My Prize-Winning Cornbread

That’s right. When I was just nine years old, I was the winner of the Florence (SC) County 4-H corn muffin contest. It was my first competition of any sort and at age nine, a great beginning to my 4-H career.

I no longer make muffins, just good old-fashioned cornbread. The kind you bake in a cast iron skillet, though you could use a glass casserole dish or a metal cake pan–I’ve done both with success. But nothing quite compares to cast iron for cornbread.

These days, we make our cornbread with home ground meal from our homegrown Painted Mountain*corn. This corn is so pretty you can just use it for decoration. But it sure would be a shame to miss out on its delightful taste (though when we hang the ears up to dry in our bedroom, we keep them there for months for the sheer joy of admiring them).

Our grinder is pretty basic so our meal has a coarse texture that adds a delightful chewiness. If you have the chance to try this recipe with a coarsely ground meal, do! Otherwise, use what you can buy at your favorite grocer’s. I won’t judge. It’s a great complement to soup.

Carole’s Prize-Winning Cornbread

Preheat oven to 400.

  • 1 cup cornmeal
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 2-4 Tablespoons sugar (optional, but …)
  • 4 Tablespoons melted butter
  • 1 1/4 cups milk
  • 2 eggs, beaten

Melt butter in your skillet or other pan while oven is preheating.

Meanwhile, sift and mix dry ingredients together in a large bowl. (Note: we never sift. It works out fine.)

In smaller bowl, combine all liquid ingredients except butter.

Swirl melted butter to cover bottom and sides of your baking dish, then pour remainder into other liquid ingredients.

Stir liquid ingredients into dry ones.

Bake about 25 minutes or until toothpick or sharp knife comes out clean.

* Painted Mountain corn is an open-pollinated corn and can be purchased from Territorial Seed Company, Johnny’s Seeds, Baker’s Heirloom Seeds and other seed companies.

Our Favorite Lentil Soup Recipe

Sorry, but I don’t recall where we found the original of this great recipe. Something makes me think it may have come from one of Frances Moore Lappe’s books. It’s ridiculously easy and oh, so tasty.

As usual, over the years, we’ve tweaked according to our own tastes. That’s what you’ll see here. This recipe is easy to modify according to your own preferences.

Saute in large pot for three to five minutes:

  • ¼ cup olive oil
  • 1 cup onion (you could easily double this if you’d like more onion)
  • 3-4 sliced carrots (cut larger slices into smaller pieces)

Add 1 teaspoon thyme for last minute

Add:

  • 3 cups of your favorite stock (or water mixed with bouillon cube or powder)
  • 1 cup rinsed, dry lentils
  • 2 Tablespoons chopped parsley (if we don’t have fresh parsley, we just omit this step. Still great.)
  • 1 quart home-canned tomatoes (or you can use a 28-oz store bought can)

Bring to boil, then simmer in covered pot 45 minutes.

Now comes the part that makes this soup truly special:

Fill the bottom of each bowl with 1/4 cup grated Swiss cheese; ladle steaming hot soup into bowls; to each bowl add about 2 tablespoons dry, white wine of your choice. (The chef gets an extra swig or two! ) You could omit either of these two ingredients, but IMO they’re what takes this soup from good to terrific.

Want a really great complement for this dish? Pair with my prize-winning cornbread recipe.

The Return of the Prodigal Potato Soup Recipe

Way back in the last century–the mid-’70s to be exact–when the Gnome and I thought we were hippies (we were so not), my brother and his wife gave us a treasured gift: The Mother Earth News Almanac.

We devoured it. In particular, we devoured this soup whose recipe was on the pages of the almanac. We fell in love all over again. In the course of a couple of moves and boxes long left unpacked, we lost track of the book–and the recipe. Ultimately, we forgot the source of this recipe. But on many a cold winter night we just recalled it, reminisced about it, and mourned its loss forever.

Or so we thought. A couple of years ago when we were sorting through our small library, we came across our beloved, well-worn Mother Earth News Almanac.

almanac

You know how it is when a reader comes across an old book (any book, really). To heck with the job at hand; I had to at least scan its pages. I noticed one that was bookmarked. Guess what it was. You got it–our favorite cheesy potato soup!

This recipe is for two hungry people, but can be doubled or tripled easily enough.

