Cub Scouts

Since his birth, I have had a terrible time trying to light a fire under The Boy’s little rump. He just doesn’t get excited about anything -- other than video games and watching movies. Then at the beginning of 2^nd grade we found Cub Scouts. He loves it. He enjoys going to the meetings, fulfilling his Requirements, attending the monthly evening family events, the overnights, the camping trips, Rocket Day, the Pinewood Derby, Bobby Crocker, even the days we walk a neighborhood hanging pamphlets on front doors.

Last weekend we went to Bridging. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Cub Scouts that is the last family meeting before summer break when the Tigers become Wolves, the Wolves become Bears, and the Bears become Webelo 1s. I was excited because I thought everyone from The Boy’s den would be crossing the bridge too but soon realized that since they are already Webelo 1s that there is no Bridging to Webelo 2. The next Bridging for them will be to Boy Scouts next February at the Blue and Gold Dinner. Mama is not ready for this. This means her boy is closer to middle school. Closer to high school! Closer to driving!! Closer to voting!!! Closer to college!!!! Closer to gone!!!!! (get a grip, mama.)

The Boy receiving his badges and pins at Camp Coombs in Napa, May 2012.
(Please notice the wine barrel stave fire poker on the rock wall just left of front and center.
That's how prevalent they are around here.) 

After a really good potluck dinner (I know; that should be an oxymoron but it was good!) everyone was seated around the campfire and the meeting portion of the evening was underway. The next thing I knew, my name was called and I was asked to come forward to be recognized for being a Committee Member and the Scouting With Santa Fundraiser Chair. Immediately after, The Captain was asked to come forward for his role as Committee Member and Camping/Overnight Chair… and as being in charge of Rocket Day (which we didn’t know, hmmm). Several others soon joined us. Now, we knew we held these positions -- well, except for The Captain’s Rocket Day Leader -- what we weren’t expecting was the recognition. I’m not a shy person, ask anyone who knows me; however, I was taken aback and so was The Captain, who not only doesn’t expect but doesn’t want any recognition. We thought our participation was no more than what others do. Apparently, we thought wrong. It was nice. I’ll be the first to admit that I like applause. And I think that is another thing that The Boy likes about Cub Scouts because they are awarded their badges and pins in front of the entire Pack and all the parents. Applause is good for the ego no matter how old you are.


In the car one afternoon while running errands, The Boy and I were talking about who his role models are and immediately after mentioning several family members, he talked about his Cub Scout Den Leaders, then his teachers and one lady from church. I think that says bunches about his experience. 

Cub Scouts has been amazing for our entire family, not just The Boy. We have made friends with families we wouldn’t have otherwise met. We have also become closer with people we already knew through The Boy’s school. At Bridging, we realized that in less than a year our little Cubby will be moving on to Boy Scouts. That means we’ll miss some of those wonderful people but it’s nice to know there are still good families in this big, scary world and we look forward to meeting some more of them.

By the way, I have yet another pile of laundry that needs folding among other tidbits around the house and someone is coming over in half an hour. Gotta run!

Food Transgressions

Homemade Ranch and Vinaigrette

Last weekend was a bit out of control in regard to food. It started Thursday with The Captain’s from-scratch brownies, which I’ve heard several people describe erotically. One friend whose husband is a pastry chef says they’re the best brownies she’s ever eaten. Needless to say, I ate one; yes, only one because the rest were designated for a Scout function and a fishing trip. Then on Friday my dear cousin and her family were driving up unexpectedly from the South Bay Area and we were all invited for pizza at my aunt and uncle’s, after which they offered low fat ice cream. I had two slices of pizza and about a third of a cup of ice cream and salad (not necessarily in that order).

The next morning I found myself alone with my refrigerator and the leftovers of a crazy good coconut chicken curry and basmati rice I had made two nights before. I ate the rice telling myself I’d have just one small bowl, which turned into two… with a bit of butter on each. You cannot have rice without butter. Period.

