4. FRESH PEACH PIE

Autumn in Utah.  The setting sun stretches itself across the Great Salt Lake, casting a warm evening light across the foothills to the east of us here on the Wasatch Front.  The rosy glow reflects from the bottoms of the clouds that float majestically across this spanse of the great American West. This is the color of the season, and it is best represented in the baskets that typically fill our garage.  Throughout September there is almost always a bushel or a peck of peaches ripening at our house. 

Last year, feeling compelled to teach my oldest grand daughter Sophie the value of canned peaches, otherwise known as bottled gold, I determined to teach her how to home can.  By the end of the season I had bottled nearly 80 quarts of peaches, and we had given every last bottle away.  Annie had been in town then, so I taught her the process with Sophie.  And Sarah, sick and exhausted with pregnancy, was unable to put up her own peaches this year.  So September became Peach Central here. 

Sophie and Annie preparing the harvest for the winter.

Nolan Tingey, who lives in old Farmington across from my friend Carol Cluff, works in the orchards up in Brigham City, the northern peach belt.  At least once a week I get two or three bushels from him.  I sort them into my ripening baskets out in the garage, some of them coming into the air conditioned house to slow their ripening, and others remaining in the heat of the garage where the juices get flowing, the cheeks of those lovely rosy orbs being pressed into  each other there in those woven wood baskets.  By the time the leaves begin to turn on the maple trees outside our bedroom window, there is a stack of a dozen or so empty baskets waiting to be returned to Nolan. 

Between those steamy hot days when there are two canning tubs nestled atop hot flames in my kitchen, there are sweet, nostalgic afternoons when my kitchen island is cleaned off, a lovely army of newly canned peaches stands at attention on the counter over by the stove, and I have assembled a lovely collection of chilled shortening and flour into a sweet ball of pie dough and I begin making Cindy’s Fresh Peach pies en mass.  I have this flawed thinking that while you have a mess out you might as well make a whole big bunch of …well, whatever it is I’m cooking. 

Teaching Anna Bella the art of pie making.

I learned to make Fresh Peach Pie from my sister-friend Cindy Gardner.  I don’t recall the first time she brought it, but my spirit remembers that taste, and even now, in the dead of winter, I can call up that flavor in my memory buds and my mouth actually salivates at the thought of it.  Every time I make Cindy’s Fresh Peach Pie I pretend it is February and I tell myself to cherish the moment. 

And now it is February.  There are no peaches. And there is no Cindy.

Today marks the first anniversary of Cindy’s leap into Heaven.  We still ache at the loss.  I still expect to hear her voice, to see her walk through the door.

One year ago last night we were gathered around her bed, our guitars accompanying our songs, our united passion focused on the woman whose toes were curled over the edge of life.  One week before that I had made a blueberry pie and taken it over to share with Reed and Cindy.  She had just returned from her last visit to her family in Arizona, and she was so weary she could not rise from the couch. 

“I made you some pie.  No fresh peaches, but I did use your crust recipe, except I added a tablespoon of vinegar.” I told her, serving up a nice triangle of gooey blueberry sweetness.

“Well,” Cindy said, “I guess you didn’t use my recipe then.”

Touche’, my Friend!  You’re right.  Now, out of respect for this woman who should have weighed 300 lbs because her cooking was so spectacular. I follow her recipe to the T. It, like Cindy herself, is a particularly fine recipe.

You don’t fool with greatness.

So here it is, February, and I am remembering peaches, and crisp autumn evenings following warm autumn days.  And I am remembering Cindy.

FRESH PEACH PIE

Cindy Gardner

Makes 3-6 pies

2 c boiling water

1 ½ c cold water

2 ½ c sugar

¾ c cornstarch

1/8 t salt

1 3oz pkg jello (peach or orange)

¼ c lemon juice (or juice of 1 lemon)

4 c. fresh peaches, peeled and sliced (for each pie) about  8-10 peaches per pie

Boil 2 c water. In separate bowl make a paste out of cold water, sugar. cornstarch & salt. Pour paste into boiling water and mix well.  Cook over med heat, stirring constantly, until very thick (be careful of boiling mixture popping up and burning hand…stir vigorously).  Add powdered jello and cook 1 more minute. Remove from heat – add lemon juice.  Cool and add two large spoonfuls to enough peaches to fill a couple crusts. Mix with hands so peaches are not bruised.  Add to cooked crusts.  Cover immediately with Saran Wrap to keep air off peaches so they won’t brown.  Store in fridge.  Best if allowed to chill for a few hours.  Top with WHIPPED CREAM.