CHEESE POTATO SOUP

  • Boil 2 potatoes (a little larger than medium-size, whatever that is)
  • Drain, but save the liquid
  • Mash the potatoes
  • Add drained liquid back into the pot to obtain desired thickness. If you’ve added all the water and the mixture is still too thick, add more water.
  • In a small skillet, brown 2 ½ Tbsp flour in 2 ½ Tbsp melted butter, stirring constantly to prevent burning.
  • Add browned mixture to potato-water mixture; bring to a boil and cook while stirring for 2-3 minutes to thicken.
  • Fill each soup bowl 1/3 full with small chunks of cheddar cheese (the sharper the better, we think).
  • Cover cheese with soup. You want the soup hot enough to soften, but not necessarily to melt the cheese.
  • Add 2-3 tablespoons of diced onion and a few sprinkles of apple cider vinegar to taste. (We like the extra zing of the vinegar, so we add anything from 2 Tbsp-1/4 cup–you might want to start lighter and go from there.)
  • Add salt and pepper to taste.

As good as the cheese-potato mixture is, the addition of the onion and vinegar is essential to make this recipe extraordinary (not to mention that they are the healthiest ingredients).

Rib-sticking thick, this soup is a great comfort food for a chilly wintry day. Add my prize-winning corn bread recipe for a tasty, filling combo.

 

Just a Few Reasons I Love Life on the Diagonal

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Bright meteor showers

Brilliant fall colors

Seas of valley fog with mountain tops peeking out like islands

Water tumbling over rocks in roadside creeks

Being able to live without curtains or blinds, waking up to the natural rhythms of light

Waterfalls

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Cloud shadows drifting across the mountainsides, creating an ever-changing kaleidoscope of light and shadow

Magnificent displays of lightning with surround sound

Fog drifting in the house through open windows and doors

Wild blackberries, blueberries, elderberries, and strawberries

Raccoons, groundhogs, possums, skunks, chipmunks, bears, and bobcats

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Toads with golden eyes

Making echoes

Quiet walks with time and room to think

Neighbors willing to help and willing to leave you alone

Ginseng, wild ginger, trillium, mayapples, jack-in-the-pulpits, ladyslippers, evening primrose

Slipping outside in the early morning to see dew-covered spiderwebs on fences, trees, and grass

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

 

The Crone’s Autobiography in Twenty Minutes

  • Born with the atom bomb 
  • Struggling, loving parents
  • Polio scare
  • Doodlebug, Doodlebug, come out of your hole; your house is on fire and your children will burn”
  • Mustard plasters
  • Daddy telling “The Crooked Mouth Family” story (over and over to much delight)
  • Separated from my best friend
  • Found him again two years later and showered him with 100 unwanted kisses on the school playground
  • Hopscotch; Jacks; Lavender Blue, Billy Billy, Lavender Green
  • Field trips—Merita Bakery, Coble Dairy, Timrod Park
  • Spelling bees, Old Maid, racist school plays (Epaminondas; Little Black Sambo)
  • Recess trips to the bathroom with friends to see who’d be the first to get her period
  • First bra; first kiss
  • Les Miserables; First “C” (Damned math!)
  • School chorus, church choir, handbell choir
  • 4-H—projects, camps, awards
  • Student Senate, May Court, Social Board, Japanese tea garden
  • First love, lost love, real love
  • All grown up, all alone together
  • Poor and in love, our first home of our own
  • Babies, diapers, formula, laughing, crying, exhaustion, love
  • Politics, women’s movement, civil rights, peace movement
  • Speaking my mind, shaking in my boots
  • Life in a tent; baths in a mountain creek, building our home with our own four hands: dreams of self-sufficiency
  • Gymnastics, cross country, careers
  • Camping, canoeing, photography, basketry, writing, publishing
  • Grandchildren, retirement, returning to the dream
  • Building—again; growing our own food; growing ourselves

What’s next?

A Month of Soups

I make a kiss-ass vegetable soup. My dad said so—well, no, if you knew my dad you’d know he’d never have used such language! But he loved, loved, loved the homemade vegetable soup I began making when I was ten or twelve years old. Of course, I learned how from my mother, but I added a few secret ingredients that made it all mine.

My mother was a busy woman. Like many homemakers of the day, she opted for the new convenience foods lining grocery shelves. Other than my vegetable soup, the only soups we ate when I was growing up came out of those iconic red and white cans. With the exception of Campbell’s Cream of Tomato, I wasn’t a fan. I assumed I just didn’t care for soup. I had no idea how homemade soups tasted and couldn’t imagine what it took to make them.

Until recently. A few years ago, we tried a lentil-carrot soup that’s easy and at the same time sophisticated the addition of Swiss cheese and white wine. Easy. That’s a word I’d never associated with soup. But it’s the right word. My vegetable soup is the most complicated soup I’ve ever made and that’s just because there are so many ingredients to gather, chop, and pour in the pot—not because there’s anything hard about it.

