless steel bowl (passed from my mother to me) that was magically always the perfect size for whatever needed to be mixed from cole slaw to cake batter to homemade play dough. The two piece plastic bowl with nested strainer I purchased for $3.95 on a trip to Pittsburgh’s Strip District (a shopping area catering to restaurantuers and kitchen supply houses). I used that constantly, as Nate and Elizabeth said they do now too. A single glass left from the set of six orange embellished juice glasses stands assertively by the oversize stoneware mugs, and the West Virginia University commemorative cups, which no doubt began their life filled with beer at Mountaineer Field. </div><br /><div><br />During the Trifecta years I despaired of Elizabeth ever having the desire, let alone the ability, to eat right and cook healthy. Yet, here she is now a menu planner, a thrifty shopper, and training to run her first marathon. Son-in-law Nate, as an elementary school physical education teacher, models good eating habits and proper nutrition, and regular exercise. On their bookshelves you’ll find the red and white Better Homes & Gardens cookbook standard next to Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray, and the Barefoot Contessa. Interspersed with these contemporary classics are her grandmother’s well-worn and frequently consulted reference cookbooks including the American Carpatho-Russian Cookbook compiled by the Russian-Orthodox Church in Johnstown, PA., reflecting the Russian and Polish heritage on her paternal side. I still have the cookbooks and recipe collections that reflect the English heritage of her maternal side. </div><br /><div><br />I am always moved by the simplest and homeliest kitchen utensils, dishes, pots and pans. Those are usually the first items I hone in on at auctions and estate sales. They speak to me of daily triumphs and challenges that make up our lives. Seeing the odds and ends from our home in West Virginia, now living side-by-side with things fresh from the bridal registry, I felt a bit made me homesick for those good ole’ days crammed with multiple pressures, competing demands for my time and attention, ongoing financial worries, and struggles to excel in the office and the classroom. At the time it seemed a difficult life, but as is usually the case when you look back, I see a life punctuated by the satisfactions of accomplishment, the miracles of growing up, and the reflections on a life well-fed. </div><br /><div><br />To you, Elizabeth, on the threshold of your life, Bon Appetit!</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-10329380722638369502011-07-11T12:43:00.000-07:002011-07-11T13:02:14.781-07:00A Feast for Body and Soul at The King's Kitchen<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y1QIQ6MOSA/ThtVeSmsz-I/AAAAAAAAAEk/zsU22J77VeU/s1600/King%2527s%2BKitchen2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628186138208161762" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 161px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y1QIQ6MOSA/ThtVeSmsz-I/AAAAAAAAAEk/zsU22J77VeU/s320/King%2527s%2BKitchen2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>I’m not sure how often I have ranted about the lack of fine dining, or even merely adequate dining, experiences in <a href="http://www.madisonsd.com/">Madison, SD</a>, my current hometown. I tend to rant frequently on this topic: blog or non-blog, private or public conversations. Our previous home in Ohio, on the outskirts of Columbus, was a mecca of fine dining establishments. We used to eat out an average three times a week, we now average twice a month. Definitely helps the budget, but trying out new restaurants and re-visiting favorites adds zest to our otherwise thrifty lifestyle. And it’s a nice break from the standard palate experienced in our own kitchen, which despite my vast cookbook collection and interminable hours with the Food Network, can still get a little jaded from time to time. </div><br /><br /><div><br />Returning home from Ohio to South Dakota with Rhett, our new basset hound (story for another blog post) I turned around a week later and flew to North Carolina to visit my daughter and son-in-law in Charlotte and my parents in Franklin. While in Charlotte, Elizabeth and Nate (daughter and s-i-l) took me to dinner at <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/jbnoble2">The King’s Kitchen</a>. </div><br /><br /><div><br />Now, before I get to specifics on the dinner I need to clear my conscious a bit. I love gourmet cooking and dining. I will travel far and wide in search of required ingredients to prepare a new recipe and ensure my dinner guests a unique and different culinary experience. I loathe substituting ingredients, especially if I’m trying out a recipe for the first time. If the recipe says leeks, I want to taste leeks, not yellow onions. If the recipe says Hubbard squash, then I don’t want acorn, butternut, or pumpkin. After I get the feel for a recipe I’m all for experimentation, but for a recipe’s debut appearance in my kitchen, I want to know and taste as close to the original as I can get. In my view this honors the chef/recipe creator. This is usually and expensive approach to cooking especially if the ingredients are in anyway exotic or I have to make an extra trip or an out of the way trip to a specialty food store. When I lived in Morgantown, WV it was not unusual for me to drive to Pittsburgh, PA (destination: <a href="http://www.neighborsinthestrip.com/thestrip/thestrip.html">The Strip District</a>) when I was planning a dinner party. (SideBar: I have to remember to tell you about the carry-out Tibetan dinner from the Himalayan Tibetan Restaurant in Pittsburgh when I hosted a party honoring the Dalai Lama’s birthday). </div><br /><br /><div><br />In the same way, when dining out, not all ingredients are created equal. In the hands of a talented chef, even the most humble ingredients can be elevated to new heights. I want that lofty experience now and then and I’m willing to pay extra for it. </div><br /><br /><div><br />But I confess, I feel guilty when I’m spending $14 a pound on wild catch Alaskan salmon when I know how many people can barely afford a can of generic tuna. Likewise, I know how to transform an ordinary Friday Night Date-Night with My Farmer-Architect-Husband into a romantic adventure even if our destination is Wal-Mart and we follow up with a fast food burger and a Coke. But I will never claim it’s the same experience as savoring bison tenderloin with a glass of vintage cabernet and the riverside view at the <a href="http://wildsagegrille.com/">Wild Sage Grille </a>in Sioux Falls. I don’t need that experience as a regular menu option, but every now and then it’s an experience that boosts my spirits. </div><br /><br /><div><br />So it was with great interest and a certain free-ing feeling when Elizabeth said she and Nate wanted to take me to The King’s Kitchen in Uptown Charlotte. The King’s Kitchen is owned by <a href="http://chefjimnoble.com/?page_id=2">Chef Jim Noble </a>and all profits from both the restaurant and catering go back into the Charlotte community. Chef Jim also partners with area ministries to provide training and employment opportunities. Not only did I enjoy an excellent dinner, I was making a contribution. Chef Jim also supports area farmers and buys local as often as he can. </div><br /><br /><div><br />The King’s Kitchen menu is billed as “new local southern cuisine.” I figured, if ever I was going to try collard greens, this would be the place. I ordered Aunt Beaut’s Skillet Fried Chicken, mac’n cheese, and stewed tomatoes, along with the collard greens. The appetizer – pimento cheese. All was excellent, although the stewed tomatoes were way too sweet for my palate. My first experience with collards was memorable. The taste was a little strong for me, yet I sensed they were excellently prepared, earthy with an undercurrent of tangy vinegar. The pimento cheese was a real treat, zippy, creamy, and a toothsome foil to the crisp buttery toast it was served on. I’ve had variations on pimento cheese before, but at the King’s Kitchen it was the best I’ve ever had. </div><br /><br /><div><br />I certainly recommend the King’s Kitchen. It’s worth going out of your way for. Chef Jim Noble gives us a rare and unique opportunity to enjoy the pleasures of the table and support his good works and the work of others in the Charlotte community. The King’s Kitchen is a concept that can and should be replicated in every community. I’m already figuring out how to bring the concept back to Madison. We may not have a four star chef in Madison, but we have people with need, farmers with fresh produce, talented cooks, and people with talent and abilities to bring it all together.</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-9580618009692331742011-07-07T12:32:00.001-07:002011-07-07T12:32:07.492-07:00DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-33010433550689620802011-07-07T12:25:00.000-07:002011-07-07T12:47:04.939-07:00Alpha & Omega - or The Return of the Dakota DinerI’ve experienced a hibernation of sorts these past few months. The muse was frozen I think. But the 24 hours that passes for springtime in South Dakota is history and summer is here in earnest. My writing-self has thawed out and is coming back to life.<br /><br />Just like the gardens. Somewhere along about the end of April we had the last of the butternut squash from autumn 2010 (Butternut Squash Lasagna). The next day we had the first of the asparagus in Asparagus Risotto. Thick crunchy stalks heavy with the promise of garden’s bounty nestled in Arborio rice swollen with white wine and chicken stock and swept up in parmiggiano-reggiano.<br /><br />Autumn squash and spring asparagus. The Alpha and Omega of the gardening life.<br />Now at the first of July we are full swing into broccoli, lettuce, spinach, and radishes. Hot weather started very late this year. But bad weather news for the strawberries – wet cold does not make for sweet, ripe, and juicy – is glory for the cool weather crops – the greens and the coles (broccoli, cabbage, kohlrabi, and cauliflower).<br /><br />I see the cycle of seasons more clearly here in South Dakota. Must be because winter is a definite season. Not the wishy-washy damp cold with an occasional burst of snow that I remember of Ohio winters, and even West Virginia winters. There is never ambiguity in South Dakota winters. Alas, spring is short-lived - . a quick sweet breath and poof! – it’s gone. Grab it quick because your next breath bears the heat of prairie grass baking in the sun.<br /><br />The apple trees and peach trees we planted last summer are leafing out. They survived their first South Dakota winter. The elderly apple tree that’s been in the backyard for an indeterminate length of time has leafed out as well. No blossoms this year though. We had a bumper group of apples last fall. The elderly apple still wobbles perilously under the edict of my Farmer-Architect who is threatening to dispatch it if it can’t produce.