Living and Cooking Solo

      The holidays bring back memories; or maybe it is simply sentimentality mixed with senility.  Whatever, during the holidays my mind often wonders back to the simple foods from my childhood: creamed beef or sausage gravy on my mother’s homemade biscuits, peanut butter mixed with Caro syrup and spread liberally over plain white store bought bread and, my all-time favorite, fluffy pancakes served with fried eggs for supper.             To this day I am unsure why pancakes tasted so much better when mother made them for supper than they did when she made them for breakfast.  Perhaps it was the idea of breaking some rule.  Or maybe it was the scent, vision and taste penetrating the chill of a winter night; the savory soft burnt smell of the batter sizzling in the skillet, the bubbles rising and bursting on top as the cakes formed and the sweetness of the syrup poured over the toast co...

              Uncle Frank stood his ground at the head of the table, knife in hand, relishing his importance as the annual turkey carver. My Aunt Roberta smiled deviously from behind; her two sisters Myrtle Mae and Loretta supporting her with devilish grins of their own.                   Frank lifted the tinfoil covering pressing the outline of what appeared to be a rather large bird, slowly at first and then quickly to reveal a small Cornish hen seated in the center of the otherwise empty platter. His mouth flew open but no sound emerged. “Well, I believe we see Frank speechless for the first time in his life,” said my grandfather, who followed the remark with a laugh that vibrated around the room, joining the laughs of others just now getting the joke.                   Fin...

           Loretta Arlene Elder Clasen Lallman made noodles that melted in the mouth like chicken-flavored pudding.  But this feisty woman, who happened to be my mother, made noodles only when the mood struck her because cooking anything just because someone wanted her too might indicate a weakness of character, something no one dared suggest she possessed.  We never knew when the mood would strike, or what that moment might celebrate.  We just waited for the words, “I think I’ll make noodles” and prepared ourselves for a heavenly treat; think cliché, “to die for.”             All of my mother’s cooking depended on her mood, which meant delicious when she felt kindly toward the idea; not so good, possibly terrifying, when she felt forced into the kitchen, which rarely happened mainly because no one wanted that experience.          ...

            As I sit here writing this, rain falls gently outside my office window.  It is a special rain that drips softly, allowing fields to absorb its critically needed moisture.  Our recent dry spell has been deadly to area crops.  This rain could save recently planted wheat, but is probably too late for most of the area’s dry land crops.  Still, it brings promise for the future.             This rain also signals the arrival of fall, one of my favorite seasons.  While most parts of the country enjoy four seasons, northeastern Colorado often experiences three seasons: summer, fall and winter.  Spring, if it shows its pretty face at all, often brings blizzards that lay a heavy wet blanket over emerging foliage or killing frosts that blight budding plants and trees.  Experienced gardeners know to hold off planting until Memorial Day because sudden brief ...

            I missed my gardening therapy this summer.  For the first time in many years my back lot went gardenless; mostly due to the heat, but also because my life suddenly took a turn toward busy as I began researching museum archives and the memories of locals in order to write a history book.             Wouldn’t you know then, that this is the year I ran out of my stored jars of dill pickles and sweet pickle relish?  That left me begging area gardeners for cucumbers, small for the dill pickles and large for the relish, plus bell peppers and onions.  My dill volunteers itself each year, so I had plenty of that.             Luckily, one of the best gardeners in our area, a woman named Cindy, fed my veggie desire.             Normally when I grow my...

         My granddaughter Shannon and I spent a day recently strolling through the crowds on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.             A highlight of the day came at lunchtime when we sat on a restaurant patio eating soft and chewy sourdough bread, a wonderful bowl of clam chowder, mussels in spicy tomato sauce and crab legs baked in buttery garlic sauce.  We washed it all down with a woody amber ale then spent the rest of the day walking away the added pounds as we watched the sea gulls and various artists selling their wares or talents.  Once, we stopped to watch a ragged juggler toss balls and other objects around his person as he jabbered a constant stream of foolishness that kept us laughing.             Shannon, a traveling nurse, spent five months working at the University of California Medical Center in San Francisco....

           Sometimes life resembles a cartoon.             Recently, while watching the animated movie Barnyard , my Aunt Roberta showed up to haunt me.  Not that Aunt Roberta looked anything like a cow.  On the contrary, she was a small pretty woman with dancing brown eyes and a sense of humor that caught you off guard because she would say off-the-wall things in a serious voice that made you think there might be truth in her comment.  Then, she would look at you with a piercing glint pouring from her laughing eyes and you knew immediately that she fooled you.             On the occasion the movie brought to mind, Aunt Roberta handed me a newspaper story about a 4-H youth who won a championship ribbon in the bovine division at the Kansas State Fair.  “The reporter doing this interview really knows her cow stuff,” she sa...