Hickory House

Last night I was driving around north Atlanta trying to decide where I wanted to 'sup' and while I was tempted by a Buckheady organic, creative and artsy chef-owned establishment, it was the woo of the familiar which won out.

Anyone who spent his childhood in Decatur will remember the Old Hickory House over on Ponce, near Suburban Plaza. My old Pediatrician was in the eggnog-colored brick building right behind it, and while I have pleasant memories of old Dr. Brannon, it was he who told mama not to let me swim in Medlock pool with black children because "there were scabs on their bottoms where their tails fell off'.

And yes, I am serious. It was the only ugly prejudiced thing I ever heard growing up in the south and it apparently didn't keep me from choosing a dear black child named Portland Price as my best friend in kindergarten.

God rest Dr. Brannon's soul and no doubt if and when he faced the Almighty, Jesus had a big ol' afro.

Anyway, back to more pleasant things such as smoky, delicious BBQ at Hickory House.


When I was pregnant with my son, I craved a baked sweet potato and a soft, steamed bun filled with sauce-covered outside cuts that could only come from Hickory House. Oh, how I loved those sandwiches! If only they would have added the word 'barbeque' on the sign the debate over 'barbecue' vs. 'barbeque' would have been put to rest, because Hickory House had and has the final word when it comes to BBQ!

Last night, I ordered a hickory chick, which is a large portion of chopped smoky chicken mixed with sauce and served alongside beans and stew. I was so happy and enjoying my supper immensely, when I looked up and noticed the elderly gentleman across the way. With shaking hands, he was crumbling corn bread into a tall glass of thick buttermilk. He then took a spoon and stirred it all together and took his sweet time eating spoonful after spoonful of his lumpy, tangy creamy supper.






I was thinking how folks today might scrunch their noses and say 'ew, yuck' at the thought of buttermilk and cornbread. Where's the creativity? The nutrition? The color, the variety?

We've become so complex with our food. We pride ourselves on eating fair-trade, organic, locally-farmed, sustainable, hormone-free, antibiotic-free, GMO-free food crafted by chefs who strive to outdo one another in their unqiue creations. I used to laugh at the hoopla a local chef created by serving buttermilk fried chicken cooked in a black iron skillet on Tuesday nights in his Decatur eatery.

It seems to me we're trying to go back to our roots, to the kinds of food our forefathers ate before the advent of processed foods. My parents grew up during The Great Depression in the thirties. Daddy said they often only had buttermilk, cornbread, dried beans and cole slaw for supper. Dried beans were a staple on early southern tables, as were collard greens.



I could tell this fella across the way was enjoying his supper, one spoonful at a time. I wondered if he was remembering sharing a table with his many siblings and most likely a grandparent or two, as all households had a grandmama or granddaddy living down the hall. All the kids were most likely barefoot or wearing passed down shoes with cardboard giving life to the well-worn soles. They were happy to eat whatever was on their plate, and blessed God for what food they had. Simple food in a simple life.

More and more people are buying locally grown garden produce and learning to eat simple foods. I hope folks also learn to grow their own produce and can the harvest in quart-sized mason jars.

I'll offer up a suggestion for one way to embrace the past...homemade buttermilk.

You'll need a quart (or larger) mason jar, some fresh cultured buttermilk and fresh milk, whole or 2%....enough to do a one part buttermilk to 4 parts milk. 1 to 3 parts if your buttermilk isn't as fresh. Mix 6 or 8 ounces of the buttermilk to 3 cups of milk. Screw on the lid and sit it out in a slightly warm place for one day. The lactic acid in the cultures will cause the milk proteins to clabber and you'll find it has turned thick and tangy in about 24 hours. Now put it in the frig. Voila! (see Anna, I do pay attention sometimes) you now have homemade buttermilk.

It has a very long shelf life in the refrigerator, several weeks actually. When you see it getting low, repeat the process and you'll find you never need to buy buttermilk again. My mama used to keep a big silver pitcher of buttermilk in the refrigerator and she'd drink a small glass every day. Cornbread, buttermilk pie, pancakes, biscuits..the possibilities are endless! Enjoy!

Pirate Treasure on the Beach for Kids!