Notes: be sure to make glaze well ahead of making pies.  Glaze may be stored in fridge for weeks.  It does not deteriorate easily because there is no fat in it and basically nothing very organic in it. Do not put too much glaze in your peaches.  Just enough to cover them thinly and keep them from turning brown.

CINDY'S PIE CRUST

6 c flour

3 c Crisco butter flavored (my recipe would use butter and lard.)

3 t salt

1 ½ c very cold water

Mix fat into flour and salt until it is very fine grains. Add ice cold water and mix.  Divide into 4-6 balls and roll out in circle. Place in pie tin and prick with fork before baking.  Bake 375 approx 10 minutes.

Calvin enjoying fresh peach pie for breakfast,
straight from the Bennion pie plate.

Leslie Humphries, Cindy Gardner and me canning salsa in Cindy's kitchen.

3. CHICKEN - MAKE THE MOST OF IT! (ROAST, GRAVY, SOUP)

Quick, Connors kids.  What is the dinner most often eaten in your lifetime of Connorshood?  (Hint, it begins with chicken and ends with soup.)

Here at our house we bow our heads before meals, thanking the Lord for what we are about to eat, and asking His blessing upon it. It’s a good habit. It keeps us centered on our most solid foundation.  If we are thinking clearly around our table, which I am sorry to say is not all the time, then we also remember to thank the Lord for the creatures who gave their lives for our nourishment.  Most often at our house those creatures are chickens.

If you’re going to use a chicken for nourishment, use it well.  You can easily get two decent meals out of one gracious chicken. 

One of our go-to comfort meals is BAKED CHICKEN. It’s pretty simple.  Clean a whole fryer chicken in cold water.  Make sure you clean out the little pockets of blood tucked below the neck bone in the cavity.  Dry the skin with a paper towel, coat lightly with olive oil, and generously shake kosher salt and pepper over the skin.  Place in a casserole or pan, breast side up. Bake uncovered at 375 for roughly 90 minutes. (Big roaster chickens take longer.  I usually buy whole fryers.) The skin should be golden and crispy, and juices should run clear when cut.

GRAVY: Drain the drippings into a pan and add water and bullion or canned chicken broth, so that you have 3-5 c broth.  Add more bouillon, salt and pepper to taste.  In a separate bowl mix 1 c cold water with roughly 2/3 c flour.  Make sure there are no lumps.  Pour cold mixture into boiling broth and drippings.  Stir as you bring back to a boil.  If too thin, make more four mix and add.  If too thick, add more broth.

CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP: After you’ve feasted on your baked chicken, place all bones, skin, and leftover drippings and gravy in a pot.  Cover with water and simmer for at least an hour.  Drain broth through a strainer into a clean pot, add bouillon to taste, and add a handful of celery bitters.  That’s the inside leaves and small stalks from the heart of a bunch of celery.  This is an essential part of soup.  Every time I clean a bunch of celery I keep these leaves, storing them in a baggie in my crisper.  To boiling broth add thin slices of peeled carrots, a bag of Mrs. Weiss Kluski noodles, and juice of one lemon.  Boil all these for 16 minutes. (If you use another brand of noodle the time will vary. Follow instructions on package.  Or make home made noodles and spend all afternoon :)

You can find Mrs. Weiss noodles at Smiths in Utah because 30 years ago I submitted a request card every week for a year!  The cheapest place to get them is WalMart.  I sometimes buy them online by the case.  The 16 oz bags are cheaper per ounce.  If you're making a super big pot of soup, use 16 oz.  Otherwise an 8 oz bag should make a good sized pot of soup.

Remember to use your taste buds.  If you need more flavor, add salt, pepper and bouillon.  I like Wyler’s crystals, but apparently they aren’t making them any more.  Dave spent ten times more than he should have to find what inventory remained at Amazon for my Christmas gift last year. Most bullion is based in salt, so be careful not to add too much salt before you have the flavor you want. Turn off the flame when your noodles and carrots are “to the tooth” or “al dente”, meaning there is a little bite to it.  The residual heat will continue to cook them.