<br /><br />The fingerling potatoes I bought at the Sioux Falls Farmers Market last fall and then promptly forgot about in the back of the kitchen cabinet all winter put forth impressive shoots from their numerous eyes. They are coming to new life in the backyard garden, securely fenced in and safe from marauding squirrels with a taste for spuds.<br /><br />The circle of life. I am so blessed to be living it every day on the prairie and in the gardens. And now I share it with you in my writing.DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-76075964369555454072011-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:002011-01-12T14:51:45.236-08:00First Grade Soup and Crackers<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TS4wNdqew7I/AAAAAAAAAEE/yHRbC5xLtEE/s1600/crackers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561435597708379058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 101px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 116px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TS4wNdqew7I/AAAAAAAAAEE/yHRbC5xLtEE/s320/crackers.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Busy day at work. Proposal due today. One due tomorrow. Two due next week. And as usual when in the final throes of a proposal submission, a critical piece of paper is needed that requires me to spend an hour in a tizzy tracking down a bureaucratic document that likely no one will even give a second glance to. In this case, the required form will assure the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services that we, Dakota State University, are in total compliance with all applicable federal policies pertaining to civil rights and discrimination. I know we're in compliance, the State of South Dakota knows we are in compliance, everyone and their uncle knows we're in compliance, but without Form HHS-690, Health & Human Services is just not so sure.</div><div></div><br /><div>With the form now safely on it's way to the vast and faceless bureaucracy in Washington, DC - which is undoubtedly snowed in today anyway - I could quickly take time for a fast lunch. Today's gastronmic destination: The Marketplace at the Trojan Center (aka the DSU Student Union). Ah - there it was Tomato Bisque Soup. A perfect lunch entree for a day that's minus 10 degrees. I filled the carry out container, and periloulsy negotiated my way across the ice and snow back to my office in Heston Hall.</div><div></div><br /><div>Once at my desk I took the lid off my soup and the aroma of vine-ripened tomatoes and sun-drenched basil with a hint of garlic filled my office. A lovely counterpoint to the frost encrusted window through which an optimistic sun was making its presence known. Springtime and garden planting can't be all that far away now. I have sunshine and the seed catalogs to prove it.</div><div></div><br /><div>In the meantime, I needed warm sustenance. I picked up the saltine crackers that came with my soup and as I started to crunch them up in their clear cellophane packet I had an instantaneous flashback to lunch at Warren Glen Elementary School, Lower Pohatcong Township, New Jersey. Yup - you guessed it, my alma mater. I heard Mrs. Hinchman's voice ring out over the table of ravenous first-graders "Don't you Boys break-up your crackers like that." Her voice was so clear, this could have happened yesterday. </div><br /><div></div><div>There was always an issue on soup days because while The Girls would decourously open their packets, take out one cracker at a time, break it delicately into small pieces and drop it gracefully into the soup, followed by a wiping of hands on the napkin before picking up the spoon and quietly sipping the soup with the grace and delicacy of ingenues at the debutante ball. But The Boys? Their mission was to reduce the crackers to microscopic dust while still in the confines of the cellophane packet, rip the packets open with the force of a tsunami, thereby spraying their bowls, their neighbors, and half the table including The Girls trying to keep their dresses clean. (This was about 1959 after all!) This action would of course require them to lunge across the table, reach past 3 or 4 of their student colleagues seated to their right and left in order to purloin additional cracker packets, and repeat the process all the while accompanied by shoving, guffawing, pounding, and snorting. Feeding time at the zoo had nothing on these kids. "Boys! Boys!" Mrs. Hinchman would admonish. They would settle for about 90 seconds and then the entire first grade would be treated to a repeat performance. </div><br /><div></div><div>I freely admit that my first grade experience was 52 years ago. I marvel how the smallest everyday experience stays with you. How the seemingly most insignificant act, the opening of a cellophane package of saltimes, can trigger such intense and vivid memories. I see Mrs. Hinchman standing at the end of the table, I see the boys being rowdy and obnoxious, I can even smell the tomato soup and taste the grilled cheese sandwiches our cook always made with hamburger buns. And I marvel at how happy this whole recollection makes me feel.</div><br /><div></div><div>I have no doubt that when I am deep in retirement and I sit down to a bowl of tomato soup and crackers I'll remember this day in January 2011. I'll see the bright sunshine of the South Dakota winter sun, I'll see the proposal detritus spilled acoss my desktop and I'll hear the noises of the office just outside my door, the printer, the copier, and the occasional phone ringing. I hope then too I'll feel the satisfaction of the work I do. Maybe think that in the midst of everday living and ordinary experience, I will have made a difference.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-14908553553067052832010-12-28T14:08:00.000-08:002010-12-30T07:54:50.672-08:00Football, Politics & Pepperoni Rolls<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TRvlT-fBkjI/AAAAAAAAAD0/xgPKDgqJ9ew/s1600/pepperoni%2Brolls.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556286696645038642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 138px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 78px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TRvlT-fBkjI/AAAAAAAAAD0/xgPKDgqJ9ew/s320/pepperoni%2Brolls.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The only thing more disappointing last night than the West Virginia Mountaineers loss to NC State in the Champs Bowl, was my dismal effort at making pepperoni rolls. I should have researched recipes long before last night. Or, alternatively, placed an online order to Chico's Bakery for a South Dakota delivery of <a href="http://www.pepperonirolls.com/">Julia's Pepperoni Rolls</a>. The superior quality of the bread makes these pepperoni rolls tops in my book. About a year ago I did order a dozen to introduce my prairie friends to this qunitessential experience of West Virginia cuisine.</div><br /><div></div><div>To the uninitiated, a pepperoni roll is a neat, portable snack - or it could be the basis of a meal - that consists of pepperoni encased in bread dough and baked. Originating at the <a href="http://www.roadfood.com/Restaurant/Reviews/529/country-club-bakery">Country Club Bakery in Fairmont, WV</a>, pepperoni rolls were a favorite of coal miners as they were filling, highly portable and did not require refrigeration. Pepperoni rolls have some variations such as with or without cheese, with or without peppers, served at room temperature, warmed, or split open and served hot with marinara sauce. Variations aside it is the quality of the bread and the quality of the pepperoni that elevates the pepperoni roll from a mere quick, cheap snack to a taste of Almost Heaven. </div><div></div><br /><div>And this is where my efforts at pepperoni roll production failed. I used a hot roll recipe that was a little too sweet, and a little too rich from the presence of two eggs and 1/2 cup of sugar in a dough that had 4 cups of flour. </div><div></div><br /><div>And the pepperoni? Alas here on the eastern prairie of South Dakota, authentic pepperoni is harder to find than a real Democrat. Mine was flat, insipid and totally lacking in zip and pizazz. Not that I want my pepperoni overly peppery and spicy hot, but it should be able to boldly distinguish itself from the bread, not unlike a real Democrat boldly speaking out against the South Dakota political status quo. The best quality pepperoni conveys passion, heat, and a gusto for living as it lies both united with, and at the same time, independent of the bread. </div><div></div><br /><div>Kind of like a truly progressive political community where differences are abundant but respect reigns supreme. Thus allowing everyone to move forward and progress be effected. </div><div></div><br /><div>But - I digress. Politically speaking. Just a little frustration leaking out from the last election. Not unlike the oozing of the pepperoni into the surrounding bread.</div><div></div><br /><div>In my search for pepperoni roll recipes last night (my search began after my failure) and I found several fabulous web sites. First the <a href="http://www.bobheffner.com/pepperoniroll/">Pepperoni Roll Home Page by Bob Heffner</a> and second a wonderful source of pepperoni roll recipes and West Virginia blog: <a href="http://chickensintheroad.com/">Chickens In The Road</a>. Author Suzanne McMinn provides beautiful photographs as well as step-by-step recipes. Next time, <a href="http://chickensintheroad.com/farm-bell-recipes/pepperoni-roll/">I'm trying her recipe</a>!</div><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-23727865190377147852010-12-25T20:59:00.000-08:002010-12-25T21:12:15.442-08:00Reflections on Christmas Cookies & Traditions<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TRbNtvO6uKI/AAAAAAAAADM/0LN6Pw_sIjE/s1600/CA7YIR2BCAYRZ93FCAAGQJ4BCAR9VZ9RCA28YK1TCAPAE8C6CAJD43MBCAQMD0MOCA0X1HKCCA7ZVO0FCAOD6JWUCAFMUKHVCA3RB4HQCADLVQ6WCAOU7T88CAIUI32FCARUEFD4CAFPFL9PCA7BNV89.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554853376064927906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 113px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TRbNtvO6uKI/AAAAAAAAADM/0LN6Pw_sIjE/s320/CA7YIR2BCAYRZ93FCAAGQJ4BCAR9VZ9RCA28YK1TCAPAE8C6CAJD43MBCAQMD0MOCA0X1HKCCA7ZVO0FCAOD6JWUCAFMUKHVCA3RB4HQCADLVQ6WCAOU7T88CAIUI32FCARUEFD4CAFPFL9PCA7BNV89.