Oh how I miss having young kids so I can buy arts and crafts at Michaels (using the Sunday paper coupon of course!) and make neato fun things! One of my favorite summer projects, when a trip to the beach is forthcoming, is to make a treasure map for buried treasure. The kids (and me) are beside themselves with glee as soon as a bottle is seen floating in the ocean. Here's how I arrange this covert pirate ploy:

Buy a tall, brown bottle that will hold a rolled up paper. That means it needs to be over 9 inches tall. The first time I did this, I had to buy a tall bottle of Schlitz at the corner gas station. I could tell the cashier was thinking, 'A big bottle of Schlitz? She looks more like the wine cooler type' as she wrapped it in a brown paper bag.

Side note - why is alcohol always hidden in brown paper bags? My husband said when he was growing up, folks he knew who did the local garbage said they could always tell who was baptist by the alcohol bottles in the trash wrapped up in paper bags. I mean if you're gonna drink, just go ahead and do it where God and everybody can see you. Don't go hiding it in brown paper bags like we don't know what's in there anyway.

Okay, so you've got your bottle. ( I got my current bottle at the local brewery but beware! There are many distractions and I almost came away with a kit to brew my own honey liquor.)

Get a silver or gold paint pen and draw your best skull and crossbones. And don't forget a nice tight cork!

Now, preheat the oven to 200 degrees and wet down a family size tea bag. Rub the surface area of a long sheet of paper, if you have it. The long sheets are better as you'll see in a couple of steps. The wet tea will stain the paper and give it a nice antique look.

Now put the tea bag in a cup and have yourself a nice cuppa tea. Oh wait...that sounds kind of gross with the bag rubbed all over stuff and in your hands. Never mind, scratch that. Put the bag in a cup and give your husband a nice cuppa tea.

Place the sheet on a pan and bake it for approximately five minutes. It will be crisp and slightly yellow.

Now here's where you have to be very careful. You'll want to burn the outer edges of the paper so the treasure map looks like it survived the huge fire in Port au Prince, Haiti in 1784. If you have an electric stove, it's much easier and safer. Just heat up a burner and carefully hold the edges near the coils. They'll heat up and slightly burn. Have a fire-putter-outer cloth nearby.

If you don't have an electric stove, take a box of matches outside, pull back your hair and carefully light the edges. They'll burn for a second, then snuff it out. Do this around the whole paper. The size of the paper will shrink due to a few unfortunate incidents so you'll be glad you used the 8 X 14 size paper. Be prepared to Stop, Drop and Roll if necessary.

Now take your parchment and tightly roll it around a thin wooden spoon handle. You'll want it small so the string and knot will all fit down the neck of the bottle.

Snugly knot the paper in two places.

This next step is where I discovered there is an apparent learning curve. I didn't tie the rolled parchment first, but dropped it down into the bottle where it promptly unrolled and filled the bottle, never to be extracted again. So use the string and drop it down into the bottle, leaving one longer end of string so you can easily pull it out later.

Once you get to the beach, survey the lay of the land and using a black marker, make a map of landmarks using piles of seaweed, shells in the shape of an X, ten steps here, twenty steps there, include a chant of 'Yo HO HO and a bottle of Rum!', have them walking hither and yon, but make sure the map ends up right where you have discreetly buried your awesome Hobby Lobby treasure chest (purchased using the Sunday paper coupon of course), and filled with gold coins, pirate eye patches, rubber spiders, quarters, nickels, dimes, pearls and gemstones and fun toys

too!

Put the map back in the bottle and place the cork TIGHT. Wait until everyone is out on the beach, make sure a camera ready, and toss the bottle in a wave just as the kids aren't looking and let the fun begin!

What's that you said?

I like to find opportunities to use big words. Long, unusual words or sometimes those words people like Martha Stewart would use which would make me squint my eyes and say, "Dangit", because I didn't know the meaning and no one likes it when Martha Stewart can get their goat.

Also, using fancy new words keeps the mind sharp and makes people think you're smart...just in case they were wondering.

"Was that Dana just now, driving with her purse on the roof of her car? Bless her heart."

"Nah, couldn't be. I heard her say, 'disambiguate' last week. Must've been someone else."

Most folks only use 2000-3000 different words. Think how much more ingenious and aesthetic our day would be if we used creative words! Why just today I was looking for an opportunity to use 'apropos'. It means 'opportune, fitting, at the right time'. I love how it just flows off the tongue and sounds very French.