If you don’t have a carcass of a chicken, then brown some chicken breasts in a couple tablespoons of butter and olive oil.  Here’s the trick, and remember this always.  The flavor  is right here:

The flavor is in the brownings!

It starts with butter and oil, not a lot, but enough to apply good heat to the meat.  And salt and pepper are underused as well.  Golden brown is that place just before things are burnt.  Right when you have this loveliness, add very hot water and simmer the meat for 1/2 - all afternoon, depending on quantity and your schedule. (A simmer is not boiling.) Drain the meat, shred it up, and use the broth for soup.  Add shredded meat when your soup is cooked.  (If you like onion, add it early on. Green onion is usually best.)

2. CHOP SUEY

Years ago, when we still lived in the old house and the kids were all at home and hungry every single night, Mom and Libby gave us a 10 cup Tiger brand rice cooker for Christmas. I remember opening the box and trying my best to be excited. “What is it?” I asked, thinking I would have to shift some stuff on the counter if this was really going to have a place in my kitchen. Little did I know at the time that my daily existence had been altered by its presence. I could not have known how essential that machine would be to us.  It not only cooked rice to perfection, but it kept it warm for days.  The kids would come home from school, or practice, and if nothing else they could grab a bowl of warm rice and drop a chunk of butter on top, swirl it around with salt and pepper, and be satisfied until dinnertime.  That particular rice cooker served us faithfully for 20 years, and only recently gave up the ghost.

When Down East Home was truly a bargain store, way back when, Mom and I hit a treasure trove one time when we came upon a shipment of rice cookers and AEG mixers at a screaming deal of a price.  We bought all they had, and visited all the stores we knew in the valley, clearing out the inventory.  They have been some of the best bargain purchases of my long thrift-seeking adulthood.

Add a large pot of Chop Suey to a nice steaming batch of rice and you are set for comfort.  Chop Suey fits into the same category as chicken noodle soup in our household.  It’s a familiar aroma: browned butter, seared chicken chunks and onions, mixed with the distinct scent of rice steam rising from the vent on the rice cooker.  I don’t think there is anyone in the Connors/Hansen clan who does not like Chop Suey.  It’s a Gramma Connors recipe, going way back to the time before there were children in our household.  Dave’s mom was an exceptional cook.  Her style was different from that of my mother.  She followed recipes, using measuring spoons and cups.  But she also knew the value of the taste bud and she was not afraid to alter if the tongue demanded. Everything she made was yummy, which is why so many of my recipes came from her.  My mom also made yumminess, using her taste to guide the recipe.  Many people do not fully appreciate the value of the tongue in cooking. (Nor, for that matter, do they fully appreciate the value of butter. But I digress.)

My Littles, every one of them, like Chop Suey.  They have all sat in the high chair in my kitchen and picked the chicken, celery and bean sprouts out one at a time with their pudgy little fingers. I have taught Young Men and Young Women how to cook it as they clustered around my kitchen island.  We served massive amounts of it from three large chafing dishes when Kate came home from her mission in Hong Kong.  It’s a Connors staple.  In fact, I made it last night.  I had the breast on one chicken in my fridge.  But I also had three large bunches of celery, four pounds of bean sprouts, and a 50 pound bag of onions in the garage.  You can chop that chicken in teeny little pieces, add extra bullion for flavor, and stretch that recipe out to feed a crowd on a moments notice. Mmmmm.

Oh, and by the way, HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!

Chop Suey

1/2 c. butter (1 cube)

1-2 lb meat (chicken or veal) cut in very small pieces

½-1 cup onions, diced

2 cup clean celery, diced

1 can chicken broth OR 1 c. water w/ 2T bouillon

1 lb fresh bean sprouts OR 1 big can bean sprouts, DRAINED and rinsed                    

1/4 c. cornstarch plus cold water

4 Tbsp. soy sauce

2 t. sugar, 1 t. salt / shake pepper 

(your tongue is your friend, use it to adjust spices)

Slice celery in long strips, then chop in small pieces.* Chop onion * Cut meat into 1/4 inch pieces. * Melt butter in heavy fry pan.  Sear meat.  Add onions and cook 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. * Add celery, broth, salt and pepper.  Liquids should barely cover vegetables and meat.  If they don’t, add more broth. Bring to a boil and cook 5 minutes * Add bean sprouts, cover and simmer for 5 minutes. * Mix cornstarch into 1/3 cup COLD water.  Add soy and sugar.  Stir into pan until thickened (add more cornstarch and water if it is not thick enough. Add chicken bouillon and soy sauce if you want more flavor).  Serve over hot rice and dry noodles. (Note: I usually quadruple this recipe cuz I usually feed a lot of people.  I'm guessing this would feed 4)

Rice

2 c. Rice * 4 c. cold water * 1 T. salt

Rinse and drain rice three times to remove excess starch.

