Changing the Thanksgiving Holiday© and Turkey Soup with Danish Dumplings©

Every year as Halloween approaches, I realize how fast the year has flown, and I start looking forward to celebrating the holidays. As always, I find myself hoping that friends and family find themselves in good health and able to celebrate with loved ones. It seems that every year they sneak up on us more quickly than the last (the holidays, not the loved ones).But I guess that’s part of the aging process. Time passes more and more quickly.

The weeks and months fly by, and before you know it, another year is behind you. I think that is why I am a firm believer in making every minute count—you never know how many more you have left. When I turned fifty, I told my sons and their families that the extravagant Christmases were over. The best gift I could give to them, and that they could give to me, was time. Time spent together is not something you can buy. It is not something that will break and be discarded with yesterday’s trash. It is, however, something that can live on in memories, and photographs, to be cherished forever.

The holiday that I treasure the most is Thanksgiving. While there is so much to be thankful for all year ‘round, it just seems to me that Thanksgiving Day gets lost in the hectic craziness of the Christmas season. This time of year the earth is alive with color and fragrance; and all we have to do is sit back and drink it all in and be reminded of the beauty of the world. However, that is primarily in September and October. The meaning and purpose of celebrating Thanksgiving Day gets lost in the hectic craziness of the Christmas season. You can’t walk into a store in September any more without seeing displays of Christmas decorations, hearing Christmas music, and listening to people brag that they have already finished their Christmas shopping. Thanksgiving Day has actually become Christmas Bargains Day Eve. Instead, shoppers lose site of the purpose of Thanksgiving Day, anxiously anticipating the bargains and good buys they will find at the opening of stores in the wee hours of the Friday morning after.  This year, stores even started opening at 8 o'clock in the evening, to enable shoppers to beat the Black Friday rush.  My grandson had to be at work at 11:30 p.m. on Thanksgiving because his store opened at midnight.  He worked until 4 p.m. the next day.  What ever happened to letting the employees have a day off to share with their families, for which I am sure they are grateful.

Perhaps we should move Thanksgiving to another month, June for example. June is a much better month for a Thanksgiving celebration. We can be thankful that we and other elderly family members and friends have made it through the winter in good health. We can be thankful for the graduations and weddings of our loved ones, the joy of watching children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren thrive in the sunshine and fresh air, and for the birth of babies after difficult or seemingly never-ending winter pregnancies. We can be thankful for the warmth and beauty that surrounds us after a bleak, cold winter, and for the miracle of the land bearing fruits and vegetables when only a few months ago it looked so barren we thought nothing would ever blossom and grow again. Yes, I think June is an excellent choice for celebrating Thanksgiving. Don’t be surprised if you smell the aroma of turkey coming from my kitchen or grill in that month.

No matter in what month you choose to celebrate Thanksgiving, don't let that turkey carcass go to waste.  Turkey Soup with Danish Dumplings tastes just as good in the summer as it does in November.  I can't recall where I originally found this recipe.  I know that it was back in the 1970s though, and it was probably in some magazine.  It called for turnips and bay leaf and tomatoes, and that just didn't sound good to me. Also, I like a lot of parsley. So, of course, I altered it to my taste.  Let me know what you think.  And if you do celebrate in June, you'll have fresh parsley from the garden to use in it!

©2012 Kathy Striggow

Turkey Soup with Danish Dumplings



 

Ingredients                                       

1 meaty Turkey Carcass 
12 cups chicken stock  OR
12 cups water with 1/2 cup chicken broth base
1 large onion, chopped
4 stalks celery, sliced (2 cups)
2 medium parsnips, sliced or diced
2 medium carrots, sliced or diced
1/2 cup snipped parsley (or more to taste)
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 recipe Danish Dumplings

Directions

1.   In a large soup pot, combine carcass, water and chicken stock.  Bring to boil then simmer 1 1/2 hours, or until meat falls freely from the bones.  Place on a plate and allow to cool.
2.   When the turkey is cool enough to handle, remove meat from bones and set it aside, together with any juices that have drained.
3.   Add the onion, celery, parsnips and carrots to the stock.  Bring to a boil.
4.   Reduce the heat and simmer for 30-45 minutes or until the vegetables are tender.
5.   Return the meat to the broth. Taste to determine if the stock is properly seasoned.  If necessary, add additional stock (or dry stock base) and salt.
6.  Add the parsley and stir well to incorporate.
7.   Reduce the heat and simmer for another 15 minutes.  In the meantime, make the Danish Dumplings.
7.   Drop the dumpling dough by tablespoons on top of the bubbling soup.
8.   Cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Do not lift lid until 20 minutes have passed.  Remove from heat.
9.   Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 8-12.

