Recipe Copycat

At the risk of being called a copycat (which I hate), I'm going to try my hand at recipe posting/food photography. It seems that sharing great recipes through blogging is a popular thing to do these days. Ree Drummond, a.k.a. The Pioneer Woman, has it down pat, complete with stunning photos of every step in preparing a delicious dish. Check out her blog/website at http://www.thepioneerwoman.com/, and click on the cooking tab to see what I mean.

I'm not a newbie when it comes to photography, although there's always a lot to learn. But still, taking nice pictures of ingredients sitting still on the counter top can't be too hard, can it? Well, let's just say that over two hours and 200 photos later (thank goodness for digital cameras), I have a healthy respect for food photography! I'd even venture to say that food photography is an art and science unto itself, requiring great knowledge, skill, and creativity, not to mention a good dose of luck.

I chose my mother's Apple Crisp recipe for my first food photo shoot. It's a simple recipe, with only seven ingredients, and is quick and easy to prepare. Even so, it took Robin and me about two hours to get it in the oven, what with posing and snapping photo after photo, and checking to see if they were sharp and clearly focused, most of which were not. In the real estate business, they say location, location, location is the secret to a successful sale. This evening I learned that in food photography, the secret is light, light, light. Light is everything, and if the light isn't right, the photo won't be right either. I also learned it is helpful to have at least four hands when shooting food photos. Thanks, Robin!

So here goes:

Apple Crisp ingredients: apples, sugar, cinnamon, salt, water, flour, and butter.

Pour 1 cup sugar into a medium-sized mixing bowl.



Add 3/4 cup flour.

Add 1/3 cup cold butter (a scant 6 TBSP).

Set bowl in the frig while you peel and slice the apples.
(Too late, I realized this shot should have been taken with the bowl sitting in the frig!)

Peel apples. You need 4 cups sliced apples. Most any kind will do just fine.

Robin set up this still life: the peeling is all in one piece.

Slice apples into an ungreased 2-qt. baking dish.



Sprinkle 1/4 cup water over apples.



Sprinkle 1 tsp. cinnamon and 1 tsp. salt over apples.
Sorry, didn't shoot adding the salt because I forgot to add it!

Remove the flour mixture from the frig and mix with your hand
until crumbly and fine, but don't melt the butter.

Sprinkle mixture evenly over apples, covering them completely.

Whew! Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes, until lightly browned. I tried getting shots of the oven setting, but they came out really blurry, as did the ones of the dish inside the oven. I'll work on that, but not tonight! I realized I hadn't added the salt right after I put the dish in the oven, so I scratched around in the topping and sprinkled it in. While it baked I started writing this post and uploading photos. By the time the crisp came out of the oven, I was about whipped, but here are the final photos:

Hot out of the oven.

They say food photographs best in white dishes...but my only
white bowl looks yellow! It's the light again.

Here are some closeups...but the light is still yellow. *Sigh.*

This one isn't so yellow, thank goodness.

So...four hours after I started, I'm almost done with my first food photo shoot. Getting all these photos on this post was no small feat either, and I'm ready for bed. But in case you don't care about the photography, here's the recipe for my mom's yummy Apple Crisp. It doesn't have oatmeal, and I think that's why I like it so much. Take my advice: don't try to photograph it, just make it and eat it!!  It'll sweeten your day. Enjoy!

Apple Crisp

4 cups peeled and sliced apples
1/4 cup water
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup flour
1/3 cup cold butter

Stir flour and sugar together in mixing bowl. Add butter and mix by hand until crumbly and fine. Set aside. Arrange apples in ungreased 2 qt. baking dish. Sprinkle with water, then sprinkle on cinnamon and salt. Sprinkle topping over apples evenly, covering completely. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature, with ice cream if desired.

October Snow!

Today is the 29th day of October. We got up to about four inches of snow! And it's October 29th! Daylight Savings Time hasn't begun yet and Halloween is still two days away, and we have snow! Despite living in the mountains, inches of snow in October is unusual. Maybe a few flakes blowing around or even a dusting on the grass, but not inches. We weren't prepared. My geraniums and dahlias are still blooming in the flower bed along the front porch, along with begonias in pots. The bird feeders were clean, but they were still in the basement, and I had to dig for a hat and gloves.

But, oh! What a winter wonderland! Every surface, no matter how minuscule, was covered with white fluffy snow. Fall leaves, still gold, green, and yellow, were laced with whiteness and drooping mightily. The pines took on their heavy snowy mantles and the fence rails were piled high, looking for all the world like icing on a cake. And then there was that glorious snowing sound, the hiss of snowflakes falling against the muffled blanket of silence that dances in my ears like nothing else I know.