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>My first Christmas as a bona fide ‘grown-up’ was in 1975. I was married to my first husband and was celebrating our first Christmas together. At the time he was in the Army and we were living in Frankfurt, Germany in a tiny rented apartment in the city. We were invited to Christmas dinner at Art and Mitzy’s home. Art and Mitzy were American transplants in Europe. Art had been a dentist in Milwaukee and was trying to launch a second career in the opera. Mitzy was a pianist. The holiday dinner would be filled with other transplanted Americans, musicians, businessmen, their spouses and children. My husband and I were the only ones with a military connection. I still remember quite vividly the conflict between feeling the adventure of a European Christmas and missing my own family Christmas traditions. </div><br /><div><br />Growing up in New Jersey with a large extended family, I was blessed with rich memories of holiday gatherings filled with aunts and uncles and cousins. My mother was particularly attuned to relatives in the nether reaches of the family tree and friends of family members that were left hanging on their own during the holiday were usually found at the family table. Our house was filled with frolic and frenzy and especially great food steeped in festive traditions. My great-grandmother’s English mincemeat and plum pudding, fresh cranberry-orange relish, and most importantly – Christmas cookies. </div><br /><br /><div>In the pantry there was always a stash of cookies of every variety. Some were annual holiday standards and some were new recipes. For my mother it was critical that she always be prepared for drop-in visitors. Being prepared equaled “something to go with coffee” and at Christmas time that something meant cookies.</div><br /><br /><div>So for that first Christmas in Germany, absent family, or decorations, a tree or shopping, or snow, I latched onto the one thing I was convinced would tie me to long-standing family traditions – baking cookies. At that time I didn’t have the extensive recipe collection I do today so I combed my new cookbooks and holiday magazines for likely candidates. There is one cookie recipe I found that stands out today over 30 years later – Currant Cookies. I found the recipe in Family Circle magazine. The cookies are basically a shortbread cookie – lots of butter, very little sugar, plus lemon zest and currants flour. At some point over the years, I added my own variation by soaking the currants first in brandy, or bourbon, or some other flavored liqueur. </div><br /><div><br />The recipe for Currant Cookies is really, really simple and yet, almost every time I make it, the result is a little different. Some years really outstanding. Some years – best forgotten. I’ve made Currant Cookies in Germany, in New Jersey, in West Virginia, in Ohio, and now I’m making Currant Cookies in South Dakota. </div><br /><div><br />I got a head start on cookie making this year and found myself assembling the ingredients for this year’s batch of Currant Cookies about 2 weeks ago. I asked myself – how will they turn out this year? Moist and melt in your mouth? Or dry and floury? Will the lemon zest zing on your tongue? Will the currants be little pops of soft sweetness as you chew? </div><br /><div><br />As I was creaming the butter I started thinking that Christmas traditions are a lot like these currant cookies. My own particular recipe has evolved over the years and yet is pretty simple: lots of Christmas music especially from the choral repertoire, Christmas movies, and even if I don’t haul out all the decorations each year, I always have lots of candles around the house.<br />I especially love the season of Advent with its countdown to Christmas in both the sacred, liturgical world and the commercial secular world. And each year, as the days of Advent tick by, I revisit my vast store of Christmas memories and traditions, revel in the happiness they bring and, at the same time, feel some uneasy stirrings that maybe this year won’t measure up to the glories of Christmas Past. </div><br /><div><br />And somehow, just like my Currant Cookies, even when I follow the same recipe using the same ingredients and the same techniques, some years are outstanding and some - well let’s just say if they don’t make it into that vast store of memories, they won’t be missed all that much. As the days of Advent wind down I often find myself thinking that maybe this Christmas will be one that I don’t need remember. And that seems a little scary to me. </div><br /><div><br />But then, each year I find myself sitting at the Christmas Eve service at church, hearing the story from the Book of Luke and singing the carols of old. And I think – what was I worrying for? So what if the traditions change from one year to the next, old traditions fade and new ones take their place? There is only one ingredient you need for the recipe that is Your Life - the knowledge that Christ was born, fulfilling God’s promise of love, redemption, and restoration. With that insight, that little scary feeling goes away and I am renewed, invigorated, and ready to take on any new variation that comes into my life </div><br /><div><br />To All My Readers, I wish for you a Very, Merry Christmas! </div><br /><div><br /><span style="color:#333399;"><strong>Currant Cookies<br /></strong>¾ cup currants<br />1 cup butter, softened<br />¼ cup sugar<br />Peel of one lemon, grated<br />2 ¼ cups flour.<br /><br />Plump currants in hot water, or use brandy, bourbon or liqueur to flavor if desired. Set aside for 10-15 minutes to allow currants to absorb flavor.<br />Cream butter and sugar until very light and fluffy. Stir in currants and lemon peel. Gradually add flour and stir until smooth.<br />Shape into one inch balls and place on greased cookie sheet one inch apart. Dip tines of fork in sugar and flatten to 1 ½ inch. Bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes or until golden brown around the edges.</span></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-75057277305671406602010-12-18T14:51:00.000-08:002010-12-19T18:36:02.011-08:00Let's Get Real - Real Apple Cider That Is!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TQ69bETWUUI/AAAAAAAAADA/QkcgFObHB_k/s1600/cider%252520press%252520Grand%252520alone%252520BHA3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552583663303414082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TQ69bETWUUI/AAAAAAAAADA/QkcgFObHB_k/s320/cider%252520press%252520Grand%252520alone%252520BHA3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>When did mega-food manufacturers start getting away with selling apple juice and calling it apple cider? My first encounter with this charade came back in October when a local business here in Madison generously volunteered to donate apple cider to the great Pumpkin Train event at Prairie Village. I thought that was an exceedingly generous gesture of support. Imagine my surprise when the cider arrived in 2 gallon plastic jugs from food purveyor, Sysco. Further imagine my surprise when the stuff that was poured out of the jug was a clear, golden liquid surprisingly like the stuff that I used to pour into my two year old daughter's sippy cup. </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div>I don't mean to malign our sponsor's generous donation. No, I hold Sysco responsible as well as any other mega-food manufacturer that seeks to lure an unsuspecting public into thinking that mass-produced, homogenized generic food products are the real deal.</div><br /><div>Last weekend, at a holiday party, one of the hot beverage options was hot cider. Ha! It was hot apple juice - without any cinnamon sticks or cloves floating in it to even try to masquerade as cider. </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div>The final straw in my cider rant? This past Saturday our local grocery store, Sunshine Foods, was offering hot cider to early morning shoppers. How nice! And yet - I knew what was coming. To add insult to injury, someone forgot to plug in the pot and so what came out of the spout? You guessed it - cold apple juice. </div><div><br /> </div><div>OK - so if food regulations and guidelines say that your cider has to be filtered, pasteurized and adulterated, well alright then so be it. But don't try to pawn off that bland, syrupy, insipid apple liquid as apple cider. Call it what it is - liquified, sanitized, homogenized apple flavored liquid supported by an arsenal of chemical double agents.</div><div></div><br /><div>Lest my readers have fallen victim to the apple cider conspiracy, let me remind you what authentic apple cider is all about. First - it is not clear; its cloudy and opaque. You can't see through it. It's not pulpy but it does have texture. Real apple cider fills your mouth the taste of crisp, cold , fresh apples. The best cider is tart, but depending on the apple variety used, can be a bit on the sweet side. In fact the very best cider is made with a variety of apples, preferably windfall apples from the orchard floor. </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div>Now - and this is key - cider is pressed - not strained, filtered, and pasteurized. Those apples off the orchard floor? They come with natural flavor enhancements - leaves, stems, seeds, the odd blade of grass or two, and yes, best of all, the occasional worm. </div><div><br /> </div><div>I have a distinct apple cider memory from my days in West Virginia. It's late September and the West Virginia University Farm has started the apple harvest. Cider time has arrived. You had to take your own jug and get in line at the big barn where the cider press sat. As you waited your turn, you could watch the farm wagon dump the load of apples straight from the orchard into the press. A switch was flipped and the press began. The big squeeze with fresh cider streaming out the into the barrel and then funneled into your jug. Mere seconds from apple to cider. As the press squeezed and groaned the atmosphere in the barn filled with the crisp nose of clear mountain air, fruit releasing its succulent sweetness stored from the summer sun and then topped off with the icy freshness of autumn's first frost. </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div>Watching the cider flow into your jug, you knew the best was yet to come. In about 10 days. The solids would gradually settle to the bottom of your jug and the texture and color of the cider would lighten up each day until the one magical moment when you took off the cap and you heard a soft, sibilant hiss. Your cider was starting to turn. Oh heaven sent joy! Now your nose took in whiffs of yeast and your tongue exploded with the subtle suggestion of vinegar in the making. This was when your cider was ready to stand up to the boldest recipes you can find like "Cider Stew." Beefy, tender, savory with carrots, potatoes, and onions, with the tang of cider lurking in the background. A stew that stands up to the coldest autumn and the heartiest appetites. </div><div><br /> </div><div>If you were thrifty and thinking ahead, you put a couple gallons of that fresh cider in your freezer ready to be pulled out for holiday entertaining. Sure anyone can mull some cider with spices and simmer it in a crock pot. But for me, I prefer Hot Apple Pie. This was a recipe given to me by a dear friend who - alas - I have since lost touch with. Let me warn you - this is not your grandmother's hot apple pie. Do not insult the recipe by using hot apple juice. Wait until next autumn, find an orchard where they are pressing real apple cider. And if you have to drive a way to find it, stock up on several gallons and put it away in the freezer. One taste of Hot Apple Pie - you'll be thanking me!