On the way home from the overnight Scouting event, The Captain stopped at Chipotle for a salad and brought one home for me as well. I usually order the vegetarian version because I don’t need the meat and its calories and saturated fat plus I like their pinto beans; besides the vegetarian one comes with guacamole so I don’t have to pay an extra $1.90 for it. However, The Captain remembered me ordering the barbacoa once so that’s what he brought home. I’m not complaining, mind you. He couldn’t get a hold of me and could have, thus, brought me nothing. I was grateful for the salad. And, as always, I can only eat half of their food because there’s so much on the plate. So, add half a barbacoa salad with brown rice, pinto beans, cheese, and lots of salsa... but no guac.

That afternoon our neighbor came down and invited us to their house for dinner and would we bring a salad and bread? No problem. I make a great salad (my brother is shaking his head and murmuring, "there she goes again complimenting her own cooking"). Loads of veggies: mixed greens, fresh herbs, tomatoes, cucumber, red bell pepper, avocado, plus feta, nuts or seeds, dried fruit… and this time I forsook my homemade vinaigrette for homemade ranch dressing (recipes below). To my credit (thank you, thank you very much), I used nonfat Greek yogurt instead of sour cream -- but full-fat mayo. Then all the dressing wouldn’t fit into the container I wanted to use so I put the rest in a wee bowl with a bit more from the container. We used it as dip for the large bag of Kettle chips we had purchased for the fishing trip, which had subsequently been canceled due to high winds and the salmon were no longer biting. The guide said he didn’t feel right about taking our money (nice, right?).

Then there’s the issue of the bread. The Captain and I went to Whole Foods but being a Saturday of a busy tourist weekend, it was slim pickins’. So we tried Trader Joe’s, which is almost next door. However, we had to stop at Pete’s Coffee on the way for a decaf iced latte (no sweetener but probably whole milk because I forgot to ask for something lighter). Nothing at TJ’s was any too inspiring either. Next and last, we went to our neighborhood gourmet grocery, Vallerga’s. We should have gone there first and had intended to but our car just drove itself over to get real in the Whole Foods parking lot. Sure enough, Vallerga’s had exactly what we were looking for. So The Captain took it home and made garlic bread -- with a whole stick of butter, many cloves of garlic, and some rosemary from the garden. I ate two pieces. Also for dinner I had a few bites of lamb, a slice of chicken breast, salad, three grilled asparagus spears, and a dozen artichoke leaves Rutherford Grill style with aioli... plus a half a cup of chocolate ice cream, not just a few of those potato chips, cucumbers, and dip, and a couple of Tecates… (over the course of about four hours – not all at one sitting, people.)

I am absolutely positive there were the odd leftover brownie, piece of dark chocolate, trail mix, handful of walnuts, and other tidbits mixed in over the weekend but who can remember all that??? Thus ended my food transgressions. I am back to sanity. However, I’ve gained two pounds for my efforts. grrr. On the upside, my laundry is done… but my kitchen floor is becoming its own ecosystem. Nice segue to --

Homemade Garlic Ranch Dressing

I really dislike store-bought salad dressings. There are very few that don't have that weird, acrid flavor, especially bottled Ranch and Blue Cheese dressings. I haven't purchased it for at least ten years because I swear I can taste the preservatives -- and they don't taste good! For many years I made the powdered Ranch which was better but then I found a recipe that had ingredients I could pronounce. They were all real food. I feel much better about being able to control what goes into our bodies and it is soooo much tastier! The original recipe is from Barefoot Bloggers but has been adapted to our taste.

The ingredients are simple and staples in many pantries.

Just blitz them all together and voila!

3/4 cup mayonnaise (you can use light mayo)


3/4 cup nonfat plain Greek yogurt (you can use light or regular sour cream)


1 Tbsp olive oil


1 Tbsp lemon juice


1/4 to 1 cup buttermilk (I use powdered because we don’t use that much but plain milk also works)


1 small bunch fresh chives, roughly chopped


a generous handful fresh Italian parsley, no stems


1 Tbsp fresh thyme

2 cloves garlic


1/2 tsp sea salt


1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Place all ingredients with 1/4 cup of the buttermilk in a food processor or blender and do several long pulses. Add more buttermilk if you like it thinner (we don't). Store in an air-tight jar in the fridge.