Just a couple of days ago I came home from school in shirt sleeves, enjoying the warm October afternoon. Today I wore boots and a goose down coat to the farmhouse when I went to paint. I found it ironic that I painted the kitchen ceiling in 90-degree weather, wearing as little as decently possible and still sweating buckets, and today, I had the heat on and wore my coat and hat most of the morning as I painted a few feet away in the adjoining pantry.

It's evening now, and most of the snow is gone. I knew it wouldn't last long in October. The ground still holds too much of summer's warmth for snow. But I loved it while it lasted. It was a gloriously sweet surprise from Mother Nature.

Do You Remember?

A while back, I wrote about visiting my grandparents as a child in my post, "Sundays With Dad." I vividly remember getting carsick on the mountains we crossed during the drive every third Sunday. And I remember having to sit in the middle in the back seat of the car all the time. That's what I remember. I think. My middle sister, however, remembers it differently. She recalls volunteering to sit in the middle on the way to Grandmother's, to get it over with and have the window seat on the way home. When I asked my oldest sister about it, she couldn't remember exactly but said the volunteering thing sounded like something Mom would have suggested. Which brings me to the point of this post: which one of us is right? What's the truth of the past here? Am I remembering right?? Does anybody remember it right??

Memory can be a tricky thing. Everyone knows that several witnesses can see the same incident at the same time and yet recount different and sometimes conflicting accounts of what took place. Some of that can be chalked up to different perspectives, I suppose, but what, exactly, is the truth? Can we ever find out? Just how reliable is memory, anyway?

Several years ago I wrote an account of my parents and aunts and their experiences during World War II. I encountered this same problem with memory: siblings remembering the same incidents differently. I also found that their memories didn't always agree with historical records of events either. Of course, more than 60 years had passed, which could cloud one's memories a bit. But I'm thinking that a lot of the time, we remember things the way we want to remember them instead of how they really were. For example, over lunch at school, we teachers often recall how different school was for us as students years ago, in contrast to what we see now. Our memories are mostly of the "things weren't this bad when I was in school" kind. If our teachers from 30 or 40 years ago were part of our discussions, though, how would they remember those days? I'm thinking their memories wouldn't agree with ours.

So, what happens when our memories don't agree? Sometimes it causes laughter and good times, other times heated discussions and hard feelings. Sharing memories, however, brings us together in a way nothing else can. Memories, be they bitter or sweet, are important just because we have them. They help make us human. And most of the time, hopefully, they make life a little sweeter.

A Fond Farewell

We said goodbye to an old friend this week. It was a sad parting, but the time had come. We debated for several years over when it would be best to let it go, although every wind storm made the decision a little easier. Our old friend was the last of seven huge maple trees in our yard. Loyal and quiet, it sheltered us for the twenty years we've lived here but it has stood sentinel for decades, maybe even a century or more. And now it's gone.

Well, not really gone. Yet. There's still quite a bit of it in the yard, only now it's horizontal instead of vertical. It's amazing how tall a tree is when it's on the ground! And that was just the reason we had to cut it. This old maple was huge, and way too close to the house for comfort. If it had fallen just right, our front porch and two front rooms would have been underneath its massive trunk. Many a night I pleaded with God to "please, don't let it hit the house if it falls" while the wind howled outside. We held out for as long as we felt it was reasonably safe, but the time came at last when we had to bite the bullet and cut it down.

I wasn't here for the cutting since it was a school day. I suppose that was a good thing, since chain saws grate on my nerves and watching such feats make me think of all the ways the process could result in disaster. I snapped some photos before I left for school and said my goodbyes with a wistful sigh.

Goodbye, old friend!

When I came home, the sky was empty and the yard was full. Robin surveyed the work that awaited him, wondering when he'd ever get it all cleaned up. I took more photos. When we looked over the stump, trunk, and largest branches we could see that we made the right decision. The core of the tree was wet and soft, a sure sign that decay wasn't far off. We could also see where the tree had been tapped over the years for making maple syrup, which made us wonder just how old it really was. But there was no use in waxing nostalgic at that point, so we both got to work. Robin started clearing brush and I tackled the sidewalk with a broom and a shovel. We barely made a dent before dark.