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Hot Apple Pie</strong></span></div><br /><div>1 quart apple cider</div><br /><div>3 whole cloves</div><br /><div>1 cinnamon stick</div><br /><div>Tuaca (a liquer, generally available anywhere)</div><br /><div>Sweetened whipped cream</div><br /><div>Heat cider and spices just to boiling. Add 1 1/4 ounces tuaca to a cup or mug. Top with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Cider Stew</div><br /><div>3 large onions, sliced</div><br /><div>2 pounds stew beef, cubed</div><br /><div>3 tablespoons flour</div><br /><div>2 teaspoons salt</div><br /><div>1/4 teaspoon pepper</div><br /><div>1/4 teaspoon thyme</div><br /><div>1 cup apple cider</div><br /><div>1 tablespoon ketchup</div><br /><div>3 large potatoes, cut in chunks</div><br /><div>4 medium carrots, cut in chunks</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Brown beef and onions in oil or drippings. Combine flour and seasonings and add to beef and onions. Stir until all are well browned. Stir in cider and ketchup. This mix will deglaze your pan so be sure to scrape up all the crusty bits from the bottom. Add potatoes and carrots and cook until all ingredients are tender. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You can cook this on stove top on low, in a casserole dish in the oven at 325, or in a crock pot. Thicken the juices with a little cornstarch and water. Add a drop or two of Kitchen Bouquet (optional) to deepen color and flavor.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Original recipe found in Farm Journal Country Cookbook.</div><br /><div></div>Image of the cider press from: <a href="http://www.beechhillartisans.com/Cider%20Presses.html">www.beechhillartisans.com/Cider%20Presses.html</a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-37735034808958053102010-12-09T07:26:00.000-08:002010-12-30T07:54:14.391-08:00Dakota Diner @ The Dakota Diner<div>This morning it is my privilege to be indulging in breakfast at The Dakota Diner in Webster, SD. I'm on my way to a meeting in Aberdeen but when my colleague at Northern State University said I must stop at The Dakota Diner, I had to agree. </div>
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<br /><div>This is a quintessential small town diner. And the food meets exceeds my standards for diner breakfast. My initial thinking was I'd order coffee and maybe toast while I blogged. That thinking lasted about 27 seconds. I ordered the Bronco Breakfast. Eggs ordered your way. Choice of breakfast meat. Three silver dollar pancakes. Sublime.</div>
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<br /><div>The scrambled eggs were light and fluffy and my request for a little shredded cheddar on top was happily fulfilled. I ordered my bacon 'crispy' and it came crispy and well done without being burnt. Believe me - this happens a lot. And the silver dollar pancakes, three the size of dinner plates, were tasty, toothsome with just a hint of malt. Perfect! The coffee was standard but it kept coming. A true never ending cup.</div>
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<br /><div>Diner breakfast is only half about the food. A diner breakfast is also about the ambience and the customers. The Dakota Diner has both. Blue vinyl booths in rank order front to back. Thick porcelin coffee mugs turned upside down in groups of four, waiting for customers needing their first hit of caffeine for the day. The grill is fronted by a long counter holding baked goods under frosted plastic covers. You can watch the cook ply his spatula over the eggs, the ham, and the hash browns. </div>
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<br /><div>In the booth next to me is a changing group of men, spanning the generations, talking farming, politics, and passing observations on the local school system. Behind me are two older farmers talking about a new horse. In front of me is a mom, a dad, and a kindergartner grabbing some breakfast before the school day begins.</div>
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<br /><div>I'm reminded of stories my mother told me about her early career working in diners in New Jersey - The Turnabout Diner in Phillipsburg, the Waa-Waa along the Delware River in Riegelsville, PA and another one (whose name I can't remember) in California where she worked when my father was stationed in ports along the southern California coast during his service in the Navy. I've had a lot of diner experience in my own life. I've been in diners that were authentic and diners that were aspiring. You know - those diners that have the correct decor, with jukeboxes, formica countertops, and 50's music on the Muzak. </div>
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<br /><div>But it's the people that make for a true diner experience. You can't design a table that has been privy to first dates, celebrations, mournings, family secrets, and civic crises and intrigues. Walls that enclose the totality of small town life. This is the seasoning that goes with your coffee, your ham and eggs, your BLT (Hold the mayo), and your salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and gravy.</div>
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<br /><div>Long live diners in small town America. They keep us focused on the daily requirements of a fulfilled life - good food, good conversation, and good community.</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-69376424866500451542010-10-19T17:40:00.000-07:002010-10-19T17:54:09.348-07:00Philanthropic Eating<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TL49RwFRUOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/7hlztX8Xx2A/s1600/buckwheat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529924767631626466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TL49RwFRUOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/7hlztX8Xx2A/s320/buckwheat.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>My Farmer-Architect and I have been doing a lot of philanthropic eating the past few weeks. Like most folks who support these charitable gastronomic venues, we do it to support the cause and not for the epicurean delights. Let’s face it if you’re going to the VFW Pork Feed, the name alone tells you that gourmet subtlety won’t be on the menu. </div><div><br />My earliest experience with philanthropic eating was at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Raubsville, Pa. This small congregation , where I was baptized and spent my formative spiritual years, supported itself with community dinners. They were held once a month and alternated between ham dinners one month and turkey the next. The sanctuary would quickly fill as hungry Lutherans and others from Raubsville and the surrounding country farms waited patiently for spaces to free up at the tables in the fellowship hall downstairs. Steeped in with the ambiance of Sunday worship – the stained glass, worn hymnals, hard wooden pews, and the majesty of the altar – were the soul-satisfying aromas of roast turkey, fresh mashed potatoes, candied sweets, giblet gravy, and the ever present peas and carrots. And no matter how full you were after the main course, you always had room for pie or cake, fresh baked by the Lutheran Church Women. The congregation supported itself for decades on their community dinners, although our family didn’t go very often after we transferred to another church closer to our home on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River. I suspect much of the dinner succumbed to convenience and cost savings as the years went by. Instant mashed potatoes, gravy from a jar, and so forth. </div><div><br />So in Pennsylvania and New Jersey we had our community dinners. Out here in South Dakota, we have ‘feeds.’ A name that no doubt reflects the pioneer farming tradition of the upper Midwest. But try as hard as I might, the name conjures up visions of sitting around tables set-up in the feedlot back beyond the barn. </div><div><br />My first South Dakota Feed came perilously close to realizing this vision when my friends invited me to join them at the Ramona, SD Volunteer Fire Department Rocky Mountain Oyster Feed. I was not so naïve that I didn’t know what rocky mountain oysters were, and it was a not foregone conclusion whether I would eat any or not. I didn’t decide until the split second before they hit my plate, as the spoon was poised in mid-air. “No thank you.” I declined. Instead I settled on the baked beans and the chislic, another South Dakota dish new to my palate. </div><div><br />No matter, you go to these events for the convivial social atmosphere. I recall from experience at the Ramona Fire Hall numerous inquiries along the lines of “How are the nuts this year?” or “They’re just like Chicken Nuggets.” Hmmm – I don’t think so. </div><div><br />I recall from my years living in West Virginia, the Preston County Buckwheat Festival and supporting the Kingwood Volunteer Fire Department who produced truly authentic buckwheat cakes, top quality pork sausage, and maple syrup produced at local Preston County farms. My group of friends considered the Buckwheat Festival a competitive event and each year bets were made on who could eat the most cakes. Quantity consumed was only the first part of the competition. Sustainability was the second. If you lost your cakes on the Ferris wheel, walking through the cattle barns or on the drive back home you lost. Sustainability is a real challenge on a 30 mile drive up and down curvy mountain roads in West Virginia with a bellyful of buckwheat cakes. </div><div><br />My Farmer-Architect and I were on the serving side during the Steam Threshing Jamboree in late August of this year. We worked with the Prairie Village Ladies Auxiliary serving breakfast. The Ladies Auxiliary has a predominantly senior citizen membership. Clearly these ladies had been serving the Jamboree breakfast for decades. However, they are not above using new technology to help ease the work. Large roasters, a staple of any philanthropic food event, were everywhere in the kitchen. The ladies on the pancake line discovered a roaster really keeps large quantities of hotcakes hot. Although, they discovered, Styrofoam plates don’t hold up well in a roaster. The sight of melted Styrofoam sandwiched between 2 pancakes gives new meaning to the term “short stack.” </div><div><br />Two weeks ago we went to the Pork Feed for the Madison Volunteer Fire Department and a Pancake Feed at St. Thomas Catholic Church. In just a few minutes we’re heading off to the Kiwanis Feed at the City Armory. Mostly the Armory is used as an athletic venue these days. I don’t know what’s on the menu but whatever it is; for sure it will be seasoned with the visions of dirty gym socks, good friends, and most importantly a good cause.</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-2479587598533772532010-10-19T17:21:00.000-07:002010-10-19T17:39:36.932-07:00Pumpkins, Pumpkins, Everywhere -----<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TL44_054MVI/AAAAAAAAACw/vjxAJ7DMgpc/s1600/Pumpkins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529920061641863506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 231px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TL44_054MVI/AAAAAAAAACw/vjxAJ7DMgpc/s320/Pumpkins.