According to the Barefoot Bloggers, leftovers will keep 2 to 3 weeks. Ours won’t last that long… because it gets eaten!

If you don’t love garlic, cut back to one small clove or skip it. Other herbs that I’m going to try are: tarragon, lemon thyme, basil, and a little rosemary. Not all at once. I’ve chosen those herbs because we have them growing in the garden with the chives and Italian parsley. I’d love to hear your ideas.

Homemade Vinaigrette

This is my adaptation of the classic French vinaigrette my friend taught me to make many, many years ago after her year in France as an exchange student. The olive oil to vinegar ratio is way off compared to the original, which is four to one, but I like this more acidic, less oily version.

Pantry staples that can whipped up for a quick, delicious dressing.

½ cup olive oil

1/3 cup champagne or red wine vinegar (or your favorite flavored vinegar)

1 Tbsp Dijon mustard

1 tsp sea salt

½ tsp freshly ground black pepper

In a mason jar or other container with a tight seal, combine vinegar, Dijon mustard, sea salt and pepper. Cover and shake well to combine. Add olive oil. Cover tightly and shake vigorously for at least one minute. Dressing can also be made using a food processor or blender using the same method above except the olive oil should be drizzled in slowly while the machine is running. Either by hand or machine, the dressing should completely combine and won’t “break” (separate). Store at room temperature.

Tip: If you choose to go by the shaken-by-hand method, it is helpful to put a dishtowel over the jar lid to prevent any potential leaks from becoming messy spills. (I speak from experience…)

A tablespoon of fresh herbs, shallots, and/or 1 teaspoon of garlic can be added to the vinegar mixture prior to adding the olive oil if you like. However, with that addition, the vinaigrette must either be completely used immediately or stored in the fridge. The olive oil gets really thick in the fridge and has to come to room temperature before it can be used. I, personally, can’t think that far in advance so I leave this step out unless it’s a special occasion. I’m more likely to add the herbs or shallots directly into the salad greens. Like the garlic idea but don’t want to put it in your dressing? Rub the cut end of a clove around the bowl. 

Comments, please. Enjoy! 

Living in the Napa Valley Part II

Sunface Large Bag and Cat Face Pillow (below) at ByLorna.com

PART II

As for galleries and boutique shopping, well, we have a lot of that too. Not that I, personally, know much about it. You’ll find me at the factory stores and Target. Most of the shopping in Napa Valley is about the tourists, not the locals. My sister-in-law is a local jewelry and hand painted clothing designer. You’ll find her artistry at several galleries and boutiques from Calistoga down to Napa.

"Abloom in Plum" Bracelet by Fringe Magic on eBay.com

Cold drink barrel or planter by JayCWoodworks on Etsy.com

I know several people who create candle holders and coat racks or planters and tables using barrel staves. These items can be purchased on Etsy and Ebay. 


My adult niece builds and paints birdhouses (Mother/Daughter Trunk Show this Saturday featuring Hand Painted Designs By Lorna, Fringe Magic Jewelry and Mundy Creations). 

Custom birthday invitations and party supplies by Ladybug Karla on Etsy.com

My friend and neighbor is a magician with her paper crafts including custom invitations, centerpieces, cupcake cups and toppers, and banners, as well as paper flowers and place cards; most of which have been shipped to her satisfied customers as far away as Atlanta. 


There are so many talented people in our area who get an added boost in sales because they can honestly say that their product was made in the Napa Valley. It may be no different than products being made in Idaho or Tennessee or NYC, but many people are impressed by this addition to a label. And it makes us aware of the same types of labels when we’re traveling. The Captain and I find all this ironic because we feel that Napa Valley is simply another farming community. It just so happens that the crop grown here attracts the masses and there is a certain associated romance, which even The Captain used to his advantage while pursuing yours truly. See? Even we jaded locals are susceptible. It does help that it is spectacularly beautiful here. But when I was a child, we were commonly referred to as Napkins. This isn’t The Hamptons, people; at least as far as we’re concerned.