So, this morning I was cleaning out the kitty litter box and the darndest thing. Oh...wait. I probably should issue a disclaimer here. The following description may contain offensive and unappetizing visuals. Proceed with caution.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how...but our kitties 'create' things in the litter box. Their tee-tee makes arts and crafts in the litter. I once found a fish, with a dorsal fin, perfectly shaped tail fins and a little blue eye. It's hard to scoop and throw something like that away. We kept it and looked at it for about a week, saying, "well, I'll be" then finally threw it out.

This morning, I started to scoop, and there it was. A big 'T'. I've never seen a letter in the litter but sure as shootin' it was a 'T'. I pondered this for a while, wondering what it meant. And then it hit me! How apropos! Their tee-tee made a 'T', ha! Such smart kitties. (and yes, I broke it a bit when I started to scoop and had to reposition it for the photo op)

Tomorrow I shall look for my opportunity to say 'contumacious' but I might need to wait for Dirk to get home. (just kidding Dirk, ha!)

Snow Days become Ice Days! A pictorial of my drive to the North.

.

Today is day four of Atlanta and the surrounding area being literally shut down by all of the icy roads. I called Anna and she sounded a little stir crazy, so I volunteered to drive my all-wheel drive Subaru north into the snow and take her to lunch. I was figuring the road couldn't be too bad based on how they looked here in town. Maybe some snow on the side of the road here and there, but all in all, as long as you weren't in a shady Chick Fil-A drive-through, all was fine. (Yes, it IS possible to go five days without a Chick Fil-A sandwich!)


Tyrone on North 74. Clear and dry.





North 85, south of the airport, was still clear and dry except for the left lane. No more Mario Andrettis in the passing lane. The only folks who accidentally ended up there quickly slowed and moved over. Not sure why the left lane was so bad.







I was a little concerned about 285 since it had been shut down for 3 days and littered with tractor trailers. But this looks like summer day driving...almost.




And then there was the Paces Ferry exit. This is the bridge over 285. It's like suddenly all the ice, snow and north pole appeared out of nowhere.






I turned off of Cumberland Parkway and saw abandoned cars lining the road. I stopped and sat there. Could my car get up the hill? I decided to give it a try...a little try. If I slipped, I was backing down!





So far so good. This hill looked wet....or icy...hard to tell.






Made it up the big mountain and this is what Anna's condo complex looked like. Ice EVERYWHERE! The car made it fine, but walking was treacherous. I took about ten minutes tip-toeing across the road stepping in little dry patches. Thank the Lord Anna came out to greet me just in time to see me go down like a sack of potatoes!





After a nice lunch at Jim 'n Nick's (oh, those cheese muffins!), we headed back, visited for an hour and later, when I walked out to the car, I found the wet asphalt places which had provided strategic stepping stones, had now turned to slick ice. There were NO dry spots to walk on! This was a job for Kahtoola Microspike traction shoes! Dang, why hadn't I ordered some before all this crazy weather?! I made it home safely, put on my jammies and built a fire. I'm hurting a little from my fall, but mainly glad that next week it's going up to 60 degrees!

And then there was one....

The year was 1993 and I can still remember checking out the book from the library. "Rare Breeds". I wanted to find a dog that wasn't a typical neighborhood cookie cutter breed, but a brilliant, rare breed that still had undiluted personality traits. At the time, Australian Shepherds were still pretty unknown, and I liked what I read about the almost uncanny high intelligence, and tendency to herd children away from the street.

I picked out a darling little merle with blue eyes but prayed, while sitting on the breeder's deck, asking God which dog was 'ours'. The little merle promptly got up, walked off and a stunning black-tri climbed into my lap and licked me on the cheek. That was all I needed. We named her Bell and brought her home.

Her first day home, she woke up from a nap, walked to the back door, rang the little bell hanging on a string, and sat, waiting for us to open the door. She was eight weeks old. The intelligence, initiative, ability to reason constantly stunned me. Bell was unlike any animal I had ever known, or even heard of.

Bell would walk at a heel, without a leash at 5 months. Even if a dog approached, she would stare straight ahead at my command and ignore the dog. Once we went to a nursery to select flowers and she sat, watching my every move. The store owner approached and spoke to Bell and she never took her eyes off of me. The man kissed and clucked but she never flinched or even looked at him. "What kind of dog IS that?!"

She watched the children play, pulling them away from the street's edge. Their tee-shirts were full of little holes along the back edge, proof she saw them as her lambs, her charge. Even when we camped, she slept about ten feet back, facing our tent, staring, watching just in case we were ever in danger. Nothing was ever chewed, there wasn't even one accident in the house. Indeed, what kind of dog was this?

