For the Blog:
Whoops! just got back from a cooking demo by our Activities Director, and she featured Choco Squigglies from Jean Pare's Company's Coming series (her specialty book on everything chocolate). These are fun to make and a delicious little treat.
Here's the recipe:
1 large egg
7/8 cup milk
1 cup flour
1/4 cup cocoa, sifted
2 tbsp sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
Cooking oil, for deep frying
Icing sugar for garnish
Beat egg in medium bowl, add next 7 ingredients. Beat until smooth. Pour batter into plastic squeeze bottle.
(Empty pancake syprup bottle works fine.) Measure cooking oil into electric fry pan to depth of 1 inch. Heat to 375.
Squeeze batter into hot oil making spiral or zigzag pattern within about 3 inch diameter area. Cook for about 2 minutes, turning once, until puffed and browned. Remove with slotted spoon to paper towel. Sprinkle with icing sugar. Serve warm. Makes about 12 squigglies.
YUM! This is sort of a mini-donut type of thing, with like one-enth of the calories. I would like to try it without the cocoa, and maybe put in some almond flavoring instead...maybe some nutmeg, but that, of course, would not belong in a chocolate cook book, would it? By the way, it also says not suitable for freezing, best eaten fresh.
Anybody wanna give it a try? Leland???? Have a rest from banana bread?
Wednesday, January 13
Sunday, January 3
My brother Sandy
Rooting around in my bookcase today, I came across a fairly lengthy (100 pages, double-spaced) epistle written by my brother Sandy for the edification of his children and grandchildren, entitled "My Early Life: Growing up on the Canadian Prairies During the Great Depression". Written by Alexander B. Morrison, Bountiful, Utah, January 2002. And let me tell you, it is riotously funny, and oh, so well written, as only the author of a number of books can do, I have been giggling to myself, sometimes bursting into outright laughter, at some of the images he portrays, the whole thing is absolutely hilarious. I feel compelled to share with my family his take on cows! Here goes.....read and enjoy.
"As you would expect on a "mixed" farm, we always milked a half dozen cows. They came and they went, but on the whole they were a sorry lot, who didn't give much milk and didn't drop calves that were good beef producers either. Truth to tell, cows are pretty stupid beasts. There was Peggy, a black brute who would suffer some sort of periodic hormonal fever, and take off across country in search of male companionship. Fences were no deterrent to our Peggy, over or through them she went with abandon, and when the fever subsided she would be brought back unrepentant, having cut her teats to pieces. Attempts to put salve on her to ease the pain and encourage healing were rewarded by serious efforts to kick your head off. She was short both on gratitude and brains. Then there were our only three genuine Jerseys, a great milk-producing breed normally. They were bought at a farm sale someplace, and christened (by me) as Boots, Toots and Snoots. (Not one of my more memorable creative efforts!) The latter two were useless creatures, pretty to look at, but producing little milk. Boots was a good milker, and we had her for several years.
"It was the common habit of cows, some more than others, to periodically stretch while standing in the stall being milked. When they did so, their hind feet would slip off the end of the stall, and they would slide into the gutter, with a great splatter of urine and dung. Then, as they lurched to regain their footing, having come down heavily on the knees of the milker, they not uncommonly kicked the milk bucket, put their dirty foot in it, or knocked the poor milker off his or her stool. When such occurred, the aggrieved milker could be expected to belabor the cow over the back with the milk stool, while deploring the unwed ancestry and canine origins of the brute involved.
"A daily occupational hazard of milking was the likelihood of being slapped across the face by the wet tail of a cow seeking relief from flies. Since the tail certainly was not wet with sterile water, the effect of such a lashing was both pungent and painful. One of our most noteworthy cows, named Pansy (what a contradiction in terms that was!) had had her tail half-frozen off before we bought her. When she hit you with her tail it was as though you'd been poleaxed, or at least hit with a cement-filled sock. There were no long line-ups of those who begged to milk Pansy, as I recall.
"Pansy featured in one of our most enduring farm mysteries. One night as Uncle, Bob and I were milking, Pansy suddenly gave out an anguished moan, followed by a long and painful shudder from head to tail. The cause was a mystery and remained so despite earnest discussions for weeks afterward. Uncle opined that perhaps she had swallowed a nail which somehow had found its way into the hay supply. Others thought she had suffered a heart attack of sorts, or perhaps been bitten by a mouse. Bob remained strangely non-committal through it all. It was fully ten years later, when both of us had left home, that he finally made known the cause of Pansy's discomfiture. He had been forking hay into her manger that fateful night and had inadvertantly (or so he claimed) stuck poor Pansy in the nose with the pitchfork! No wonder she moaned!
"Each spring calves were born, not uncommonly with the help of a rope tied to their front legs as they emerged from their mother's womb. It was the task of small boys to pull when ordered to, but only when ordered to, so as not to risk injuring the mother or the infant. Within a couple of hours, having been licked clean by the mother of blood, plancental fragments and amniotic fluid, the calf would first take a few tottering steps , and then be fully mobile, able to keep up with the others, and bawling for nourishment. Calves were soon weaned from the udder to a pail. That could be a traumatic experience for both man and beast. You straddled the calf's body, with its head between your knees, (and hence controllable), and put your fingers in the milk and into the calf's mouth. In theory, as it sucked your fingers it swallowed milk, and learned to drink from the pail. But while some calves learned quickly, i.e. within a couple of days, others would butt the pail with their heads, usually spilling the milk all over the leg of the poor "teacher" or would gag and splutter and nearly drown. Finally, Father, in total frustration, would say "drink or droon (drown)" and by sheer force of character and brute strength, force the calf to be reasonable, give up and just drink, which they always did. Sooner or later."