Just to make sure you don't get the wrong idea, the vast majority of Napans are not wealthy. Our homes are modest. Our neighbors and family are like us: tugboat captains, realtors, teachers, electricians, accountants, lawyers, welders, refinery workers, and stay-at-home moms. We drive cars that no longer have payments. Our homes do not come equipped with wine cellars. We have never been to The French Laundry (although, for many, that is a bucket list item). We only go wine tasting when friends from out of town come to visit. Napans spend our days working, shuttling kids to activities, attending school, church, and community events, and doing our laundry just like everyone else.

On that note, it isn’t cheap to live here. Gas is a lot more expensive than most places (currently $4.25 for the cheap stuff). We could live in a much larger and newer house by moving just twenty minutes south on the highway, still in Napa County but outside the Napa Valley. Simply put, our dollar doesn't go as far here. I’m not trying to run-down where I live. It is famous for a reason. However, it also has its share of problems, such as no two new buildings anywhere in the city limits have anything in common. It’s a hodgepodge of whoever-had-enough-money-to-charm-city-council (I'm not saying they take bribes but are simply more enthused about money than consistency of design). The arborists the city hires have less sense than the trees on which they work. There are too many one way streets and no good reasoning behind them. One of the major arteries into downtown has been modified to direct traffic away from downtown and two new shopping centers were designed with not enough parking even before most of the shops had opened. Our school district has a tough time making ends meet so on top of the perpetual threat of school closures and pink slips, spending their own money for supplies and having waaaay too many kids in their classrooms (up to thirty-six), our teachers have a minimum of seven furlough days during the school year; most still manage to hold their chins up and present a smile. 


And with all that, the answer to the question I posed in the second paragraph in PART I is: Very. We are very lucky. Even if it didn’t have gorgeous views, fabulous food, and swanky boutiques in which to browse, if not buy, the Napa Valley would be my home because that is where my friends and family – my heart is.

Living in the Napa Valley

PART I of II
I'm starting out this post by apologizing for not having any photos. In our TV cabinet are thousands of photos. Diving in proved to be an exercise in futility and opened a can of worms. One would think that in this 15 cubic foot space I have some hardcore evidence that we do, in fact, reside in the Napa Valley in the form of photos, but no. Not one... save for our wedding photos and who's to say we didn't have a destination wedding? I did try to pirate some off a friend's hot air balloon company website but that didn't work. So, sorry. You'll just have to take me at my word. Here truly begins my post...

Ah! This is my second favorite time of year here in the Napa Valley – springtime! The hills are still lush and green, just a few weeks ago the mustard was in full bloom, the vines are now leafing out, and my chest allergies of fall and winter have switched to sinus allergies (I’m trying to look on the bright side…). Soon summer will be upon us, those green hills will turn golden (I prefer that to calling them brown) and the vineyards will be heavy with fruit.

The city of Napa is my hometown. I was born and raised here. I live about eight blocks from my parents who still live in the house I grew up in. My brother lives down the street from them in the house his wife grew up in. The Captain, who also spent most of his formative years here, and I have many more family members, four generations worth, who live in less than a three mile radius of us. How lucky are we?

Most people we meet who are not from NorCal assume that we own a winery, or that our family does, or that we at least work at one. So not true. The Captain and I have both worked in the tourist industry; in fact, that’s how we met. He was flying hot air balloons and I was doing group sales and marketing for the same small company. However, after years of working weekends, the schmoozing, and dealing with local ballooning politics, we both got out – and have stayed out. I’ve since been offered jobs at boutique hotels and spas by friends, which I have respectfully declined because I don’t want to put in the odd hours, schmoozing, and tours and wine tastings on my own time that really don’t interest me. Selfish? Yes, but that life style doesn't fit the needs of my family. Now, I love driving up valley through the tiny towns of Yountville, Oakville, Rutherford, St. Helena, and Calistoga when we’re on our way to the Sonoma Coast or The Captain’s sister’s in Humboldt County. The scenery is breathtaking year round, it never gets boring, but the wineries and wine aren’t what interest me.

Beside my family -- it’s the food.