We decided Bell would enjoy a doggie friend, so we started looking around for a red aussie. By this time, numerous friends had acquired an aussie, hoping they too could find a 'Bell', and one friend's dog had had a litter of pups. Sassy came to live with us in 1995. She was a red-head in every sense of the word.

Once, the phone man came to work on a line and she layed between him and me staring at him without moving muscle, and growling the entire time. "Lady, does that dog bite?" I looked up from my book, "She hasn't so far..." Ha..I never felt safer. Bell was watching too, but had probably just called the FBI and done a background check and deemed the man safe.

Sassy was the keeper of the rules. If a dog came to visit, she'd growl if they neared the off-limit stairs. Once, the wind blew the back door open, and when we came home, Sassy was lying across the doorway and our kitty, Abby, was sitting a foot away, longingly staring at the outdoors that was now just beyond her reach. Sassy could have run inside and jumped on the sofa or played in the trash, but she saw the cat's opportunity to escape and guarded the door until we came home. Sassy wasn't perfect, though.

Once, my dad-in-law, JW was helping me with firewood and I had baked him an apple pie. When I came back in the kitchen, the plate was licked clean and Sassy had little piecrust crumbs around her mouth. She at least had the good sense to look guilty. Bell was standing off to the side, shaking her head in disgust. Sassy was such a good girl, though. When we got the kitties, she was the first to make friends and would lick Abby clean from her fuzzy kitty head down to her fuzzy kitty hiney.

We chose to breed Sassy girl and she had a beautiful litter in 1997. From this litter, we were blessed with sweet Annie Fannie. Annie Fannie was special, quiet, more fearful and unsure of herself. We had to love her a little extra.

Bell, Sassy and Annie Fannie. We had a houseful of aussies! Once, when Annie Fannie was a pup, a severe thunderstorm rolled in and Bell and Sassy ran to the doghouse. Annie Fannie, however, layed in the rain, chewing on her new bone. Bell ran back out into the rain, barked and nipped at Annie Fannie, trying to get her to come in from the storm, but she wouldn't budge. Bell ran back to the house.

About 30 seconds later, Bell ran back out and circled Annie Fannie, barking, nipping and insisting she come to the doghouse...but Annie wasn't moving. Bell ran back to the house. About ten seconds passed and Bell darted back out, ran straight to Annie, grabbed the bone away from her and ran full speed to the doghouse...with Annie Fannie close on her heels. All three stayed dry and safe as I'm sure Sassy stood guard by the door keeping her wayward pup inside.

One afternoon, I drove up to see Bell walking methodically backwards, step by step, slowly tugging Annie Fannie's lampshade over and off of her head. Annie was forever getting into situations that required a trip to the vet and a lampshade to protect a wound. Apparently, this time Bell had had enough of Annie Fannie getting trapped in this thing and she decided it had to come off.

We lost our precious Bell in 2000 at the early age of 7. She hung on to the very last minute, waiting for everyone to join together in the room to say goodbye. When the last of the family walked in the door, she breathed her last breath. No needles, no heart-stopping medicines. Bell gave me the gift of not having to make that choice.

In 2003, we welcomed Savannah into our family. She was all lab, a bundle of energy, and then some. For five months we worked on house-training, all the while replacing chewed up hoses, and rugs. Sweet as pie, but oh, what a different puppy experience this was! The puppy phase lasted about five years. Highly intelligent, focused and trained...sweet, sweet girl. But oh MY, those first five years!

In 2009, we lost our Sassy. Then this past month, Annie Fannie passed on. All of my dear aussie girls were gone. Savannah was all alone. I thought it would be an enjoyable time of bonding and special attention, but she has spent her days pressed against the back door, waiting to be let in, not wanting to be outside alone. She was turning into a house poodle. It was time for a new friend.

I remembered about English Shepherds and how they were like aussies, but more rare, healthier, long-living, protective, and almost freakishly intelligent. I set my sights on a January puppy, thinking that would give me time to get ready. But, a different breeder was posting pictures on her facebook page and this little black and white puppy kept catching my eye.