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>. . . . . and not a single one in a pie. It was all aboard the Pumpkin Train at Prairie Village on Saturday. An event in the planning for the past three months, the Pumpkin Train exceeded everyone’s expectations for participation. Five dollars bought you a ticket to pick a pumpkin for the pumpkin patch at Prairie Village. If you’re age 12 or less. Otherwise you got a free ride on the Prairie Village railroad and the chance for vicarious joy watching your kids find their most perfect pumpkin ever. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was the first year for the Pumpkin Train. The event was a fund-raiser for restoration of Chapel Car Emmanuel. When I met with the Pumpkin Team planning committee for the first time, I said “We need to keep it simple.” I wanted a few games for the kids to play while they waited their turn to board the train. “If we get 50 kids this first year, I’ll be happy,” I told the Team. </div><div><br />The final count – 395 tickets sold. About 800 train riders. We started with 235 pumpkins. Most we grew in the Village patch – some were donated. After the first train load it was clear we were going to have call Pumpkin 911. There were already another 100 people waiting in line and we were only 30 minutes into the event that was scheduled for four. We bought out one farmer, then we bought out another farmer who had his truck set up at the corner convenience store. In the end every child got a pumpkin and we had a dozen or so left in the patch. </div><div><br />The games we had going were a huge success. Pumpkin Bowling, Scarecrow Relay Races, Halloween Bingo, and face painting. On the train there was Pumpkin Caroling led by Good Witch Sandy. </div><div></div><div>We ran out cider, we ran out donuts, we sold all the candy left in the Village Gift Shop. We made another trip into town and hit the various dollar stores because we ran out of prizes for the games. </div><div><br />We won’t know the net proceeds for another week. But I think it's safe to say that the Chapel Car Restoration Fund swelled like a milk-fed pumpkin. And the Pumpkin Train will roll again next year.</div></div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-32925690611012901092010-08-24T18:22:00.000-07:002010-08-24T19:01:54.646-07:00Town Hounds Go Camping<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/THRxJH5RjpI/AAAAAAAAACg/76VQ5vTwTVQ/s1600/Town+Hounds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509152645732994706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/THRxJH5RjpI/AAAAAAAAACg/76VQ5vTwTVQ/s320/Town+Hounds.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>This was a weekend of new shared experiences. My Farmer-Architect and I each had a lot of camping experience, but not with each other, or as we refer to those years before we met, B.G Before Gary or B.M. Before Mickie. More importantly - it was the first time the bassets went camping. </div><br />My camping experience is almost exclusively backpacking in the Monongahela National Forest in West Virginia. And my Farmer-Architect? Mainly car camping on fishing and hunting trips in Ohio, Wisconsin, and Canada.<br /><br />Now - I know how to prepare for backpacking. In fact I was surprised how quickly all the planning and organizing skills came back to me even though I haven’t done serious backpacking in almost 15 years.<br /><br />But a weekend of camping with a cabin and a car? And a husband? And two hounds? How do you do that? Since the cabin was equipped with electricity, I decided to go ahead and take a few extras like the coffee maker, the computer (for inspired writing in the woods), and other necessities associated with my comparatively urban lifestyle.<br /><br />So I can’t say I was surprised by all the head shaking and eye-rolling on the part of my Farmer-Architect as we pulled out of the drive late Friday afternoon. The Jeep was packed to the hilt leaving just about 2 square foot of space for the bassets. But even with all that stuff, I forgot the sleeping bag, the box of tissues (and this is the high point of my allergy season), the cork puller, and the nice tablecloth. Our friends Dan and Lynn were joining us for dinner on Saturday night and I expected to entertain with some style. But in the true spirit of backpacking I improvised in an inspired way. An extra bed sheet became the tablecloth. Coffee filters make great tissues. It was pretty hot so we didn’t need a sleeping bag.<br /><p><br />We arrived at Lake Herman State Park and checked out the cabin while Hank & Maggie gave our spot the sniff-over test. Wow – squirrels, rabbits, and at least 15 other camp sites with dogs. Labs, retrievers, Pomeranians, wiemaraners, bulldogs, and schnauzers. Best of all Lynn and Dan were there with Pixie and Micro the chihuahas, Tinkerbelle the Yorkie, and Max the black lab.<br /></p><p>Hank & Maggie insisted on sleeping with us. We designated the extra bed in the cabin the Basset Bunk. No they had to cram in with us in the already cramped double bed. I don’t know what the problem was. Maybe they missed the streetlights or the sound of the bug zapper that’s outside our bedroom window at home or the occasional sound of a passing car. It took them forever to settle down. </p><br />My Farmer-Architect had to leave early Saturday morning to help with the Habitat House. This is the third house being painted this summer in the New Brush With Kindness program. Hank was bereft, whimpering and whining, and just not settling into the routine of doing absolutely nothing - a prime requirement of any camping weekend. As for me, I sat for a good long stretch that morning. How long? I don’t know. The battery on my cell phone died. Who knows? Who cares? The point is I sat with my brain completely devoid of any thought, meaningful or otherwise. Well – not exactly true. I did give a passing thought as to how two dogs and two leashes can get so incredibly tangled. But I didn’t make move to do anything about it. That’s the beauty of a camping weekend.<br /><br />The hounds have their routines and much like babies, they’re happier when the routines proceed according to plan. Usually they get a walk first thing in the morning about 6 a.m., and then sleep for the next three or four hours. So about mid-morning when I was finally done doing absolutely nothing, I decided to read a book. At which point, the bassets decided it was their duty to entice the interest of every dog in the campground and in the process managed to get the leashes looped around the campfire grate, the porch rails and two folding chairs.<br /><br />Finally I gave up and took them for a walk, and when we got back to the cabin, exhausted, they finally fell into a deep sleep, comatose and snoring. In the cabin. On the bed. Like they never left home. I can only conclude it was the rumble of the air conditioner and the smell of fresh brewed coffee that made them feel at home.<br /><br />If I get to go backpacking again someday, I really wouldn’t miss things like computers, coffee makers, and air conditioning. But I surely would never go without my hounds because for sheer entertainment nothing beats a basset.DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-30975290192396589042010-08-12T17:03:00.000-07:002010-08-20T07:45:41.855-07:00Coffee Mourning<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TGSwzaJjqjI/AAAAAAAAACQ/iOOb1I-wFn4/s1600/Durango+Coffee.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504719041792813618" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 127px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TGSwzaJjqjI/AAAAAAAAACQ/iOOb1I-wFn4/s320/Durango+Coffee.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It's been a tough summer in the kitchen. First it was the total collapse of the trusty salad spinner. Last week it was the fatal plug on the coffee grinder.</div><br /><div>I've had that coffee grinder longer than my current husband. Longer than the divorce of my first husband. Longer than I've been a Mom. Although I have to credit my first husband, or rather his grandmother, or rather more precisely his grandmother's funeral, that led me to be a coffee drinker in the first place.</div><br /><div>Now - you need to know that I came to coffee drinking comparatively late in life. My parents were die hard coffee drinkers. Coffee was a featured beverage at every family get together and neighborhood party. No matter the temperature, it could be 90 degrees in the shade in mid-July, if company came and the coffee pot was put on. Refreshments were defined as 'something to go with coffee.' </div><br /><div>Bonding closely to my maternal English heritage, I was a dedicated tea drinker. Throughout my my high school years, my mother would inquire from time to time, "Would you like a cup of coffee?" Then on trips home from college, she would ask in puzzlement, "Aren't you drinking coffee yet?" Clearly she thought I missed an important developmental milestone. I continued determinedly drinking tea.</div><br /><div>But it was bound to happen. The critical moment when I needed a hot beverage and there was no tea to be had. That moment for me was early December 1977 in Ligonier, PA. My husband's grandmother has passed away. The funeral was at St. John the Baptist Russion Orthodox Church. It was one of those wet and cloudy December days where the damp cold penetrates every bone no matter how many layers you have on. When the service was finished at the graveside, the whole family had just one thought in mind, get inside where it's warm and hope they serve hot soup at the funeral lunch. </div><br /><div>I opened the door into the fellowship hall in the church basement and immeduately an intoxicating aroma of hot coffee hit me full frontal. I was never opposed to the aroma of coffee, just the taste. In fact, I really liked the aroma of coffee. And today the velvety brown aroma of hot, fresh-brewed coffee wrapped me in a warm embrace that made that cold, damp December drizzle a distant memory. It was fated. One of the church ladies serving the lunch asked what she could get for me. What else could I say? "Can I have cup of tea?" Her pleasant, sympathtic smile faded, "Oh I'm so sorry. We ran out of tea bags."</div><br /><div>Horrors! There was nothing left for it - I needed a hot beverage and if coffee had to be it - I'd drink it! My first tentative sip - and my next thought - "What was I missing all these years?"</div><br /><div>Going back home to West Virginia, I was a coffee drinker. Only a week after the funeral we went out and purchased a Mr. Coffee and a bean grinder - a Braun. I've been grinding and brewing for the past 33 years. That first Mr. Coffee has been long gone, but faithful Braun the Grinder has soldiered on until last week when I pulled the plug and one of the prongs stayed in the wall socket. I should call my ex-husband and share this story (he's a good friend but not a blog follower yet!). My Farmer-Architect said he's pretty sure he can fix the plug. In the meantime, a friend has come to the rescue and lent me her Krups. It's OK - but it's not my Braun.