Over the years traveling outside our little valley, The Captain and I have realized how incredibly picky we are where restaurants are concerned; it took us a while to figure out why. To be frank, even the dives in Napa Valley have to be remarkable – even if it’s just remarkably cheap (like one of our favorite hole in the wall Mexican food joints). When The French Laundry is ten minutes from our front door, The Boy’s Cub Scout Den Leader is a James Beard Award winning chef and teacher at the Culinary Institute of America’s Greystone campus in St. Helena, there are more amazing restaurants per capita than just about anywhere in the world, we have to lower our standards when we leave home. In a word, we’re spoiled – and, shall we say, big-boned… Yes, let's go with that.

It doesn’t help that we both love food. We love to cook. We love to eat. We watch the Cooking Channel and the Food Network (The Boy loves Cupcake Wars and Chopped, which just cracks me up). We subscribe to two culinary magazines – and devour them cover-to-cover. The Captain’s father published a cookbook in the 70s and was no stranger to the garden either, one sister is a personal chef and caterer, another sister managed a restaurant at Silverado Country Club, her husband is a former restaurateur, and The Captain himself is fearless in the kitchen. He bakes and decorates all the family birthday cakes (or dessert in my case since I don’t like cake), he is the master of the BBQ (charcoal, please, no gas grill for him), he bakes bread that I could eat an entire loaf of in one sitting, and his homebrewed beer and root beer are fantastic. Did I mention the ice cream, chicken stock, and spicy brown-butter chocolate chip cookies? Yeah. I have to fight for kitchen time. The Captain and his siblings, my brother’s wife, and I all seem to compete, good naturedly, to bring our best to the table. Living where we do, we have a lot of inspiration and lot to live up to. 


Not to mention a LOT to work off… which is not an easy task when one thinks exercise is a four-letter word. But that’s another post.

Having lived in the Midwest and Southeast Asia and spent a vacation in Cabo San Lucas at a house where we shopped and cooked for ourselves, I know the produce (especially), seafood, and meats we have available to us in the Napa Valley is also exceptional bringing about the ability to create great food. Our farmer’s market is located between the (now closed) Copia Center for Wine, Food, and the Arts opened by Robert and Margrit Mondavi and the Oxbow Public Market, which features one of my favorite gourmet pizza places with the best roasted veggies I’ve ever tasted and Ritual, the best latte in town, and, among others, organic ice cream and Model Bakery made more famous by the Food Network. It is not uncommon to see chefs in their white coats at the farmers market or Whole Foods picking out their own produce. It has to be great in this food mecca.


More next week...

Lemonade Stand

A few weeks ago The Boy and I were almost home from having lunch with The Captain when The Boy asked, yet again, if he could set up a lemonade stand. Thankfully this time he asked when I didn’t have to say no. Usually the question is posed when we have less than an hour between activities or when it’s 55 degrees and windy or I haven’t the ingredients on hand. However, that day it was lovely. It was a Saturday. I had the ingredients. I got to say YES!!! I love saying yes.

The Boy mugging for the camera. He's just so cute. No, I am not biased.

So The Boy clambered out of the car, pulled out the folding table, made a sign that read, “50¢ per cup”, and found the plastic cups stored in the garage. I made it to the kitchen and dug from the freezer the quart of my dad’s Meyer lemon juice that he squeezed by hand and began thawing it and making simple syrup. Next The Boy asked for a tablecloth, “But not one of your nice ones, Mom.” So I pulled a beloved yellow and blue plaid off a hanger where it lives in the hall closet (it was a wedding gift so I keep it out of posterity but it has been very well-used over the years. Thanks, Jeff and Glenna). The Boy took off with it. When I brought the first pitcher of lemonade out to him, I couldn’t help but smile at his practical, if not quite aesthetically pleasing, set up. The Boy had placed the cloth on the table but instead of centering it so that it hung evenly over all sides or, better yet, allowing it to drape to the ground in front and leaving it open in the back, he let it hang to the ground in back and had it perfectly even with the front of the table so that he could masking tape his sign directly onto the  table. He had carefully stored the extra cups under the table… for all his customers to see. Too funny. I was good and didn’t make suggestions to turn the table or the cloth. But.It.Was.Very.Hard.

