Tuesday, November 25, 2014

finding thanks by Carol Wallwork first posted online November 27,2008

Our English dining room, Cheadle Hulme, Cheshire, England 1973



It's the season of reminiscence, and thanksgiving.  A special thanksgiving that comes to mind is my first one in our new home in England, where Thanksgiving isn't even a holiday.

It was a week day like any other in Cheadle Hulme, Cheshire, except ti was more solidly sunny than most northern fall days.  Top of my agenda: take our preschool daughter Anna on a mile or so walk across the village to pick out a kitten.  I'd seen the Free Kittens to Good Home sign at the green grocers and called the day before.

That's it.  No turkey, no extended family, no feast.  At that time at least in northern England, trying to find cranberries or pumpkin would have been as easy as searching for whale blubber.  My husband Jim had a busy day planned at the University of Manchester.  This seemed logical earlier in the week.  But to my surprise, when Thursday actually arrived, I felt something powerful missing.  Like any stranger in a strange land, I was adrift without the customs of home.

I remember the day vividly, as I do only two other such days in my life.  Like most people, I remember my wedding day, the birthdays of our daughters (two more came along after Anna) and other life changing days.  But the three most powerfully remembered days, are days of utter pointless simplicity and delight.  One cannot foretell the mysterious election of this moment over that one. 

I can see the curls of Anna's blond hair peaking out from her cream-colored cap, hand knit by Jim's mum; the gentle gusts of wind skittering dried leaves as we walked; the feel of the air on my face; the clarity of the sunlight and how it sparkled and refracted above and through the bare trees.  And the light mix of cumulus and stratus clouds--whites and light greys--streaking across the bluest of skies.  These images are as clear as if this 40 year old day happened yesterday, no, more vividly than mere yesterday.

When we found the detached Victorian house I opened the wrought iron gate and wheeled Anna's stroller up the walkway to the front steps.  The mother cat's owner was delighted to see us, charmed to be party to the selection of our family's pet, and finding yet another home for puss' offspring.  As we looked at the kittens, only four weeks old, their eyes still closed, Anna wanted the black one, with white boots.

At that time we didn't yet own a car, so we arranged for the owner to deliver our kitten on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas.  By the time we left the house we were buoyant, chattering about what we needed to buy for our kitten and what we might name him, as we walked back through the gate, and on to the shops on the High Street.

I am reminded of questions asked by author V. S. Naipaul, in Among the Believers, of an Islamic mullah and hanging judge in the ancient city of Qom, the Islamic intellectual center of Iran, not long after the Revolution.  "What made you decide to take up religious studies?"  Naipaul asked, "How did you become an ayatollah?" He continued to probe, "What was your happiest day?"  Questions that cut to the meat on the bones of character.

As I pondered the last question, I'm struck by how revealing one's happiest day is.  Does one remember a day of accomplishment? From childhood?  Community? Mischief? Delight?

We went into Tesco's and bought some cat food and a little brush.  Next to the Italian grocery store for dried spaghetti and tinned tomatoes, quite different, I discovered, from the ubiquitous English Heinz variety.  Early afternoon we started making spaghetti Bolognese for dinner, sans green peppers, unobtainable in northern England in those days, and disdainfully referred to by our green grocer as, 'those Mediterranean vegetables.'

By twilight, as early as 4 o'clock in the northern latitudes, Anna helped set the table.  By six Jim was home and as we were supping on our English-style spaghetti. We decided to name our new kitten Jefferson.  He grew into a marvelous tom, a presence throughout the neighborhood and a vital part of Anna's memories of England.  As was that sweetest of days, a day of thanksgiving whenever I recall it, all these years later.




Sunday, November 16, 2014

Ode to Wildlife Rehabilitators by Carol Wallwork first posted online August 3, 2011

Walney Road (in autumn)

Friday, July 29th was the last morning of my granddaughter Daisie's vacation Bible school.  I was driving home on Walney Road, through E. C. Lawrence Park, when I saw traffic had stopped ahead.  Grrrrrr, my last few hours to wrap up errands has hit a snag!  I slowed to a stop.  There was one car ahead of me.  The problem:  A woman was meandering back and forth across both lanes (Walney's only two lanes, no shoulders) then I saw why-a white bird was fluttering on the ground, leading her in a Conga-like dance.  Every time she tried to scoop up the bird it would leap up about two feet in front of her then drop. 


At that instant I knew what to do.  My children had taught me--The bird needed a lightweight cloth dropped on it so the woman could pick it up.  For many critters out of sight is out of fright.  As a child our youngest daughter Molly spent a lot of time in this very park, doing her share to help lost critters, such as finding a giant domesticated rabbit, or a Dalmatian named Boomer who got lost when it's owner was out of town, or finding an injured chipmunk, etc. 