Bring to a boil, turn heat to low, cover and let steam for about 20 minutes.  Remove from heat and fluff with a fork. Or, if you are lucky, use your rice cooker.

1. TINY PANCAKES FOR TINY FINGERS

The griddle of my childhood sat dutifully atop the stove on Old Clairton Road, across from the kitchen booth just this side of the dining room doorway.  Its weight required substantial preheating before the flame was turned down, the ultimate pancake being created on residual heat.  Mom stabbed a fork into a hard cube of butter and slid the chunk across the hot iron.  It screamed across the griddle, bubbling into a golden brown pool which she spread in an even layer across the seasoned metal. When the liquid music stopped, she whipped the batter bowl with the back of a spoon, then poured exquisitely even puddles of liquid Bisquick onto the griddle.  She stood for what seemed a methodically precise period of seconds, her head cocked to the side.  Eventually she lifted the corner of one pancake with the thin edge of her spatula, peeking at the color underneath as she evaluated the bubbles on the surface.  “When the bubbles pop, and the holes don’t fill in, then it’s time to flip.”  She taught me, at a rather young age, how to judge the turnability of the perfect pancake.  The perfect pancake, to me, was golden, and not too large, and not too thick.  And it was slathered with good fresh butter, maybe some fresh raspberry freezer jam, or good runny apricot jam, some chokecherry syrup, or home made syrup made with sugar water and maple flavoring. There was a time when margarine worked, but that was during that mistaken decade of the 70’s when butter had a brief false encounter with nutritionists who thought its value was inferior. For me a plain old golden Bisquick pancake with butter and only butter was divine.

I still like Bisquick, but it is way over priced for my liking.  Instead, I whip up home made pancakes nearly every time my grand kids sleep over. I keep a Post-It note with the recipe inside my baking cupboard door. Saturday morning is for cartoons, and wearing pj’s all morning, and pancakes, or French Toast. French Toast fingers with plenty of good fresh butter, generously sifted with powdered sugar. That, or tiny pancakes, for tiny fingers.  

Pancakes 

1 ¼ flour

2 t baking powder

¼ t salt

1 T sugar

I beaten egg

1 cup milk (adjust to make batter fairly runny)

2 T vegetable oil or melted butter

Mix dry ingredients.  Add wet ingredients.  Beat with whisk.  Batter should be thin. Pour onto hot griddle.  When bubbles pop but do not fully fill in, flip pancake. 

French Toast

2 eggs

¼ c milk

vanilla

We use non-nutritious delicious soft white bread 

Whip together 2 eggs. Roughly 4 T milk, and ½ t pure vanilla. Melt butter on a hot griddle.  Dip bread in egg mixture, cook on griddle, flip when golden brown.  Slather toast with butter while hot and sprinkle with powdered sugar. Or to make it extra special, add sliced strawberries and whipped cream.

LENT 2015 BEGINS

In the liturgical Christian world yesterday was known as Fat Tuesday.  Shrove Tuesday. The last Hurrah before Ash Wednesday.  It is also known as Pancake Tuesday. Pancakes were traditionally eaten on the day before Ash Wednesday because they were a way to use up eggs, milk, and sugar before the fasting season of the 40+ days of Lent. The “fasting” during Lent emphasizes eating plainer food and refraining from "pleasurable" foods such as meat, dairy and eggs. Many people "give something up" during Lent as a way to prepare for Easter, the most holy of holidays. It’s not always food.

As a Mormon, this practice is not a part of my religion or culture, but as a Christian I find the practice inspiring and compelling, so seven years ago I started a Lenten practice.  Each day of Lent, beginning on Ash Wednesday, I pause from the demands of the day and reflect.  The reflection is not passive, and requires some degree of energy because I command myself to write.  It really is a sacrifice for me, and often takes more time than anyone might imagine. I have seen great benefit in this exercise.  I have memories I had not realized were tucked into my brain.  And I have been able to preserve those memories by giving them voice.  I choose to share them on my blog because sharing it requires a certain accountability.