We don’t live on a terribly busy street; which is not to say we don’t have traffic from vehicles that don’t live here. That said, we had more than several cars stop prompting me to consider a potential new Starbucks location. (Our town of approximately 75,000 inhabitants has seven or eight Starbucks. What’s one more?) And, unbeknownst to me, The Boy and his buddies also knocked on doors to drum up business. His school’s librarian lives down the street and she happily participated.

All in all, two hours, four pitchers of homemade lemonade, a little walking, a bit of sitting, some assistance from his mama, and a great attitude awarded The Boy $13 to add to the savings account he opened the day before.

So... The Captain has been chairing a garden plant project at The Boy’s school. Every child potted two vegetable plants last winter, which were subsequently taken to one of the local high school’s greenhouses to germinate. This last week marked the actual sale at The Boy’s school of these little babies, which, eventually, brings me back to a lemonade stand. The Boy, once again, wanted to sell lemonade. We told him that was a great idea as long as he was raising money either for his trip to Washington, DC next year with his school or to donate directly to school and not to plump up his personal account. He decided to help out Mom and Dad and raise money for his trip. Good choice. J This time I had to make the lemonade in advance instead of a pitcher at a time, so out came the big, round, orange cooler we use for camping water. Not elegant but it definitely served its purpose. This go ‘round he cleared $15. He had a great time and felt like a true participant in the plant sale, as well as giving himself a vested interest in his trip next year.

So proud. (little tear)


If I were a good mother I'd find a recipe using honey or other sweetener instead of refined sugar but... I'd also like to try adding mint, lavender, or thyme to the simple syrup; however, I think that would be for a grownup party and gin or vodka may be involved. If you've done this, let me know how it is.


Lemonade
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 cup lemon juice
3 1/2 cups of cold water


To make the simple syrup, place the sugar and 1 cup of water in a sauce pan and heat over a medium flame stirring constantly just until the sugar is completely dissolved. Place the lemon juice in a pitcher and add the simple syrup. Give it a stir then add the cold water. Serve over ice.

Great-Grandma's Deviled Eggs

This glass Candlewick platter is the same one my Great-Grandma used. I treasure it.

All my growing up years, even through college and beyond, my great-grandparents hosted Easter dinner (and Thanksgiving and Christmas and…), not to mention every Sunday after church. They always served two meats: either ham or roast beef (or turkey if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas) and always, always, always fried chicken (well, I don’t actually remember fried chicken at Thanksgiving and Christmas). As well as, always, always, always coleslaw, head lettuce and tomato salad, canned green beans and corn, mashed potatoes with milk gravy, real cornbread (not the sweet kind), and white bread. They were originally from the Ozarks in southern Missouri and although they moved to northern California, they didn’t cook like it, which was fine by me!

My favorite meals included Grandma’s deviled eggs as appetizers. The entire family loved them and no matter how many dozen she made, they were all eaten. I watched her make them so many times, often while eating canned black olives off my finger tips, but as I got older she let me help. Grandma never measured, she just eyeballed it. My cousin Karen and I preferred the eggs without the bits of chopped pickle that everyone else liked so Grandma made some special, without pickles, just for us. Grandma was sweet and laughed at our antics as my cousins, brother, and I darted in and out of their small kitchen. She never complained or asked us to go in the other room. She patiently waited for her granddaughters, our mothers, to do that.

Due to her state of health, we had already gone many years without her deviled eggs when Grandma finally went to heaven; then one Easter Sunday I had a craving for those eggs. I decided to see if I could duplicate them and as the true test, I took them to Easter Dinner at my aunt’s house. It was unanimously decided that I had recreated the recipe and would I please write it down since Grandma never had. The problem was I couldn’t because I, too, had eyeballed it. I’ve tried to write it down as I went along many times but have always managed to mess it up, knowing I forgot to include the last addition of mustard or pickle juice. However, now I have a secretary in the form of The Boy. This year while I was eyeballing it, he was taking notes and revising those notes as we went along. He loves to help in the kitchen and he knew this time the most important role he could play was that of recipe clerk. And he did it well.

