Great minds

Sure, we had blackeyed peas yesterday. Along with a fine coleslaw. I didn’t make mustard greens—their color supposedly guarantees a prosperous New Year, but I did toss some bright green cilantro in the slaw—I trust that’ll count.

            We almost didn’t get the blackeyes—well, we almost didn’t get the blackeyes on New Year’s Eve. No way was I going without, even if I bought canned ones at the 24-hour Walgreen’s. That afternoon our cooking son and his wife invited us last minute to their house for beef tenderloin if we’d bring our own potatoes and lobster tails.  Happily we complied and stopped off, at their suggestion, at Central Market, our upscale, upscale store (like Whole Foods with more cheese). Lobster tails, no problem. Baking potatoes, right there. Blackeyed peas, a problem. The produce department had a huge display of fresh hulled peas, but they were purple hulls not blackeyes. I ask an employee; she grinned. They’d run out by noon; “but these taste just like them.” Clearly, she didn’t understand blackeyes. Up in the all organic department they had some little bitty cartons—looked like about four ounces for $4. Good luck or not, I wasn’t going to spend $12 to get one good bowl of blackeyes, and since the clock was ticking toward dinner time and those potatoes had to bake, I wasn’t about the venture into the maze of aisles to look for dry ones.

            We arrived, greeted, I played “Bobba” with our grandson, and Bob headed around the corner to Foodarama, a supermarket at the other end of the spectrum from Central Market where he snagged a bag of dried peas. Disaster averted. I even remembered to put them in to soak before I went to bed in the early hours of 2012.

            Now, while they simmered nicely over a low gas flame and the coleslaw soaked up its tangy dressing, I got ready for our last traditional dish—the cornbread. For many years I made cornbread from scratch using my farmer Grandmother Nordyke’s recipe—only cornmeal, no sugar, lots of bacon fat, but lately I’ve gotten lazy and reached for the cornbread mix. Which I did now. Oops. No cornbread mix. No! I was not going to the store on New Year’s Day for cornbread mix; I would make it from scratch. But how? The cookbook with her recipe is back in Georgia. Quick, to the computer to search. I couldn’t find a recipe with only cornmeal; so I adapted one. I did use the cooking oil it called for instead of bacon fat. I remembered to oil the cast iron skillet and put it in my hot oven for a couple of minutes before pouring in the batter.

            It worked, but the creative cook in me began the critique. Too crumbly; next time I’ll put a little flour in next time to get it to hold together, and clearly it need bacon fat. It really needs bacon fat. One thing was totally clear though—no more cornbread mix. Not that much trouble and so very, very good.

            Here’s my amended recipe:

1 egg

1 cup milk (Grandmother N. would have used buttermilk)

1 tablespoon cooking oil

1 1/2  tablespoon bacon drippings

2 cups yellow cornmeal

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

So good! The cast iron gives a gorgeous golden crust.

            Beat egg milk and cooking oil together, and then add the meal, baking powder and salt. Melt the drippings in an 8 inch cast iron skillet. Pour the hot grease into the batter, stir, and immediately put batter into the hot skillet (Grandmother N’s technique). Bake (check often) for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

           

            Not the end of the story! Here’s the great minds part. I don’t take the daily New York Times, but I do get it online. I also get lots of notices about subjects I’m interested in—like cooking. So I sit down at the computer this morning and check out “My Alerts: recipes.” What’s there?  A recipe for cornbread using only cornmeal, lots (more than I would) of bacon fat, and heating the cast iron skillet. It’s almost my recipe! It even goes on to say that if you are not using fresh rough ground cornmeal (Grandmother N. ground her own [or had one of the seven kids do it] in the barn behind the Texas farmhouse), then substitute a bit of flour for some of the cornmeal.

            Great minds!

            If you’d like to check out the NYTimes recipe, here’s the link.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/28/dining/husk-cornbread-recipe.html?_r=1&emc=tnt&tntemail1=y

Tradition! Tradition! Meow!

Fresh, free-range turkey
right from the oven.

The hit of Thanksgiving Dinner--home
made butter.

I’m beginning to think it’s a family Thanksgiving tradition. Not having turkey (yes, we did that with son Chris as chef and mighty good it was, not to mention the homemade butter). No, taking in lonely cats threatens to become a habit.

Ginger--once upon a time

            Almost five years ago a cat appeared on our porch in Southwest Georgia. For months I told him, “Shoo, scat, cat.” He didn’t. He told me firmly speaking in a squeaky cat-ese, that this was his home and we are (yes, are) his family. Finally, on Thanksgiving day, 2007 I gave him a handful of cat food. The rest—history. I wrote about it in this blog in January, 2008 Gentling Ginger I. I’ve updated now and again, and now it’s history repeats herself.

            Ginger, named for his ginger coat, quickly managed to make himself the lead family cat. He even made the move with us to Houston where he now feels right at home.

Ginger now--surveying
his domain,

New cat on the block

            But last March, complications. Douglas appeared. Now Douglas wears a tag that says he lives a block away. That’s what they think. Douglas thinks he lives right in my yard where we’re sharing him with our neighbor Michael.  