Quite accidentally, last January turned into soup month up here on the diagonal. First, it was the package of beef flavored vegetarian bouillon I received as a giveaway from a gardening blog I follow. That gift led to a delicious French onion soup, a delicacy I thought I’d given up forever when I became a non-meat eater more than twenty years ago. Then it was the potato-leek soup I’d been looking forward to ever since we planted our first leeks last spring. A look in the fridge told us we had some Swiss cheese that needed using, which turned into that delicious lentil-carrot soup.

Then the most serendipitous thing happened. We were sorting through our bookshelves (January is such a good time for decluttering and organizing) when we came upon an ancient copy of the Mother Earth News Almanac, a gift from my brother and his wife way back in 1975.

almanac

We curiously turned to a bookmarked page and were ecstatic with what we saw: our favorite easy, cheesy potato soup recipe from all those decades ago and whose loss we’d mourned for decades. The book had been tucked away in one of our moving and storage processes, and after a while we couldn’t remember where the recipe had come from in the first place. We sadly assumed it was gone forever. Naturally, the soup got made—and lovingly savored—that very day!

Lots of pumpkins line the shelves of our root cellar, calling to us to use them before they go bad. One of our favorite pumpkin recipes (aside from pumpkin pie, of course) is a cream of pumpkin soup made even better when topped with cinnamon croutons. We made that soup two separate times in January.

And then I happened upon a tomato soup recipe I wanted to try with our home canned tomatoes, so that soup made it into the January soup line-up too, paired with grilled cheese on homemade rye.

But even a small batch of soup will give our twosome two generous meals, often three. If you do the math, that means we had soup suppers every night for close to three of January’s weeks. Delicious, all. And not a vegetable soup among them!

(I’m posting these recipes as quickly as I can. If you don’t find the one you’re looking for, keep checking.)

The Last Time

(Note: certain details have been changed to protect individual privacy, but the essential facts remain the same.)

I’m at an age when it sometimes occurs to me that this may be the last time. The gnome and I, if we’re lucky, will be nearly eighty when it’s time to repaint the house and well over a hundred when time comes to replace our new metal roof. As inveterate do-it-yourselfers, it’s encouraging to think, “Well, at least we’ll never have to do that again,” when it comes to big jobs like roofing and house painting. (Not because we’re planning on going anywhere but, at least if we have our wits about us, we won’t be climbing any extension ladders!) I think of these as the good last times.

But there are other last times, other milestones I’m not so eager to meet. I wonder about the last time I’ll be able to climb our stairs. Upstairs is where our bedroom and only bathroom are; it’s pretty important to be able to make that trek. What if the time comes, like it has for my mother and some aunts and uncles, when my body just won’t let me do that anymore?

What about the last time we’ll kiss goodnight, the last time we’ll make love. It’s coming. Chances are when the last time comes, we won’t recognize it.

The memory lingers of the morning I got a sickening call that the husband of a young neighbor had been murdered just moments before. She remembered their goodbye that morning. Nothing special, just a peck on the cheek. Like most other mornings. How could she have possibly imagined it was the last moment they’d share?

One day after a marathon lunch gathering of old friends now spread far and wide—those things do tend to go on and on—we stood around our cars in the parking lot saying our almost equally long goodbyes, oblivious to the fact that in just a few hours one of us would get a call that her husband had been killed in a car accident. Who would have anticipated that?

Then came the day when a close-knit group of colleagues came together for one of our regular quarterly meetings. The day one of us who had been plagued for months by an undetermined ailment told us she was feeling better. Even joked that at least she’d lost some weight. None of us expected it to be the last time we’d see her.

Every decision we make—or don’t make—could be a life-altering moment. Almost always, we never have a clue. We don’t know what would have happened if we’d left the house one second sooner or one second later, or if we’d decided to take one route over another one, or if we said no instead of yes (or yes instead of no). Of course, it serves no purpose to second guess ourselves, but it might be worthwhile to recognize and appreciate the sheer randomness of everyday moments and events.

So, I think about these things. Maybe it sounds morbid. Not all that many years ago, I’d have squirmed uncomfortably at such thoughts. These days, though, I’d like to be aware. Not to constantly worry or agonize but to put myself fully in the moment, to appreciate the here and now for all that it is. Because it’s just possible this may be the last time.