The Boy was also intrigued with my latest addition of whole eggs made into chickies, which was inspired by Pinterest. You’ll notice that there are only four chickies – because they’re kind of a pain in the @** to make, let alone eat, but very cute and I’ll do a few again next year because The Boy loved them.

In the recipe, you’ll notice that I throw everything into the food processor and then use a pastry bag with a large star tip to fill the eggs. My Grandma never did this. She didn’t even own either of those items. A fork to mash and two teaspoons to fill were what she used so if you don’t have a food processor or pastry bag, don’t fret. I usually cover my Great-Grandma’s Candlewick platter (in photo) with lettuce leaves or other greens or a doily; however, this time I placed them directly on the platter, just like she did.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not talented with a pastry bag and I will never be caught frosting cupcakes with one; the reason I use it is out of laziness. It is easier to pump the yolk yummy into the whites then go back and refill those that are a little on the light side than to try to spoon it in and go back and re-spoon without making a mess – which I am very good at…

What are your favorite adaptations of devilled eggs? Dijon mustard, bacon, red onions, scallions, shallots, blue cheese, caviar, smoked salmon, capers, hot sauce? I'd love to know what your family's deviled egg tradition is.

Great-Grandma’s Deviled Eggs

3 dozen boiled eggs, peeled

½ cup mayonnaise

¼ cup yellow mustard

1 Tbsp white vinegar

¼ cup sweet pickle juice

2 sweet pickles (not the tiny ones), roughly chopped

1 tsp sea salt

1 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Fresh Italian Parsley, chopped for garnish, optional

Have your serving platters ready. You’ll need two large or several small ones.

Halve the boiled eggs, wiping the knife clean before the next cut, and carefully remove the yolks to the bowl of a food processor and arrange the whites on the platters. Add pickles to food processor and pulse a few times just to break things up a bit. Add the remaining ingredients to the bowl and blend until smooth. The pickles will disappear altogether (I still don’t like them in chunks J). Adjust seasoning as desired.

If using, place the pastry bag fitted with a large star tip into a pint glass or jar. Using a rubber spatula, scoop/scrape the yolk mixture into the pastry bag. Squeeze the bag to fill each egg white. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper and garnish, if desired. Otherwise, just grab two teaspoons from your drawer and go for it.

If you're making the chickies, instead of slicing the egg in half, slice off the top quarter to third of the whole egg. Carefully score the inner portion of the cut side of the egg white just big enough to begin scraping out the yolk, which occasionally pops right out but mostly does not. I lost two eggs altogether due to the whites breaking open beyond repair. If this happens, just toss the whole egg, white and all, into the yolk bowl and try again. When you have enough chickies to make you happy, fill the cavities with the yolk mixture all the way up and out the top. Place lid back on top. Make the eyes out of black olives cut in tiny pieces and the beaks out of tiny triangles of carrot (mine happened to be blanched so the color stayed bright; this was purely by accident as I had to snatch a couple from The Captain's stockpot. We often compete for food for our recipes, one of very few downsides to having a husband who cooks). 

If you're making the day prior to serving, place egg whites on a damp paper towel then place another damp paper towel on top and cover with plastic wrap. Leave the yolk mixture in the bowl and place a piece of plastic wrap directly on top of the mixture so it doesn’t oxidize and harden. Refrigerate whites and yolks. Up to a couple of hours in advance of serving, remove whites to serving dishes, fill with yolk mixture, and garnish. 

If you’re taking the eggs with you, placing lettuce leaves under the whites will keep them from moving around in transit. To cover them with plastic wrap once filled, simply place toothpicks strategically into four or so yolks around the outside of the platter and a couple in the middle and tent loosely.

Letting Go

Most of us have lost loved ones, especially grandparents. I was fortunate to have been close to both my maternal great-grandparents until their passing when I was in my late 20s and early 30s. I never doubted their love for me and I certainly hope I never gave them cause to doubt mine. A few weeks ago my maternal grandfather, my Papa, died. His almost 90 year old heart finally gave up and he went peacefully in his sleep with his wife by his side. We’ve had him about three years longer than his cardiologist expected. He was stubborn, my Papa (runs in the family). My grandmother, mother, father, aunt, two uncles, and I spent that first morning saying goodbye to him and making the initial plans and phone calls for his services.