Mac and Arthur, or is it Arthur and Mac?

(Check out my March 15 and 17, 2011 entries here.) Not only did Douglas appear. He brought two “nephews,” Mac and Arthur. The boys remain happy to eat outside and run. But Douglas? Douglas tells us plaintively (he tells Michael the same thing, and he’s as soft a touch as I am.), "I'm a house cat. I love you."

            And now—instant replay. Thanksgiving morning, I felt mellow, generous, loving and one more time—I opened the door. Immediately, Douglas accepted. That was a week ago. Now Douglas has made himself right at home—and with Ginger’s grudging permission. When will this end?

            No, Mac!

            No, Arthur!

Well, not until next Thanksgiving. Maybe.

Maybe too much at home!

Douglas makes himself at home.

            

 .

Surprise Dad! Let's Eat!

Before we do Father's Day lets flashback to Mother’s Day. A great day. A superlative family brunch.

            “Would have been perfect,” I told daughter Katy, if only you’d been there. No comment—for a few days, and then I got an e-mail: 

You said something that hit a chord with me ... I'm thinking maybe I'll fly in Saturday before Father's Day and fly out Monday. It's a cheap ticket - $160!

         

I would have just seen you guys, but that makes it all the more fun. I was thinking I could Taxi it from Hobby to Spanish Village, where you will tell Bob you want a late lunch (or anywhere you'd like and only if you guys are free) and when you get there, or I get there, we'll surprise him. Flight lands at noon, so I could be there by 1 at the latest.

What do you think? Can you keep the secret?

 Could I ever? Not real easy, but I did.

Plans for Spanish Village, the world-class enchilada capital of Houston and site of many happy memories from Katy’s kidhood.  Everything was right on track. Late the week before she clued her brother Chris. Yes, he and his crew would join us. What a surprise.

You said it. Saturday morning, Katy e-mails, “Flight delayed.” I cook up a ruse, “Chris and Nancy are running late. . .” He buys it. Finally, it’s cheese enchiladas at around 2, with no Katy and four people trying not to spill the beans. Bob is mildly curious why we’re having lunch today when we’re doing Father’s Day tomorrow. “We got to talking about enchiladas. . .” 

Home again. Text from Katy, “Cancelled. New flight leaves at 3.’

Text from Katy, “On tarmac.”

Text from Katy. “No crew, back in terminal.”

Finally around 5 she’s on the plane. A call, “I don’t want to come to the house. No fun. Meet me at the West Alabama Ice House.” That’s our down-the-street refuge for beer and good, easy goin’ company. “Don’t know how I’ll pull that off, but I will!”

Call just before 7, “I’m waiting for a cab.” Bob’s curious again. “Katy’s bored.” I explain.

Then a few minutes later, “After those enchiladas, we won’t want supper, but I’ve gotta get out of here. Let’s go down to the W. Alabama.” Bob never has to be urged. We’re in the car and headed down the street. If it weren’t over 100 degrees we’d walk.

We walk up to the bar, when a woman touches Bob’s arm, “Sir, may I offer you a beer!”

Surprised? Just a little bit!

The Ice House welcomes all.
It's a friendly place!

Spanish Village--Just as good
the second time around.

Bob models a favorite gift.

The whole crew--Jim and Nancy, Trilla,
Chris, Bob, Katy, Hunter in front.

Bob and his babies
Hunter, Chris, and Katy

Silly family, silly family

Next morning papers and the wait for noon and a family Feast at Feast, another, but newer favorite. The whole gang—this time, Katy included. Feast is a "snout to tail" adventure.

Yummy!

Bob declared he’d never eat again, but by evening—off to another of Katy’s kiddy favorites—the Hobbit Café. The restaurant has moved but the menu is the same, so we indulged in Gandalph and Bilbo sandwiches.

My Gandalph. It's a "slim." Jut
imagine a "classic"!

Monday morning, thank goodness, this time right on schedule, Katy heads back to Atlanta. A happy lass leaving a mighty happy dad!

Bye, Daddy. I love you.

Fiddlin' Around A Father's Day Tribute

In honor of Father’s Day, here’s a tribute to a fine, fiddling, farming Texas Dad—my grandfather, Charles T. Nordyke, husband of Narrie (see my entry about Narrie on May 8, Mother’s Day), and father of my dad, Lewis T. Nordyke. This entry is at both www.trillap.blogspot.com and www.touchthepast.blogspot.com. I don’t overlap often, but today, I do.

Fiddlin’ around

All of his life Charlie was fiddlin' for friend, family

and party-line pals.

Charlie couldn’t remember when he didn’t have a fiddle in his hand. Everyone in his family did, or a guitar, or banjo, maybe a mandolin. About the proudest day of his life was when he was 12. He got his own violin. No more borrowing or waiting his turn. His own violin! It was beat up and old when he got it but he treasured it and played for the next 75 years, but not every day, he’d promised his mother he’d never play on Sunday until he was 80. (I remember many joyous Sunday evenings listening to “Turkey in the Straw, “The Soldier’s Joy,” and, of course, “Listen to the Mockingbird” after that awaited birthday.) The violin was always Charlie’s proudest possession.