Origins of the Gnome and Crone

Once upon a time in a land far away, I was the youngest. Almost always. (Except at home, where as the oldest I was gleefully “bossy”—though if I’d been a boy, I might instead have been dubbed a leader.) In elementary school most of my classmates celebrated their birthdays during the school year. They advanced in age before my eyes while I had to wait until summer to age one more eagerly anticipated year. Then came the sixth grade.

In October of that fateful year, the Soviet Union launched its Sputnik satellite. The cold war was in its heyday, and the rush to beat the Russians was on. Across the state, we sixth-graders were given a test. The goal: to identify students who could successfully accelerate our learning by scrunching our seventh and eighth grade studies into one year. If we graduated a year early, maybe we’d be more likely to go on to college and then to graduate school where we’d discover the next great thing to make our country the greatest, to beat our worst global enemies.

Overnight I became even younger than my peers, sometimes close to two years younger. All through high school, all through college, and in the early years of my adult working life, I was the baby. I got used to it.

As time went on, I began to notice something: my colleagues were getting younger and younger. So were my doctors, my dentists, my elected officials—and just about everyone else. Meanwhile, I was getting older. Old enough to be their mother.

And so it went. As I neared the end of a nearly thirty-five-year career in the field of workforce development, I was part of what, in the world of technology, is called a legacy system. My colleagues across the state looked around and realized I was now one of the few who held the vast array of institutional knowledge about our field. I knew its history, its various iterations, and the virtually forgotten rationale for various decisions and regulations that had been implemented over the years. I knew the whos,  the whats, the whens, wheres, whys, and hows. When I was gone,  a whole lot of knowledge would go with  me. Some of my professional friends gave me a new moniker. I became the crone. In its best tradition, a crone is a Wise Woman. I embraced my new persona.

In the last weeks of my career, I was surprised by those same people with a retirement celebration. Ron (he’s my guy) was there, too. In the course of conversation, he mentioned that he thought he looked like a gnome. Height has never been his strong suit, and degenerative discs along with the effects of spinal stenosis have shortened his vertical dimension by several additional inches. And his eyes do crink with a twinkle that matches his ever present mischievous smile.

So there you have it. It was a tiny leap to brand ourselves as the gnome and crone.  We think it fits us. What do you think?

Who am I and What am I Doing Here?

Who am I and What am I Doing Here?

Hi, my name is Carole. Sometimes I’m known as the crone. A crone who lives with a gnome. There’s a story behind that. You can read about it by clicking “The Gnome and Crone at Home” in the Categories sidebar.

The gnome and I live on the side of a mountain in beautiful northwestern North Carolina. We’ve been here for close to forty years. That tells you something about how old we are. And yes, we are both parents and grandparents–proud ones, too, of course. But you’re not likely to find me blogging about that. Well, maybe just a little.

For decades, I worked in the public service sector in the field of workforce development, but I’ve been retired for five or so years. Now, you might indeed find me writing a bit about my retirement experience and what it’s taught me.

There’s something else: when we moved to our mountainside, all we had was a piece of newly acquired land. We camped while we built our forever home with our own four hands (and sometimes the little hands of our children, then six and nine years old). You’re likely to find a few pieces about how that went tucked into this site, too.

So, what am I doing here? Well, I’ve thought about blogging for awhile now. Apparently, even longer than I realized. As I began to set up my blogging account, I discovered I’d done that already, almost six years ago. I guess I got sidetracked by something else. That happens.

Most writers say they write because they can’t help themselves. Not me. Writing has been just as cyclical as other aspects of my life, a fact that was driven home when I came upon aborted tidbits from twenty years ago, then thirty. And when I found some very old copies of Writers’ Digest and a nonsense children’s storybook I’d begun more than forty years ago, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I’ve had writing aspirations off and on for most of my adult life. But, obviously, writing hasn’t been my all-consuming passion. Maybe that’s because I’m more of a potpourri kind of person. If not easily distracted, at least easily attracted to new and different projects.

Without a career to absorb my time and attention these days, I’m back to writing. This time it does kind of feel like I can’t help myself. No novels or short stories, though. Just as I’d rather sing jazzy numbers than listen to them, I’d much rather read fiction than try my hand at writing it. No, my writing tends toward the personal: essays, random thoughts and reflections, a little how-to, some garden lore and recipes, even poetry. Not the kind of thing that’s likely to find its way into a book (though I do have a couple of those under my belt–you can check them out on the sidebar, too). Fellow writers have suggested a blog is the perfect format for what I write. I’m ready to give it a go. Hope you’ll join me.

.