We ended up having two separate services for Papa. First was a memorial at his church on a cold, wet, windy day. The parishioners played piano, set lights, and served lunch. They didn’t complain a bit when we stayed too long, not wanting to let go of cousins we hadn’t seen since my great-grandfather passed in 2000 to go back to our respective homes and go about our lives. Second, and four days later, we had a private burial at the National Cemetery in our area on a beautiful, sunny day. Because my Papa was a submariner in WWII in the Pacific and occupied Japan, he was eligible to be buried there. The US Navy provided two sailors: one played Taps, both folded the flag into the triangle we’ve all seen presented to the loved ones of the departed, and the other made the presentation to my uncle who then said a few words. During Taps, most of us covered our hearts with our hands but another uncle, my father, and The Captain, all veterans, saluted as we said goodbye. After each of us placed a rose on his casket, they wheeled Papa from the pavilion, the last roof he would ever be under, to his final rest.

And we went to lunch.

How strange it felt to chat with my cousins and hold their babies knowing Papa would have loved to have been there with all the people he held dearest. Of course, during the car ride home with my parents and The Captain, we discussed our later options and that, as my Nana will be allowed to be placed with Papa, both my mother and I would be allowed to be placed with our husbands in that same cemetery. I sincerely hope that it is a very long time before I have to consider placing my father and mother there, let alone The Captain.

My Papa was a good man. He was always loving and strong. It was so hard to see him looking really old. I still picture him the way he was during my childhood: in his Calistoga Police Officer’s uniform. I can still hear his greeting, “Hello, Machol” in his sometimes exaggerated southern Missouri drawl kept alive even though the majority of his life was spent in California. He called me Stinky; he called us all Stinky. He took us for rides on his Shetland Pony and ancient tractor. He played his guitar and sang songs. He could jump straight off the floor and hit his rump with his feet. He let us use him as a horsey. He lay on the floor with us and ran his train under the Christmas tree. When I was in college he gave me a commemorative tin of Oreo’s for Christmas addressed from Papa to Kind because he knew they were my favorite since I was just old enough to ask for that “kind.” He fell asleep during church and on the sofa at family functions. He was very smart. He was passionate about his politics even though none of the rest of us agreed with him. He prayed in his deep, rich tones prayers that were honest and humble. He loved his God and he loved us.

It seems strangely fitting that Papa left us so close to Easter. We sang Easter songs during his services, which made it harder to sing them again at church on Palm Sunday, the next day. And I have realized this week that I am frightened by my Papa’s death because there is no longer that buffer of a generation (or two) between death and my parents, which brings me closer to my own mortality… which doesn’t actually frighten me as much – as long as it occurs after The Boy is well grown. He still needs his Mama and no one can love him the way I do.

Papa and The Boy, Easter Sunday 2006
The Boy had just cracked a confetti egg on Papa's head

Papa and The Boy, mid-April 2006

We lost The Captain’s mother while on our honeymoon. We had earlier been lamenting how we had to pass her off to his sisters more than we’d have liked due to it being the week before the wedding and all that that entails. However, she went home and told her friends how loved she felt that she was constantly with her children, one or another. She passed peacefully in her sleep ten days after we wed.

The Captain’s dad passed due to cancer six weeks before The Boy was born. It was fast and he went with dignity at home with almost all of his children at his side. We regret The Boy not meeting his grandpa. I know what that’s like, never having met my paternal grandfather who my daddy assures me would have adored me (what’s not to love?). The Boy is so much like The Captain who is, in turn, like his father. The Boy even has his grandfather’s breathy laugh where he slaps his knee, which I would have sworn was a learned trait, however, it must be innate because The Captain doesn’t do that.

This is a depressing post and I’m sorry for that. However, part of the point of this blog is me organizing things; this time it's my thoughts. I do this better on paper than when things are simply allowed to wander around unfenced, unleashed in my brain. My point is that we’ve been through this before but with every person it’s completely different since each fit in a different place in our hearts, leaves a gap that is never filled except as a placeholder for a loving memory.

I am not ready to let go.