</div><br /><div>I know we're not supposed to get attached to material things, but honestly, Braun the Grinder has been with me in New Jersey, West Virginia, Ohio, and now South Dakota. I'm glad to honor it with this blog post.</div><br /><div>And now if you're ready for a really good cup of coffee - check out <a href="http://www.cherrybean.net/index.html">Cherrybean Coffee Company</a>, superior roasts from certified organic, fairtrade growers. Cherrybean is located in Parker,SD but you can buy online. Enjoy a virtual cup with me!</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-11111902810401524192010-07-09T18:16:00.000-07:002010-07-09T19:13:21.229-07:00A Legacy of Pie & Dixie Cups<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TDfSnxUPvhI/AAAAAAAAACI/VDDxUrbO6p8/s1600/Dixie++Cup.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492089851296595474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 116px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 151px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TDfSnxUPvhI/AAAAAAAAACI/VDDxUrbO6p8/s320/Dixie++Cup.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Post July 4th -and the week has flown by. I am behind in my self-imposed blog schedule. Usually I need a brief period of free floating thinking before I start writing. Not tonight - I have been looking forward to blogging on this topic all week.</div><br /><div></div><div>We joined friends for a scaled down July 4th celebration last weekend. Ribs were the featured main course. I was tapped to bring dessert. I was looking through my recipe stash and came across my grandmother's recipe for Lemon Sponge Pie. I never made it before, but we had a bag of fresh lemons and this seemed the perfect time to try it out. Plus my Farmer-Architect loves all things lemon. I was fairly certain this would be a hit.</div><div></div><br /><div>And it was. Fresh and lemony with a smooth filling on the bottom - not quite pudding, not quite custard - and a sponge top that stopped just short of being a meringue. Success!<br /></div><div>This pie was special for more than its exquisite taste and texture. This was one of the pie recipes that my grandmother developed early in the 1940's. At that time my grandfather worked for the Dixie Cup Company in Easton, PA. (The picture above is of the Dixie-cup-shaped water tower on top of the plant in Easton, Pennsylvania in the 1920s). My grandmother often packed a slice of pie in his lunch, and then started packing two and sometimes more slices as lunches were divided and traded around among the crew. My grandmother's pies were a huge success which gave my grandfather an idea - he would bring whole pies to work with him and sell them.</div><br /><div></div><div>Soon my mother was getting up before school and starting her day rolling pie dough while my grandmother made the fillings. Next my grandmother invested in a commercial oven. The business was taking off. And then - the local health inspector got wind of the business and paid a call to my grandmother's kitchen. She didn't have to shut down the business as long as she complied with pages of health regulations designed for commercial bakeries. </div><div></div><br /><div>And that was the end of the pie business. </div><div></div><br /><div>For me - the good news is that my mother kept all the pie recipes. She also taught me how to make the ultimate crisp and flaky pie crust. I've tried dozens of pie crust recipes over the years, with butter, with egg, with convoluted prep techniques. But the basic recipe with crisco, flour, a dash of salt, a dash of sugar, and cold iced water gives me the best result. The only significant variation from my mother's early instruction is that I use a food processor to cut the shortening into the flour.</div><br /><div></div><div>My grandfather only worked a short time at the Dixie Cup plant. He died at a young age in 1948. But I often heard about my grandmother's experience in the pie baking business. She never held much with government regulation after that.</div><div></div><br /><div>Lafayette College in Easton, PA has a special collection on the history of the Dixie Cup. It is a very interesting story, intertwined with public health, railroads, and public schools. You can link here: <a href="http://http//academicmuseum.lafayette.edu/special/dixie/company.html">Dixie Cup History</a>.</div><br /><div></div><div>Slowly but surely I'm putting together a cookbook. If you would like to be a recipe tester for the Lemon Sponge Pie, post a comment and let me know.</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-3658774670593646702010-06-28T18:38:00.000-07:002010-06-29T19:10:08.034-07:00Pairing Chocolate Cake & Beer: Does It Get Any Better?<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCqkTVgF_AI/AAAAAAAAACA/Aryk8DwynHw/s1600/specialdark_header_brand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488379748000594946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 66px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCqkTVgF_AI/AAAAAAAAACA/Aryk8DwynHw/s320/specialdark_header_brand.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>I am living testimony to the belief that chocolate is an essential food group. In my world: ice cream - chocolate; cookie - brownie or chocolate chip; pie - chocolate cream. And cake - but of course, chocolate. Served best with my preferred frosting - peanut butter. Rich, dark chocolate cake with light and creamy peanut butter frosting. The ultimate in comfort food.<br /></div><br /><div>A couple weeks ago friends Dan and Lynn came by for an impromptu porch supper. I baked a chocolate cake and it was without doubt the best chocolate cake I ever made. Dense, moist, fully chocolate expessive. If this cake was a cathedral organ - it would be the pedal tones in the lower register reverberating in the nave. If this cake was in the band - it would be the resonanting oom-pa of the tuba. If this cake was in the opera, it would be the Wagnerian basso profundo commanding center stage. </div><br /><br /><br /><p>Dan observed that the beer he just happened to bring along made an exquisite pairing with the cake: <a href="http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/29/36327">Michelob Ultra Pomegrante Raspberry</a>. I can't remember why I didn't try this pairing at the time. But by the following weekend, I was determined to bake another edition of this fabulous chocolate cake to try with the beer. My farmer-architect husband thought this was a great idea. </p><br /><p>What??!!! The "I'll take a fruit pie over cake anyday of the week" guy??!!! This clearly was a cake beyond compare.</p><br /><p>And then - No! What recipe did I use? I went to several trusted sources remembering only the cake used cocoa and sour cream. I tried a likely candidate from <a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/king-arthur-flour-bakers-companion-cookbook?go=detailDefault">King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion</a>. No - it was too lightweight. Then this past weekend I tried again with other prospect from <a href="http://http//www.saveur.com/article.jsp?ID=4291&typeID=100">Maida Heatter's Great Book of Chocolate Desserts</a>. Noo --o-o-o- way too dry even when supplemented with strawberries and whipped cream. (Although not a bad pairing either).</p><br /><p>Driving back home this morning from my daily consitutional at the pool (which I really needed after three weekends in a row with chocolate cake) I was pondering which of my cookbooks had the greatest selection of chocolate recipes. A-Ha!!! I found it! "Sour Cream Chocolate Cake" from the <a href="hhttp://www.librarything.com/work/764969ttp://">Hershey's Chocolate Treasury </a>(page 44 if you're lucky enough to own this gem of a cookbook). Many chocolate cake recipes have sour cream. The distinguishing feature in this recipe is buttermilk.</p><br /><p>So I will be making this cake again for the coming weekend. I'm also picking up my bike - now repaired - from the bike shop and I pledge to you, my readers, that I will ride to Lake Madison and back this weekend (20 miles) to pay for this chocolate indulgence.</p><br /><p>One more thing - I did add two special ingredients to the original recipe. If you leave a comment on my blog - I might be willing to share, although there is one clue in this blog!</p>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-35742191521009793192010-06-23T18:40:00.001-07:002010-06-23T21:02:01.846-07:00Medium Rare<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCLRywtQsaI/AAAAAAAAAB4/dnqIYuzogFk/s1600/steak.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486177966089089442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 129px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 99px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCLRywtQsaI/AAAAAAAAAB4/dnqIYuzogFk/s320/steak.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Tonight - let's talk steak. We went to dinner with friends last Friday night at one of Madison's dining establishments. Now - notice my careful choice of words. I did not say 'fine' dining establishments, because there are no fine dining establishments in Madison. There are places to buy food you don't have to cook yourself. And there's are a couple of places for a pretty good breakfast. In fact I originally wanted to start this blog as a restaurant critic for Madison. Let's face it - when one of the listings in the 'Dining Guide to Madison' includes the convenience store at the gas station on the corner of the highway, you must know that the definition of dining is stretched pretty thin.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But I digress.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So last Friday we're out with friends and Lynn orders a rib eye medium rare. She said this with a certain authority that affirmed to me 'this is a woman who knows her steak.' Then she asked "Is this steak dry aged?" I'm in awe .... in the presence of a beef connoisseur. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I admire beef connoisseurs. Actually for me - well, I've never been a big fan of steak - T-bone, rib eye, or otherwise. I guess because growing up the best our family could afford was a big thick burger or a steak sandwich. I almost hesitate to say 'steak sandwich' because you probably think growing up in New Jersey we had Philly steak sandwiches. Although where I grew up was not far from Philadelphia - the steak sandwiches I know and love bear no resemblance <strong><em>whatsoever</em></strong> to what people are passing off as Philly steaks these days. This is as true in South Dakota as it was when I lived in Ohio, West Virginia, or Maryland. But the Philly steak is a topic for a future blog post.