This year, for the season of Lent, I have chosen to share recipes.  Along with the recipes there may be a story or two about the yumminess in my life.  And trust me, there is considerable yumminess. Post 1 follows….

CIRCLES

Heritage Halls, 1977.  We gathered in a large circle in the lobby of our dorm, some of us sitting on the hearth near the big old tube TV, some smashed hip to hip on the sunken couches beneath the large plate-glass windows , some of us sitting cross legged, our knees jittery with anticipation.  We had been called to a Candle Passing Ceremony, a few dozen girls, with a few scattered boy-friends and friend-boys in tow. The lights were dimmed and we sat in darkness as our dorm leader lit a candle which we passed around the circle. Some girls teased, pretending to fill their cheeks and prepare to blow out the flame, but generally the candle was passed from hand to hand, still ablaze…until it came to the mystery girl…the woman of the hour… the one who had just become engaged.  This was the late 1970’s BYU method of announcing a marriage engagement.

I sat across from her and smiled as I watched her take the candle, turn to pass it on, then bring it back, purse her lips, and blow it out! Her name was Cyndy Hooley, and the fella sitting next to her was my brother, George.  We cheered, and embraced, and congratulated, a circle of friends and roommates. I did not know that this was the first of many circles I would share with Cyndy, my friend who would become my sister.

My brother George, who happened to be roommates with my fiancé’ Dave, had a habit of visiting my dorm, first because there was likely to be a pot of hot soup on the stove.  But it didn’t take long for the soup to move to the back burner because his hunger was for that cute girl with the curly hair and the irresistible smile. The girl who had just the right amount of sass to peak his interest, and the unmatched strength that would eventually put reigns on the wild horse that is my brother.

Dave and I have joined George and Cyndy in many circles.  Some where a crackling fire kept us warm and fed, our bellies full of trout, our hands filled with guitars and flutes and such.  We have stood in sacred circles, dressed in white, raising our hands before each other.  Other circles, where our babies were central. First wrapped in white blankets, then roughly eight years hence, those children were again in white, their hair wet and clean, their hearts ready and willing and trusting, and the worthy hands of their father and uncle were once again placed on their heads. We have encircled many a dinner table, have hammered pots and pans on New Years Eve, have celebrated high school honors and college degrees.  And we have huddled in grief, our shoulders slumped together, our hearts heavy, in ICU waiting rooms, in family prayer, and around caskets where the scent of pine still wafts in our memory. So many circles, with ripples still rolling out to eternity.

Today, the kind of day we fear as children and never outgrow with age, we formed our circles again.  Layer on layer.  And central to all of it was that beautiful friend who became my sister more than three dozen years ago.  Her body was spent, worn out by good works and, almost inconceivably, whipped to submissiveness by cancer.  I have never known a stronger woman.  And so I have never seen a more unyielding disease. Demon cancer!  Lauren, Bryan, Nate and George, directed by what some people call fate and I call the Holy Ghost, had made the decision to come together with impeccable timing. 

They surrounded her, their hands touching her as if they were charging their spirits with her good energy. 

And we who loved her too, encircled them.  Out into the halls of the Heber City hospital, and beyond. Out to distant places where prayers were all that could be sent, their paths interweaving like a web of faith, encircling all of us.  We sang her to the gate, our hands and voices trying to fill her with sweet memory to take with her.   

I sat behind Nate and Bryan, their arms holding each other up, their father and sister across the bridge of their mother. I imagined their brother, Clayton, whose body we had encircled on that mournful day 18 years ago…I imagined a tug of war between those crazy brothers; two of them pulling from this side to keep her here, and Clayton engaging the aid of his grandmothers, tugging from Heaven.

Cyndy walked into her Gethsemane with grace and dignity and complete trust; ever aware of the lessons she was teaching in her journey, and completely submissive to her God.

Today, in the waning hours of daylight, Heaven won.

We promise, Cyndy, to lock our arms, to lift our sorrowful eyes heavenward, and support each other in love. One tight, little circle of those who shared your body and your name, and layers of circles beyond that.  Rippling out to places our eyes cannot see, carrying your influence out across the waters of time and space and into the realm where you embrace your son and so many others who have loved you long before we did.