These pieces first appeared in the Plano (TX) Star-Courier from 1983-85.

Crossroad Impressions 11/20/85

PLEASE DON’T EAT THE TULIPS

The bulbs have arrived. Is there any chance this year’s planting will go better than last year’s?
The merits of gardening can hardly be over-emphasized. The fresh air, the invigorating exercise. Unfortunately, a profound love of flowers does not a gardener make. I do my best gardening with pencil and paper, but I’m determined to improve.

Last year, as a token of my commitment, I ordered bulbs from a catalogue. Even more exciting than dreaming over the seed and bulb catalogue was receiving the goods.

The words, “Perishable, live plants. Keep from heat or fold,” and the little holes in the box, led me to wonder whether we’d received bulbs or boa constrictors. They did prove to be bulbs—and not just any bulbs. These gems were right off the boat, having been “carefully selected, cultivated and grown” in Holland. What’s more, they were sent at exactly the right time (early November) for planting “at the Lee home in Plano, TX.” Now that’s personalized. I opened immediately upon arrival, as per instructions and was awed by the little bits of life that had been entrusted to my care. I could hardly wait to get them into the ground. The only problem, the garden was under two inches of water and rain was still falling steadily. This kept up for three weeks, only drying out on days that I was committed to other activities. December rolled around and I was too busy even to do my Christmas shopping, much less plant bulbs.

Finally, in the middle of January, there appeared a sunny day with the temperature approaching 50.

“This is it! As soon as I return from my morning business, I’m going to get those babies into the ground,” I declared.

I poured over the “Advance Spring catalogue” while I scarfed down my microwaved pizza. When I looked out at the spots I was thinking of favoring with lovely spring color, I noticed that the sky seemed not quite as bright as it was when I sat down. I quickly tied on my “tennies”, grabbed my official gardening gloves, and headed out the door. Immediately, I turned around, took off for the closet and extricated my ski jacket. Not only was it colder than just twenty minutes earlier, it was now sleeting. No matter. Neither rain, nor sleet…

I dug a trench, removing dirt and ice, and carefully placed the bulbs in their little beds. I had the Salome daffodils and a few irises under when I realized I was dealing with potential color. There was no way I was going to be seen in the front yard planting Holland bulbs in the middle of January, in the driving sleet. I revised the plan. They would all go in the backyard. Daffodils from “creamy-white perianth with apricot-yellow cups which turn to pink” to “Bronze Queens” were installed.

And then there were the tulips. Those had to be recovered from the refrigerator where they had been in imminent danger of being eaten. (True, there wasn’t much else in the refrigerator at the time of the threat, but that’s no reason to get hostile!) The tulip bulbs were a bit grayish-green in places, not unlike the cheese, bread and other items on the shelf. A matched set, I figured.

The tulips were planted around the birdbath—the one with an inch of ice floating in it. Uncovered in the process were three very startled earthworms and a tiny green plastic soldier, all of whom had thought they were safe at least until Spring.

With all the bulbs safely in the ground, I got out the hose to water them in good. By then it was sleeting harder and the temperature had dropped even more. I heard my neighbor, Jean, getting out of her car next-door and decided on an alibi in case she should spot me.

“Just watering down the patio to make a skating rink for the kids,” I would explain, if necessary.

All the while I had visions of each little bulb encased in a bubble of ice, like Sleeping Beauty in her glass case.

Spring is always a miracle, no doubt about it. But those bulbs experienced, first-hand, a death defying act. They bloomed. The daffodils really were creamy-white with apricot-yellow cups. The Bronze Queens were regal. The tulips around the birdbath nodded their heads in welcome to little feathered friends.

It was enough to make me give it another try. This year I tripled my order. The way things go around here, I may be planting until May.

 

YOU ARE WHAT YOU ATE      3/4/86

Trivia Question: What does The Old Lady Who Lives In a Shoe feed her children?

Answer: Sole food.

            While enveloping a scrumptious Bread Pudding recently at the delightful new Blue Onion Restaurant, I got to thinking about comfort foods. Not that I grew up eating bread pudding. As a matter of fact, I resisted tasting it until just a few years ago. Admit it, bread pudding doesn’t sound too enticing to the uninitiated. But then there are a lot of other foods that don’t sound very good unless you had a regular diet of them on Saturday nights between the ages of two and twenty.

I think I can safely say that Cornbread and Sweetmilk could come under that category. When I was a kid, we always specified Cornbread and Sweetmilk, as opposed to Cornbread and Buttermilk, which Mother was likely to be having.

For those who didn’t grow up eating gourmet food, I’ll explain. Fill a giant ice tea glass with coarsely crumbled, left-over cornbread. To this add enough milk to soak the cornbread. An extra taste treat is in store if you top it off with bits of crisply fried bacon. Stir gently. It’s something like a main-course milkshake. I must confess, I have never fixed this delectable concoction for my kids, and they don’t know what they’re missing.

Another staple from Mother’s kitchen was Pinto Beans and Cornbread. This had added appeal because the smell of beans cooking in the big pot on the back of the stove accompanied the day’s activities, as we looked forward to splitting a piece of cornbread and smothering it with juicy, savory beans. We never wondered why there was no meat on the table. Who needed meat? This was a perfectly normal way to end the week, or start the week, or “middle the week,” for that matter.

By the way, this gastronomical delight is not to be confused with Red Beans and Rice, a great dish, but one in danger of becoming trendy as Cajun cooking continues its climb to the top.

Speaking of Cajun food—now we’re talking real comfort. What could be more exciting for someone who grew up next door to bayou country than a roux browning in a big iron pot? I’ll tell you what is more exciting—the gumbo that is a result of that roux, after the shrimp, sausage, celery, garlic, and assorted other yummies are added.

A few years back I decided that since I had married into a Cajun clan, I needed the recipe of the best Gumbo Chef in the South. Grampa Otis Lee, my father-in-law, kindly obliged with his twelve steps to perfect gumbo. Along with lists of ingredients, there were directions like, “stir to deep brown…add water, about 3 to 4 large glasses…add salt, pepper, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce.” He figured any cook worth her weight would know how much of these seasonings to add.

The best he saved for last, though.

“#13. Eat with rice until world looks level.”