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Back to Friday night. The rest of our orders - 2 reubens and a chicken Parmesan were placed without further interrogation. </div><div></div><div>The steak comes. To my eyes, it didn't look so good. Like I said, I am not a fan of eating steak, but I had an illustrious early career as a short order cook (Union 76 Truck Stop Bloomsbury,NJ; Village Inn Pancake House Lawrence, Kansas) so I've cooked a lot of steak. I knew that skinny pathetic piece of beef on that plate was not medium rare.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And so did Lynn. She didn't take the plate when the waitress passed it to her. "That is not medium rare. I can't eat that." The waitress went speechless, dropped her eyes to the plate looked helpless. Clearly, this was new territory. I don't think anyone had ever challenged her before. This is after all South Dakota and while people know good steak, they are also very nice and averse to making a scene or being in anyway confrontational. Lynn did not make a scene and she was not confrontational. But she was very positive and very clear, "I cannot eat this steak. I can talk to the cook if you want me to." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Waitress: "Uhh-hhhh."</div><br /><div>Lynn: "Really, I cannot eat this. I'll go back to the kitchen and talk to the cook."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This was a savvy move on Lynn's part because as a short order cook I had been on the receiving end many time for waitress wrath, occasionally deserved but more often as a convenient scapegoat for a lousy tip. Of course - there was the time the hostess came back and told me as tactfully as possible that an eight year old girl had choked on the plastic wrapping I failed to take off a slice of ham that went out in a ham sandwich. The girl's father was quite upset. Oh - did I mention the girl's father was my piano professor? And that my end of semester piano jury was the following day? Yep - that was a memorable kitchen gaff.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But I digress again. So the waitress retreated with the pathetic beef back to the kitchen. Lynn ate her potato. The rest of us dined on mediocrity and when a new plate of beef arrived, there was a regal rib eye worthy of a discerning steak eater. Thick juicy. Great grill aroma. And Lynn declared it quite good. She then proceeded to instruct the waitress in techniques for determining the doneness of a good steak. Even with my experience I was captivated by the lesson. Which only made sense because Lynn was a natural science teacher. She was in her element -a plate of beef, a young girl, and a lesson learned.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I wish I had been friends with Lynn when I worked at the truck stop. I could have used her particular expertise in medium rare. We served a lot steaks especially on the midnight shift. Steaks and eggs were a special for the long haulers although for the most part I don't think they were awake enough to know what was even on the plate. We also served a lot of burgers. Don't have any illusions about those. They were pre-formed, pre-frozen barely a quarter-inch thick. But there was one older couple that came in everyday for lunch Monday through Friday and placed placed their order with the same air of dicserning taste and authority: two hamburgers - medium rare. </div><div></div><div>The bottom line: People just know what they want and we need to respect that.</div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-4386390691728148732010-06-21T18:26:00.000-07:002010-06-21T20:38:26.909-07:00Throw All Your Rings Into The Ring Box<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCAhvOdD2mI/AAAAAAAAABw/4ap_PKQSudI/s1600/carousel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485421441354816098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 145px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TCAhvOdD2mI/AAAAAAAAABw/4ap_PKQSudI/s320/carousel.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>This morning we woke up to a refreshing summer rain shower. The kind of morning that whispers "Oh go ahead, roll over and pull up that sheet a little snugger." And the next thing you know you're drifting away on the sound of raindrops falling through the leaves and dripping off the eaves.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Rainy mornings didn't always have this effect on me. When I was a kid, this was the kind of morning that brought sadness and disappointment. The sound of rain falling outside my bedroom window inevitably happened the same day some exciting outdoor adventure was planned. A drive to a state park and a picnic lunch. A day at the pool. A long awaited day long bike ride. Or Bushkill Park Day. Wow. That was the worst.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My father worked for New Jersey Power & Light and each summer, the employees and their families were treated to a day at Bushkill Park, an amusement park just outside Easton, Pennsylvania.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Bushkill Park Days. An accumulation of singular moments from each successive summer packed away and ready to be shaken out and enjoyed one at a time now some 40 years later. All the chocolate Yoo-Hoo you could drink. The free tickets for the rides. When tickets were all used up, you ran back to the pavilion where the grown-ups were hanging around. The men drinking Rolling Rock. The women sipping Cokes and minding the babies and the toddlers. The Man With The Tickets would unwind the big roll and hand you a long strip. How many? 10? 15? It didn't matter because when they were gone you could go back for more. Although, the Man With The Tickets would try to make you believe that this would be the last strip of tickets you would be given. "There will be no more," he'd say with a stern look. "Better make them last."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So off we'd race to the Bumper Cars, the Fun House, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and for me endless rounds on the Carousel. Finally, one glorious summer, my arms were long enough that I could grab rings from the ring bar. I'd lean way out over the edge of the moving platform, clinging to the post of my trusty steed as he soared gracefully up and down. Stretch a little further and bing - I snatched the ring. One time I even got the brass ring - good for one free ride.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And then the tickets would be gone and we'd race back to the pavilion worried that maybe this time the Man With The Tickets would be right and this time the tickets really would be gone.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Only one time can I remember, in a vague sort of way, that the ticket roll was empty. I was older by that time, 12 or maybe 13, and already losing the optimistic ideals of my youth. I don't remember being disappointed. Just gave a shrug and an 'Oh Darn.'</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It wasn't too long after that the power company stopped the tradition of Bushkill Park Day. Another victim of corporate cost cutting. And today Bushkill Park itself has fallen victim to two floods, irresponsible flood control, and not enough money.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In my mind I can still smell the cotton candy and the popcorn, see the bright colored lights strung through the park, hear the metallic snap-crack of The Whip, and feel the juicy scariness of running through the rotating barrel in the Fun House. Best of all, embedded in my memory, I hear the jolly, lilting melodies of the carousel organ with its brass, its reeds, and the percussive beat of the tambourines and bass drum. And all too soon I hear the voice directing us to "Throw all your rings in the ring box. All your rings in the ring box, please." The voice that foretold the coming of the end of the ride.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I see Bushkill Park now as a kind of metaphor for my life. You only have so many tickets to ride. You don't know how many more you might get. You better enjoy each ride as you go round and round through life. And when the day comes and I hear the voice instructing "Throw all your rings in the ring box" I hope that I am still carrying the excitement and optimism of Bushkill Park Day that even the rainiest summer morning cannot squelch.</div><div></div><div>Bushkill Park: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaOOO1PycA8">The Last Ride</a></div><br /><div></div><div></div><div> </div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-71353189762585098632010-06-20T08:56:00.000-07:002010-06-20T10:08:43.792-07:00Father's Day Sunday<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TB5J7uLj_6I/AAAAAAAAABo/-GtqEl7dxhk/s1600/may+2010+012.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484902686541479842" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TB5J7uLj_6I/AAAAAAAAABo/-GtqEl7dxhk/s320/may+2010+012.JPG" /></a><br /><br />A beautiful sunshiny morning. The air is clear and bright. The maple trees stand tall throwing crisp clean trunk shadows across the street. Their leaves filter the morning sun and carpet the lawn with patches of clear yellows and golds.<br /><br /><br />I wanted to make a fast breakfast this morning and get to my studio. The morning was just beckoning me to write. But the quick breakfast evolved into a brunch worthy of my farmer-architect husband-father. While he fielded phone calls from his daughters in Ohio, I whipped up a ham, onion, spinach frittata and parmesan french toast made from last night's foccacia. Served it up with a fresh made strawberry jam. I have to confess - wow! I'm not really great at being an improvisational cook, but I surprised us both this morning.<br /><br /><br />Dinner tonight is more of a planned affair. My farmer-architect requested chicken - made with 'Chicken Sunday' chicken (see June 15 blog post). This will be a personal challenge. A confrontation of graphic imagination and culinary duty. Friends have assured me that once I taste our chicken gustatory delight will triumph over gory detail. I'll report on the outcome of their assurance later tonight.<br /><br />I must say that I have become a whiz at the frittata. Thank you to <a href="http://www.practicallyedible.com/edible.nsf/pages/marcellahazan">Marcella Hazan </a>and her classic cookbook Essentials of Italian Cooking. I also like <a href="http://http//splendidtable.publicradio.org/about/lynne.html">Lynn Rosetto Kasper </a>for Italian recipe inspiration.<br /><br /><p>But now - strawberries call. We're heading out to the Roundball Garden to pick fresh strawberries which will make their way into Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie for the Father's Day dinner.<br /><br /></p>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-37338253234399507182010-06-17T18:49:00.000-07:002010-06-17T19:34:37.371-07:00A Slam Dunk for CSA<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBrVN3eS93I/AAAAAAAAABg/IBcXGNXJhxk/s1600/may+2010+013.