The horizontal tree

Firewood for a warm house



Today, a couple of days later, we're getting used to the yard without our big tree. A friend helped Robin get all but the biggest chunks cleaned up and hauled away. What a blessing that was! (Thanks, Jeff!) As with every change, there are pros and cons: our kitchen in lighter, but the dirt on the windowsill shows more, and chances are the evening sun will be in my eyes as I work at the sink. There won't be such a mess of leaves and seed pods around our door, but there won't be any shade from the hot afternoon sun either. And I'll be able to see who's pulling into our driveway from the window, but the birds have lost a huge source of shelter and food. Still, life is all about change, whether we like it or not. Once in a while the constant force of change we don't notice most of the time makes itself known in big ways. When it does, I want to savor the sweetness of good memories and blessings yet to come.

Sundays With Dad

Today was my Sunday to spend with my dad. It's a ritual I've observed for a while now. Robin and I are in the season of elder care, and Sundays with Dad are important. He's 91, and since Mom died, his days get long and lonely sometimes.

Until I was 10 or so, my grandparents lived about an hour away. We went to see them every third Sunday, leaving Sunday School early and arriving in time for an old-fashioned and delicious Sunday dinner. Back then I got carsick easily, especially since, being the youngest and smallest, I had to sit in the middle in the back seat. Our route took us across two mountains and I got sick on the same turn every time. Mom would say, "Bill, you better slow down! She's turning green...she's going to be sick!" And sure enough, we'd be parked beside the road while I got my stomach in order and inhaled the fresh air with my feet on solid ground. By the time we got to Grandmother and Granddaddy's, I was ready to put something good into my very empty tummy. Once the dishes were done, the afternoon hours were spent mostly listening to the grownups talk. By 3:00 or 4:00 we were on our way home. Sometimes we stopped at the Dairy Queen for ice cream, which was a special treat. Hmmm...I don't ever remember getting sick on the way home. Go figure.

Now it's my dad who's the old one, and I'm the grownup visiting every third Sunday. It's a two-hour drive to his house, so I leave in time to meet him at church. After the service is over we have lunch at the Kalico Kitchen, where all the locals who don't want to cook go after church. On rare occasions I take lunch, but I didn't get the covered dish gene. I enjoy cooking and I'm not bad, but coming up with good food that travels well just isn't in my bag of tricks. Sometimes my sister feeds all of us (she got the Sunday dinner gene) with wonderful meals. She likes to try new recipes. I always thought she had some secret for picking out really good ones until I said so one day. Her son immediately responded with, "You're not here for all the yucky ones!"

After lunch, the afternoon hours are still spent in conversation, only now I'm one of the grownups doing the talking. When it's just Dad and me, we catch up on the news since my last visit and most always come around to some family history. When 4:00 rolls around, it's time for me to head home. Then comes the hardest part of the day: leaving. As much as I need to get home to my own life, leaving him there, old and by himself, is a heart-wrenching experience. Thankfully though, he's not alone all the time. My sister and her husband are the best and do so very much for him. He has a lot of good friends and neighbors who look out for him, too. It's just that moment of driving away, with Dad waving at the window. It gets me every time. I'm glad I don't get carsick anymore, but being heartsick is just as miserable.

Living a hundred miles away was good when my parents were younger. The distance was far enough away, but not too far, for all of us to live our lives and still visit easily. Now, though, a hundred miles seems like a thousand. This season of elder care is tough and tender all at the same time. I hope I'm being the daughter I should be. I just know I sleep a little sweeter after my Sundays with Dad.

Me and My Paintbrush

"Necessity is the mother of invention," they say. I say, "Necessity is the mother of learning how." It has become necessary in my adult life to learn how to paint. Not beautiful landscapes or stunning portraits, but walls, ceilings, woodwork, and shelves. Lots of them. I've spent an inordinate amount of time this summer with a paintbrush in my hand and a crick in my neck.

My first big adventure into painting was in 2003 when we remodeled the four rooms in the original part of our house. As a way of saving a few dollars, I painted the walls in a bedroom, sewing room, bathroom, office/library, and entry hall. Now I know that painting new drywall is fairly easy, but when I started it seemed a huge undertaking. The biggest learning curve came with the hunter green in the bathroom and the rich red in the office/library. Those colors taught me the value of tinted primer and multiple coats of paint. When I applied the primer and first coat of red paint, my husband took one look at the hot pink and said, "Are you sure that's what you want?" I have to admit I was a little worried, but I put on my brave face and said it would look fine when the room was finished. Thank goodness I was right!! But it took four coats of red to reach the color that was on the paint card and the addition of white built-in book shelves to tone the room down enough to keep it from feeling like the inside of a fire hydrant. The book shelves were no picnic either.  Besides painting the built-in cabinets, there were 39 shelves, nine drawers, and four cabinet doors. All needed primer and two coats of paint. That year I painted something every day from February to June. I learned a lot, with the most valuable lesson being that one cannot judge a paint job until it is completely dry.