            Born in Missouri, Charlie and his family followed the bumper sticker dictum and got to Texas just as fast as they could. When he was only four, he rode a gray mare tied behind his family’s wagon as the wagon train wound its way to Texas. Once there Charlie’s branch of the family bid good bye to friends and some family in Callahan County and headed south to Limestone County, where Charlie grew up, hating farming and loving his fiddle.

Narrie and Charlie Nordyke

married December 24, 1899

            When he was a young man he determined to live by the fiddle and not the plow. He headed to Ft. Worth where he ended up in the red-light district. He could handle that, but not the requirement that he work on Sunday. He headed back to Limestone County. But he didn’t give up his quest. He decided to set off fo Alaska and the Klondike, but first a trip to Callahan to say good-bye to the Nordyke kin. That changed everything.

One of those dratted mules.

            Young Nancy Narcissus Coffey (Narrie) flat stole his heart. There went the Klondike, here came the wedding bells. On December 24, 1899 Charlie and Narrie married. For the next 50 years Charlie farmed by day, cussin’ mules, hauling cotton, hating it, but in the evenings—ah! Out came the fiddle, here came the neighbors. Right through seven children, Haley’s Comet, two world wars, the great depression, Charlie fiddled, thumped his foot and was happy.

            So were the neighbors who came from all over for their fiddle fix. Lewis, his middle child and my dad, speculated that the Nordyke family may have set up the country’s first network when they figured out that if Charlie fiddled into the telephone, all their party-line friends could join in.

The family gathered, probably for Narrie's sixtieth birthday

in April, 1934. Standing behind their parents

Alda, Clarence, Bessie, Lewis, Elsie, Noel, and Peaches. The

live-giving windmill towers over them.

       

 Lewis didn't grow up to be a fiddler; he grew up to be a writer, and, in 1960, he wrote a piece about his fiddlin’ father for the Saturday Evening Post.  You can read about it and download the article athttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2010/07/29/archives/retrospective/power-music-fiddler-hope-alive-1920s-texas.html. Perfect reading for Father’s Day afternoon 

Here’s to Charlie, Lewis and all the great dads celebrating their day.

Happy Mother's Day, Grandmother Nordyke

Nancy Narcissus Coffey Nordyke--Happy Mother's Day!

In honor of Mother’s Day a few words about my grandmother, Narrie Coffey Nordyke, mother of my dad, Lewis Nordyke.

I was always a little in awe of Grandmother, not just because she could wring a chicken’s neck without ruffling her starchy newly ironed apron, but because she had been a pioneer.         

            Narrie (Nancy Narcissus Coffey) was born in 1874 in Dalton, Georgia to Molly (Mary Catherine—Katy, my Catherine is partly named for her) Ferrington and E.N. Coffey, a Confederate veteran of  the Battle of  Chickamauga. When Narrie was small the Coffeys pulled up their Georgia stakes—land was scarce and mostly farmed out—and headed forTexas. As a kid I envisioned the covered wagon, the campfires, the winding road, until one day I asked Grandmother, “What was it like to be on a covered wagon?”

            “I have no idea!” She pulled herself up to her full six feet and said with her usual dignity, “We came on the train.” My vision changed. White gloves were Grandmother’s thing. She wore them to the beauty shop in Baird, to the café downtown; almost anything was worth putting on her good suit and white gloves. Now I saw a parlor car with a little girl in white gloves and a Sunday dress walking down the aisle. Later, I learned they came on an immigrant train sharing a boxcar with their livestock, household goods, and several other families. I can only guess that they wished for the open trail and a campfire.

            I think about Molly, getting onto the train with her youngsters knowing full well that while there would be many letters (wish I could find them) sent with love, likely she would never see her family again. Far as I can tell, she didn’t.

            Narrie grew up in Callahan County, Texas surrounded by Georgia family and friends. But when it came time to fall in love, she picked a sort-of Yankee fiddler from Limestone County who’d come to visit relatives before heading for fiddling jobs in the saloons of Alaska.

Nancy Narcissus Coffey and Charles T. Nordyke
Married in Callahan County, Texas, December 24, 1899.

            On December 24, 1899 Narrie and Charlie Nordyke married. After a brief stint inLimestone County, and, yes, this time they did go in a covered wagon, they lived and farmed in Callahan County the rest of their long lives. Lewis was the middle child and middle boy in the family of seven.

On the farm, probably in the late 1920s.

At the 50th wedding anniversary celebration.
I'm the imp in the jumper planning mischief with
my cousin Charles Reid. (Can't you tell?)
Poor little Paul Gene--the likely victim--is

Getting ready for Thanksgiving

Chocolate cake bakes

Smells of anticipation

Thanksgiving joy. Joy!