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483929930483038066" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBrVN3eS93I/AAAAAAAAABg/IBcXGNXJhxk/s320/may+2010+013.JPG" /></a><br />My farmer-architect husband loves to grow stuff - especially green stuff. I was not immediately aware of his passion for gardening when we first met. During our courtship days I told him I had three criteria for a husband - <strong><em>if</em></strong> I decided to ever re-marry. He had to know plumbing, he had to fix cars, and he had to treat me like royalty. He certainly qualified and in fact exceeded my expectations on Criteria #3. What I didn't know at the time was the benefits I would reap from his love of gardening.<br /><br /><br />In Ohio (before we met) he had a 1 1/2 acre organic vegetable garden and an orchard of 30 assorted fruit trees. He has long been a proponent of <a href="http://www.localharvest.org/csa/">community supported agriculture</a>. Now here in South Dakota he gets to work and play in The RoundBall Garden.<br /><br />Avid gardener and past president of <a href="http://dsu.edu/">Dakota State University</a>, Jerry Tunheim, has turned his backyard into a winning court of vegetables, fruits and herbs. Each spring he sells garden subscriptions to area residents and Dakota State supporters. Then every Wednesday afternoon from May until October, garden fans pick up the week's harvest. Proceeds from the sales are donated to the <a href="http://www.dsuathletics.com/womens-basketball/index.aspx">Dakota State Lady T's </a>Basketball Scholarship Fund. My farmer-architect husband is a major player in this game helping to plant, weed, harvest, and move the soaker hoses. Throughout the growing season tall girls are frequently seen among the rows of corn, beans, and squash. An incomparable workout in preparation for the basketball season.<br /><br /><br />The RoundBall Garden is a winning experience for everyone. Gardeners, players, and those of us who score fresh vegetables all summer long.DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-16581580571363320602010-06-15T18:21:00.000-07:002010-06-16T11:27:24.106-07:00Still Life in Iris Garden<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBgntOFC7NI/AAAAAAAAABY/dirUHxJlmns/s1600/Still-Life-in-Iris-Garden.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483176204150435026" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right; width: 320px; height: 214px;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBgntOFC7NI/AAAAAAAAABY/dirUHxJlmns/s320/Still-Life-in-Iris-Garden.jpg" border="0" /></a>This picture was two taken two weeks ago when the irises were still lush and healthy. Which is more than I can say for the chickens. It's taken me this long to reflect on this experience that I now call 'Chicken Sunday.'<br /><br />The farm where we buy our eggs had a few extraneous roosters that persistently ended up where they weren't wanted and needed to be dispatched. My farmer-architect-husband, who raised chickens back in Ohio well before I arrived in his life, was quick to step up with hatchet in hand to solve the problem.<br /><br />Now I enjoy telling people that I grew up in rural <a href="http://www.state.nj.us">New Jersey</a>, roaming wide open fields, biking back roads and country lanes, and even on occasion followed our neighbor's dairy cows down the road to the school bus stop. Most don't have this vision of New Jersey. But my rural childhood instilled in me an abiding respect for nature and a love of the land. At the same time, I'm also someone who gets squeamish pulling the giblet bag out of a frozen turkey. However, in the spirit of South Dakota pioneers, and I'm certain my earliest New Jersey ancestors, I decided I needed to have the experience of butchering a chicken at least once in my life.<br /><br />So out we went to the farm. I played with the turkeys and the ducklings while my farmer-architect-husband 'did the deed' in the chicken house. With our future chicken dinners in a large plastic bag in the back of our Jeep, we drove back to town to perform the final rites. I was assigned plucking detail. I really surprised myself at how I was able to perform my task with an air of clinical detachment. By the time I was on bird 3, I even discerned the need to adopt different plucking techniques to different feather types and carcass locations.<br /><br />Nearing the end of bird 4, I was ready to be finished with the experience. I was recalling conversations with different people around town, "Oh yes we used to do a 100 chickens at a time." That many chickens to be plucked by hand defies even my fervid imagination. By the time I finished bird 4 it took a supreme act of will to not think about what I was doing, not inhale too deeply as I sat by the big pot of boiling water. I tried to tune out the primal barking and baying of our basset hounds, their usual scents of backyard squirrels and rabbits effectively overcome by the fresh scent of hot wet chicken feathers and assorted gizzards and innards.<br /><br />Strangely I started thinking about my paternal grandmother, that she was with me, and watching me and cheering me on. I have vivid memories of my grandmother making piccallily, chow-chow, rivel soup, and other homely dishes, but I never saw her dispatching chickens. Yet clearly something primal in my background has managed to leak out around my ertswhile more 'sophisticated' life experiences.<br /><br />For now, our future chicken dinners are lying expectantly in the freezer in the basement. I think it will be a while yet until theyre invited to the table.DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-82851827866593598062010-06-12T18:18:00.000-07:002010-06-16T11:06:45.225-07:00The Salad Spinner<div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBQzWukvQ0I/AAAAAAAAABQ/gJNHsg9f22s/s1600/Salad+Spinner.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482063111968998210" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBQzWukvQ0I/AAAAAAAAABQ/gJNHsg9f22s/s320/Salad+Spinner.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />
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<br /><p>Today I retired my trusty orange salad spinner (see new one at right). The little plastic mesh sprocket thing-ies were stripped and the inner basket had split in several places. Retiring this long-serving kitchen tool to the trash sparked one of those flashback 'memories in the moment.' I've had this salad spinner since 1979 when I lived in the church apartment in Morgantown, WV. That is a lot of salads ago.</p><br />
<br /><p>Reflecting on this passage of time - how different and unexpected my life has turned out. I have a different husband. I live in South Dakota. My career started in music therapy, progressed to a master's in public administration and landed with a Ph.D. in political science. I have a daughter with a successful career and the best son-in-law a Mom could ever wish for. I own basset hounds. Who would have known? </p><br />
<br /><p>There is a lot to be said for life/career planning, but there is equal value in being flexible when unforeseen circumstances thrust you in new directions. I have a quote I keep on my desk: "The human mind plans the way, but the Lord directs the steps." I'm still pondering on what this means exactly in living my life each day. Somehow the meaning seems less murky when I look back over the years. Maybe it really is the journey and not the destination.</p><br />
<br /><p>What I can be sure of? I'll continue to spin greens well into the future (remember those nine varieties of lettuce I mentioned in my first blog post!) and I'll continue to rise to the challenge of perfecting an exquisite vineagrette.<br /></p>
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<br /><p></p>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-18471891900131407422010-06-11T17:49:00.000-07:002010-06-11T18:16:03.219-07:00After the Rain <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBLaEy2_5xI/AAAAAAAAAAc/svhk6EGBePo/s1600/may+2010+874.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481683472370099986" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBLaEy2_5xI/AAAAAAAAAAc/svhk6EGBePo/s320/may+2010+874.JPG" /></a><br /><br />The gusting rains blew through last night and that spelled the end of my beautiful irises. This is the third summer in our old house. Each year we hack away some more of the overgrown vegetation and each succeeding summer brings new blooming surprises. Last year we had just one of these beautiful pale blue irises. This year we had five in the front flower bed and a spread of a dozen or more in the backyard. The blooms were filled with the most lilting fragrance, lilac-like in its intensity, yet with a certain lingering delicacy. I think they are of an old-fashioned variety. Research is required to bear this out.<br /><br />The newly planted apple trees survived the storm. Honey Crisp and Fuji. Three peach trees are in the coolest section of the basement waiting to be planted. Each year we look for orchards with peaches but haven't found any yet in the this eastern section of South Dakota. They can grow here according to the zone charts. I admit we were very spoiled in Ohio living just a mile from Lynd's Fruit Farm and having fruit picked fresh from the trees daily.<br /><br />Tonight after work, we picked the first pea pod. A Sugar Snap. Still tiny but even in immaturity bursting with sweetness. A great start to the weekend!DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6712729136337563950.post-56306998705597210542010-06-10T18:32:00.000-07:002010-06-10T19:24:17.753-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBGVHmgjYMI/AAAAAAAAAAM/aAKh9V9zkpc/s1600/may+2010+880.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481326179315310786" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1ty3ONTCPew/TBGVHmgjYMI/AAAAAAAAAAM/aAKh9V9zkpc/s320/may+2010+880.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">First-time blogger here. Greetings! The plan - musings on life as a South Dakota transplant, a gardener, a baker, and a celebrater of all things edible. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">The photo - by way of introduction - Our Kitchen Garden. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I take little credit for this symphony of lettuce in nine varieties. My husband the Farmer-Architect wields the magic garden baton. Or hoe if you will. My contribution is bringing the daily additions to the compost piles at the end of each row (future sites of fruit trees). And most important, I dispense admiration and encouragement to the orderly ranks of leaf and sprout and seedling from my 2nd floor studio window. I cheer on the struggling fennel, soothe the fears of the rabbit-assaulted green beans, and beseech the soaring onioms to halt already!</div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">In addition to lettuce and spinach, an early first harvest this week were beaucoup of radishes. Thanks to the Culinary School of the Rockies for their recipe, Spicy Radish Quesadillas. (Go to <a href="http://www.culinaryschoolrockies.com/">http://www.culinaryschoolrockies.com/</a> for email newsletter). </div>DakotaDinerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17217785232405915011noreply@blogger.com1