Turning off my car engine I got out to open my side door to look for something to help the bird.  Most of my bags are cotton grocery bag size--too small.  The huge plastic-coated Ikea bag would be too heavy and noisy.  There it was, a large, lightweight bag from William Sonoma that came with Molly's Mother's Day present.  Ugh, but it's a great size, very large, so all my other bags, umbrellas, first aide kit etc. fit in it, helping me to keep the car tidy.   Duty called.

I walked over to the bird.  It was on the ground in the middle of the opposite lane (by this time about 10 cars were lined up in each lane.  That's when a man jumped out of the car ahead of me with a silvery window reflector in hand.  One of the waiting cars elicited a halfhearted honk but otherwise the drivers were surprising tolerant.  


The man used the reflector to guide the distressed bird over to the grassy side of the road. Then I dropped the bag onto it and scooped it up in my hands.  I then presented the wrapped bird to the Conga woman.  She looked a little shocked.  I know that look.

I told her Walney Nature Center was only 100 feet down the road.  "They'll help you there," I said, pointing to the little house.  As we looked in that direction a Park naturalist was just then walking toward us.  The woman, holding the bird gently, started walking toward the naturalist.  The man and I got back into our cars.  He drove very slowly, keeping a cautious distance behind the woman with the dove.  Another sweet surprise.
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Recuperating dove
After picking up granddaughter Daisie from VBS she and I stopped at the nature center on our way home to see how the dove was doing.  That's when I met ECL park naturalist Tony Bulmer at the Nature Center.  The dove was recuperating in his office.  Bulmer said the bird was a dove.  It took several hours to calm down.  Birds are like dogs, they pant when they're hot and stressed.  It was also dehydrated.  Northern Virginia is in the midst of a heat wave.  Today's temperature got up to 99 degrees Fahrenheit.  I also met park worker Hayley, who had taken the bird from the woman.  That's when I heard the rest of the story.   A park volunteer had been in the line of waiting cars, but because her small child was sleeping in the back seat she couldn't get out to help but she did call the park.  I'd wondered about Conga woman-how did she get there?  I can only presume she was a passenger in a car so got out to help the bird.  When the road had cleared the driver must have driven down to the first cross road to turn around as there was no room to do that on narrow Walney Road.


Hadley told me that the park was often used as a dumping ground for unwanted animals.  This was heartbreaking because Fairfax County Animal Control has an exceptional network of trained people to rehabilitate wild animals and a healthy number of groups to adopt unwanted pets.   

When my husband was a grammar school student in England, years ago, someone at his school tried to save an injured hawk.  Unfortunately it died.  Wildlife rehabilitators have studied what works such as what you can and can't feed critters, plus the signs of certain failure involving unnecessary suffering.  Their efforts enrich our animal neighbors and us too.  I commend their dedication and wisdom, specially today.


Friday, November 14, 2014

Three Simple Foods by Carol Wallwork first posted online Nov. 20, 2008



My mother was a great cook.  She was incredibly messy in a dotty, Julia Child sort of way.  For instance, she’d hurl pork cutlets into a skillet about a yard away, landing them dead center, olive oil spattering. It was fun to be around my Mom when she cooked.  Perhaps it was the strength of that splatssstt on the meat, instantly searing it that made for such delicious fare, or simply that she was happy in her kitchen, or maybe it was just the madcap way she conducted herself there, a style that followed her no where else in her life. 

If Mom was a great cook my grandmother Sophia must have been a summa great cook.  She made everything from scratch, typical of her time, but her everything included marvelous poppy seed cakes, buttery cookies and pierogis to feed her family of eight.  I know this because my Mom made these foods too. 

My grandfather, Antoni, had a huge vegetable garden outside their small white clapboard house in Millville, Massachusetts.  He grew cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, horseradish, potatoes, herbs, garlic, beets, the works.  My grandparents left Poland as teenagers and never saw their parents again but the foods of their childhood were a constant throughout their lives.

Mom moved to Washington DC in 1941 then years later, to St. Louis with my stepfather.  One snowy day shortly after leaving DC Mom was homesick. She started making pierogis.  That’s when my grandmother visited —sort of—for it was as if they were mixing the ingredients together, the flour, eggs, sour cream, then stirring, kneading, rolling, and filling the little pastry pouches with steamed cabbage.  It took most of the day, flour dust everywhere, while a large kettle was boiling, polka music playing on the radio. 

That snowy day in St. Louis I didn’t learned how to make pierogis.  Instead I learned crucial things about my mother and grandmother.  What you did in your kitchen can feed you in many ways.  I also learned the value of starting with fresh, natural ingredients. These are lessons that still resonate with me, specially now, a year since Mom died, at age 88.

Mom’s approach to cooking was very ‘Old World.’  She was a natural foods advocate her whole life, and an early fan of Adelle Davis, one of the first pioneers of unprocessed foods in post-World War II America. 