I'd go back time and time again, thinking "What is it about this puppy?!" I was about to put a deposit down to hold a January pup, but felt a check. Hadn't I been praying, asking God to choose a pup for us, telling him I wanted to experience a dog just like Bell? And here was this pup that I couldn't stop thinking about... The timing was all wrong, and it was a BOY pup, not at all what I had planned. But there he was, and I knew he was meant to be with us.

So come November 11th, I fly up to get our next baby dog. Savannah will have a playmate, and I get to experience the keen early intelligence of a herding dog. I know this dog will be special. Several friends have already announced just that very thing. I can't wait to meet this little buddy!

Pumpkins!

My favorite time of year has arrived...Fall! So many wonderful things happen in the fall. We have our first crackling warm fire of the year, pull out the hoodies, sleep with the windows cracked letting in the crisp, night air and start cooking with acorn squash, caramelized apples, and pumpkins. I love pumpkin in anything...pies, muffins, lattes, ice cream. It's the only flavor that is an entire season's mascot!

I decided this year, I would get some of those tiny pie pumpkins that I normally pass in the store thinking, "who actually buys these tiny things!" and cook my very own pumpkin mush. The stores ran out of pumpkin last year, so I'll be stocked up and ready for any pumpkin emergency that comes my way!

First thing was getting three nice sized pie pumpkins at Publix. The guy had to pull one off a decoration display. They got washed and my newly sharpened knife (thanks Beau!) was ready..

Wash your hands, roll up your sleeves and get to work!

Wow, it's a little difficult cutting through these little buggers. At this point, I was actually stuck. Anyway, the point is to cut them in half. Watch those fingers! (anna, you might want to read that twice)

Here they are, nicely cut in half. There were a couple of suspicious places, so those will be cut off and thrown away. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Next, scoop out the seeds and stringy stuff.

Place them skin up on a pan. Some folks mentioned covering with foil, but I left them out.

After about an hour, test with a fork and make sure the flesh is soft as butter.

The skin pulls away quite easily. They were browned and very human-like which reminded me of some slides I saw just this morning about tans-gone-bad. There was this one woman the color of a walnut dresser who should have stopped wearing a bikini twenty years ago. It was fascinating and gross all at the same time. Ok...so back to the pumpkin skins that look like old ladies in bikinis....take them off and scoop out the flesh.

Put all the pumpkin mush in a food sieve and turn and turn and turn. And turn. And turn and turn and turn. Good heavens above, no wonder the food processor was invented!

This is the end product. A plate full of pumpkin! And none of that weird gritty stuff you find in canned pumpkin. I have no inkling what that sandy stuff is. All I know is I left the sand out of this particular batch. I think I heard mocking laughter from that Libby's can about twenty minutes into the turning. One thing I noticed is the smell reminds me more of squash, so I'll have to bake a pie for the final test. That will be coming up next week!

Oh, no you don't!

This morning I awoke to a new day and new strength to resist. Resist what, you may ask. Well now, let's add up the clues. My children are all growed up and it's been years since I had to run to CVS at 8:30 p.m. for poster board, there's been a lot of loss lately...(.I can't even seem to see life in the $1.99 basil plant I bought down at Publix) and my last aussie, Annie Fannie passed on.

That's right, you guessed it, a puppy. A tiny, soft, squeaky, doe-eyed puppy. I truly thought I was stronger than this. Hadn't I been complaining about how our house was a suburban Noah's ark? I guess it was seeing Savannah, now alone outside, with her face pressed against the glass, waiting to be let in for the 16th time, or maybe it was the sympathy card from our long-time vet saying what a sweet girl Annie Fannie was.

 Regardless, I found myself looking at litter advertisements and saying to Dirk, "I need you to go get me that puppy!!"

I actually filled out some puppy applications. It's quite the thing now, you have to apply to own a puppy, get interviewed wearing your nicest suit, and put down a non-refundable deposit. The litter owner may also require to be a co-owner of the dog.

Dog breeders are an interesting bunch. I've found they rarely have a good word to say about one another. When a miniature aussie breeder was asked what standard aussie breeders thought of them, she said, "Oh, they hate us." Indeed.

I found most breeders shared that sentiment for one another and were all too happy to share. It was a little bit sad.

But it's a new day, with many responsibilities and loads of schoolwork to do. This just isn't the time to add that sort of demand to my day. After my coffee, I plan to adhere a patch to my upper arm with a seven-week old English Shepherd looking woefully at the camera. That should take care of any withdrawals for a bit.

One day soon, though, one day soon.