Me and my paintbrush: from this...

Now we've undertaken another house to remodel. Robin's uncle's farmhouse became ours in the fall of 2004. Although it is in good shape, it has suffered from a severe lack of TLC for the last half-century. We're finally to the finishing point for the kitchen, pantry, dining room, bath, and laundry. (The rest of the house might take another half-century to finish!) My main summer project this year was to paint the kitchen, pantry, and dining room. Surely I could get that done over the summer... couldn't I? I started in the kitchen, where it was my bright idea to leave the wide-board walls and exposed ceiling and simply paint. Well, there's been nothing simple about it, and after six weeks of painting, I'm still at it. Those wide-board walls required hours of sanding, filling cracks and holes, priming and painting - I'm on the painting part now. But the walls pale in comparison to the ceiling. When I asked about filling the numerous cracks there, Robin said, "Are you kidding? You wanted character, didn't you?" By the time I finished painting the ceiling, I'd had about all the character I could take for one summer. I spent the better part of two weeks perched on a ladder, looking up, and moving dime store reading glasses from my head to my eyes to the end of my nose and back again in an effort to get my middle-aged eyes to focus clearly on what I was doing. Not to mention that the heatwave of the century turned our cool mountain clime into an sweltering oven, which mind you, was even hotter at the top of that ladder. And I had to paint that character-filled ceiling three times (primer plus two coats of semi-gloss), with each coat taking three or four days. I won't go into the color, and how it looked yellow instead of green, which meant I had to start over...

...to this!!

The ceiling is done now, and a friend stopped by today while I was working on the walls once again, and wonder of wonders, she looked up and said, "Wow, I love that ceiling!" I could have hugged her! Who knows when I'll get to the dining room and pantry (which, by the way, are easy for an old pro like me: new drywall and beadboard), but for my tired eyes, sore neck, and aching shoulder, that one sentence is about as sweet as it gets. "Wow, I love that ceiling!"

Summer Vacation Revisited

I just read again my post of June 17th, written on the eve of seven long, uncluttered weeks of freedom. Ahh, summer vacation, that carefree time of year when I can set my own schedule, relax without guilt, and accomplish some long-overdue chores and projects. Well, I stand corrected. Those seven long weeks turned into seven very short ones that soon filled with jobs and responsibilities, few of which were on my to-do list. And here I am, at the end of summer vacation. It's Sunday evening and once more, "tomorrow's a working day," my first day back at school, so I must hurry and finish this post so I can get to bed as early as possible in hopes of getting up on time at 5:00 a.m.

Let's see, what did I do this summer? Cleaning took up a goodly amount of time: the screen porch was covered with last fall's ladybugs, sawdust from the kitchen remodel, and this spring's healthy dose of pollen; the house had been sorely neglected in the end-of-school rush, and I still haven't given my car it's once-a-year thorough cleaning inside and out. Once I made some headway in the cleaning department, I tackled the painting awaiting me at the farmhouse. Now that took way longer than I expected! My plan was to get the kitchen, dining room, and pantry all painted, and I never made it out of the kitchen! That whole story is another post I've been writing in my head for the last two weeks; obviously I haven't gotten it into the computer yet. Amid the cleaning and painting, my elderly father-in-law's health deteriorated to the point of a week of  intense care at home, followed by a hospital stay and nursing/rehab placement. And our garden, surprisingly enough, has done fairly well this year, meaning some time spent canning and freezing. There were some appointments and meetings, involving trips to Monterey or across the mountains, all of which took precious hours of summer vacation.

There were some good "summer" moments, though. I stayed up late several nights reading a wonderful book, The Help by Kathryn Stockett, which I highly recommend. I slept in til I was ready to get up several mornings. Robin and I ate dinner on the porch most of the summer, and we still can for another month or so. My dog and I enjoyed some long walks in the cool of the morning. At last, I took a little time to play my long-neglected piano. For the first time ever I painted my toenails (soft pink).

As much as I hate to admit it, there are a few advantages to returning to work. (Eeek, did I just put that in print???) I do accomplish more when I have a schedu....uhh, routine, shall we say. When I know I have to get up, I do, even if it's not quite as early as I'd like. I plan ahead better when most of my days are committed to my employer. A paycheck is always nice, too! So you see, even if my "vacation" didn't seem much like one, at least it was a change from the same 'ole same 'ole. In spite of an incredibly busy summer, I don't have to look very hard to find this sweet life of mine.