With these biases on the table let me now make the case for making your OWN croutons and salad dressing which can save you at least $200 a year, plus give you more control over what you eat.  I'll save yogurt for another blog. The kicker is we’re only talking about a 30 minute a week time investment.
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When I got married my Mom gave me Betty Crocker’s Cookbook, published in 1969.  It has its share of processed food recipes but it is a fine book for basics, such as Caesar salad using coddled egg, a slightly boiled egg, back when eggs didn’t flirt with samonella bacteria. 
My BC cookbook is now very tatty, held together with yellowing Scotch tape after Jim’s repaired it umpteen times.  It is the first book I look for in any used book store, always to no avail.  The Caesar salad recipe included instructions for croutons. There’s a hint of garlic, not the blast you out of your socks taste of the typical over-processed croutons on your local grocery store shelf.  Long ago I stopped buttering the bread before baking--unnecessary calories, little flavor.

Carol's Simple Croutons
 1 loaf stale French bread, diced into 1/2 to 1 inch cubes
 sprinkle of garlic powder - optional, I no longer do this and still, great 
 croutons

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.  Cube bread.  Spread one layer thick on a cookie sheet.  Bake 10 -15 minutes, stirring once.  If not toasty enough bake 5 more minutes, check again.  Remove from oven.  Cool thoroughly.  Store in airtight container. Serve on salads, soups or as a snack.  Baking the bread cubes give them a long shelf life IF thoroughly cooled and stored in an air-tight jar.

Time:  20 minutes, including 15 minute baking time.

Cost:  It can be argued this is a cost free recipe IF you would normally throw out stale bread.  Otherwise, $2 for a loaf of French bread.

Cost of Store Bought:  8 oz. box of croutons: $2-$4.

Potential Savings:  0 to $2 per month, up  to $24/year



An easy salad my Mom made during her working years included a head of iceberg lettuce, a few tomatoes, slice cucumber then a drizzle of her ‘homemade’ dressing, her one concession to processed foods:  1/4 cup catsup & 1/4 cup mayonnaise.  She said this was a World War II recipe which she called ‘Poor Man’s French Dressing.’ 

My college French teacher, Rosine Tanenbaum who was born in France and moved to the USA after college), helped me transcend Mom’s basic make-it-yourself ho-hum dressing into the sublime.  Long after my memory of French verbs faded, her sweet lesson on genuine French salad dressing is a constant in our house.


Rosine's Fab French Dressing
 
Salad for four using approximately 10 oz. of lettuce leaves:

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 Tablespoon champagne, sherry or
          balsamic vinegar                                  
A slice or two of a small clove garlic, minced
½ to 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
pinch of basil or other fresh herb

Whisk these five ingredients until the olive oil looks cloudy.  Pour onto lettuce leaves.  Rosine insisted one must toss the dressing at least 100 times for it to be a proper French dressing.  I often fudge on this and the herb part. You cannot omit anything else otherwise it will disappoint. 

With Rosine’s dressing you are no longer faced with ingredients you cannot pronounce or visualize, or the frustration of trying to squeak  out the last tablespoon of expensive dressing from skinny bottles. 
Bon Appetit! 

Time: About two minutes.

Cost:  depending on quality of olive oil and vinegar—5 cents to 35 cents for two servings.

Store Bought Cost: an 8 oz. bottle of salad dressing:  $1.50 to $6, approximately 50 cents to $2.00 for two servings, not factoring in old half empty bottles tossed into the trash.  You never toss Rosine’s for it’s fresh each time.

Potential savings:  For two salads/week $1 - $4.00.  Times 52 weeks = $52 - $208 .

Ingredients:
Olive oil: If you get keen on making this dressing you may consider spending what you save on high end olive oils, such as Pasolivo California if you prefer a really mild flavor or my favorite, Nicolas Alziari extra virgin olive oil from Nice, both sold at William Sonoma.  I’m usually not so flush so Trader Joe’s is just fine, such as a basic extra virgin olive oil for $4.99 for 17 oz.

Vinegar: For a more subtle taste, I use Trader Joe’s White balsamic vinegar from Modena or, my current favorite, Lucini's Dark Cherry Balsamico vinegar-the sweetest I've ever tasted, from Whole Foods for a whopping $14/8.5 oz. bottle.  But every few months, it's on sale for $10, so I stock up then, as it's a grand vinegar. 

Garlic:  About 95% of all garlic sold in the USA is grown in China.  I only purchase American grown garlic, available at Whole Foods for $4.99 per pound.  The average bulb weighs about 2-3 oz. so that doesn’t break the bank.

Mustard: I use Grey Poupon's Dijon mustard from France, sold in bulk at Costco for a fraction of what it costs elsewhere.