WELL, THAT'S THE COW STORY! He goes on to do the pigs, the sheep, the horses, the turkeys, and all sorts of other doings on the farm. Perhaps my children and grandchildren will better relate to what it's like growing up on a farm, and the extent of the things we had to deal with. Certainly a different life from the city-raised experiences of our children and grandchildren. But no doubt they had their own challenges, of a different nature certainly, but all these early experiences still contributed to the characters and personalities of these grown-up actors in the Game of Life.
If you enjoyed this story, please let me know, and I may be persuaded to do another excerpt from Sandy's story of growing up in the dirty thirties.
Love to all,
Mom, Granny
"As you would expect on a "mixed" farm, we always milked a half dozen cows. They came and they went, but on the whole they were a sorry lot, who didn't give much milk and didn't drop calves that were good beef producers either. Truth to tell, cows are pretty stupid beasts. There was Peggy, a black brute who would suffer some sort of periodic hormonal fever, and take off across country in search of male companionship. Fences were no deterrent to our Peggy, over or through them she went with abandon, and when the fever subsided she would be brought back unrepentant, having cut her teats to pieces. Attempts to put salve on her to ease the pain and encourage healing were rewarded by serious efforts to kick your head off. She was short both on gratitude and brains. Then there were our only three genuine Jerseys, a great milk-producing breed normally. They were bought at a farm sale someplace, and christened (by me) as Boots, Toots and Snoots. (Not one of my more memorable creative efforts!) The latter two were useless creatures, pretty to look at, but producing little milk. Boots was a good milker, and we had her for several years.
"It was the common habit of cows, some more than others, to periodically stretch while standing in the stall being milked. When they did so, their hind feet would slip off the end of the stall, and they would slide into the gutter, with a great splatter of urine and dung. Then, as they lurched to regain their footing, having come down heavily on the knees of the milker, they not uncommonly kicked the milk bucket, put their dirty foot in it, or knocked the poor milker off his or her stool. When such occurred, the aggrieved milker could be expected to belabor the cow over the back with the milk stool, while deploring the unwed ancestry and canine origins of the brute involved.
"A daily occupational hazard of milking was the likelihood of being slapped across the face by the wet tail of a cow seeking relief from flies. Since the tail certainly was not wet with sterile water, the effect of such a lashing was both pungent and painful. One of our most noteworthy cows, named Pansy (what a contradiction in terms that was!) had had her tail half-frozen off before we bought her. When she hit you with her tail it was as though you'd been poleaxed, or at least hit with a cement-filled sock. There were no long line-ups of those who begged to milk Pansy, as I recall.
"Pansy featured in one of our most enduring farm mysteries. One night as Uncle, Bob and I were milking, Pansy suddenly gave out an anguished moan, followed by a long and painful shudder from head to tail. The cause was a mystery and remained so despite earnest discussions for weeks afterward. Uncle opined that perhaps she had swallowed a nail which somehow had found its way into the hay supply. Others thought she had suffered a heart attack of sorts, or perhaps been bitten by a mouse. Bob remained strangely non-committal through it all. It was fully ten years later, when both of us had left home, that he finally made known the cause of Pansy's discomfiture. He had been forking hay into her manger that fateful night and had inadvertantly (or so he claimed) stuck poor Pansy in the nose with the pitchfork! No wonder she moaned!
"Each spring calves were born, not uncommonly with the help of a rope tied to their front legs as they emerged from their mother's womb. It was the task of small boys to pull when ordered to, but only when ordered to, so as not to risk injuring the mother or the infant. Within a couple of hours, having been licked clean by the mother of blood, plancental fragments and amniotic fluid, the calf would first take a few tottering steps , and then be fully mobile, able to keep up with the others, and bawling for nourishment. Calves were soon weaned from the udder to a pail. That could be a traumatic experience for both man and beast. You straddled the calf's body, with its head between your knees, (and hence controllable), and put your fingers in the milk and into the calf's mouth. In theory, as it sucked your fingers it swallowed milk, and learned to drink from the pail. But while some calves learned quickly, i.e. within a couple of days, others would butt the pail with their heads, usually spilling the milk all over the leg of the poor "teacher" or would gag and splutter and nearly drown. Finally, Father, in total frustration, would say "drink or droon (drown)" and by sheer force of character and brute strength, force the calf to be reasonable, give up and just drink, which they always did. Sooner or later."
WELL, THAT'S THE COW STORY! He goes on to do the pigs, the sheep, the horses, the turkeys, and all sorts of other doings on the farm. Perhaps my children and grandchildren will better relate to what it's like growing up on a farm, and the extent of the things we had to deal with. Certainly a different life from the city-raised experiences of our children and grandchildren. But no doubt they had their own challenges, of a different nature certainly, but all these early experiences still contributed to the characters and personalities of these grown-up actors in the Game of Life.
If you enjoyed this story, please let me know, and I may be persuaded to do another excerpt from Sandy's story of growing up in the dirty thirties.
Love to all,
Mom, Granny
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)