Danish Dumplings:
1/2 cup water
1/4 cup butter
½  c. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/8 tsp. salt 
2 large eggs
2 Tbsp. snipped parsley

1.   In a medium saucepan combine water and margarine; bring to boil.
2.   Add flour, baking powder and salt all at once, stirring vigorously.
3.   Cook, stirring constantly until mixture forms a ball. Remove from heat and cool slightly.
4.   Add eggs, one at a time beating after each until smooth.
5.   Add parsley. Drop by tablespoons into bubbling soup. You should be able to make 12 dumplings of this size.  If you like smaller dumplings, use a teaspoon  instead of a tablespoon. 
 6.   Cover the pot and simmer for 20 minutes.  Then enjoy!

Grandma's Buchta (Coffeecake)©

  My Grandma Lasak instilled in me a love of being in the kitchen.  As the second of my parents’ four daughters, I was probably a typical middle child, competing for my parents' attention.  But  when I went to stay with my grandparents (which I did as much as my parents would let me), I was accorded the status of a princess.  My Grandparents treated me like I was their only grandchild; this was due to a number of factors that I won't go into here.  Suffice it to say that even at a very young age, I knew that they treasured me.  When you stepped through their front door, you were greeted by the heavenly aromas of yeast




pastries, garlic, chicken or veal roasting in the oven, and my Grandfather's shaving cream.  To this day, whenever I smell Barbasol®, I picture my Grandparents' bathroom with  Grandpa's shaving strap and straight razor hanging behind the door.  

I'm not proud to say that my Grandparents gave me anything I wanted, but that's how I remember it.  My Grandma, to me, was everything a grandma was supposed to be.  She was soft, and very affectionate, and I knew that I was special in their eyes, (not "Kathy, don't eat the Vaseline special", but unique).  I had no doubt that she loved me unconditionally and that whatever I did was all right by her.  I followed both my Grandpa and Grandma around the house trying to learn to do everything like they did.   Whether it was airing out the bedrooms every morning before remaking the beds (even in the dead of winter,) sweeping the floors, doing the laundry on the old wringer washing machine, ironing the sheets, pillowcases and underwear, or working in the garden, I took it all in.

 

Grandpa and Grandma had a fixed schedule that was never broken unless they were deathly ill. Wednesday was noodle or strudel making day.  Thursday was grocery shopping day.  Sunday was church and dinner with my parents and sisters.  Monday was always laundry and ironing day.  Grandma got up early on Monday morning, like she did every day.  She had a lot of work to accomplish before lunchtime.  When Grandpa left for work after breakfast, she would begin their dinner, and then she'd begin the laundry.  This was no small task because they still had a manual wringer washing machine. I remember she didn't use bleach, but rather bluing that made all their clothes beautifully white. (In case you're wondering, no, she never did use it on her hair like some of her friends did.)  Every piece of clothing had to go through the wringer, sometimes two or three times, to get all the water out.  They didn't have a dryer, so the clothes went out on the clothesline in the back yard to dry in the spring, summer and fall.  In the winter, Grandpa strung clothesline in the basement for Grandma to hang the clothes on.  Either way, by 11 a.m., the laundry was finished.  She would then either fold the items or sprinkle them with her sprinkling bottle (a warm water filled Coca Cola® bottle topped by a tight fitting metal cap that had holes poked through it), and place them in a wicker clothesbasket until ironing time.  It was time then for completing the final dinner preparations for their noon meal.  Every week day, my Grandfather walked home from the factory where he worked so he could eat the mid-day meal with Grandma.   

 

Dinner at Grandpa and Grandma's was a special event for me because they had their big meal mid-day, not in the evening like we did.   They had a beautiful garden in their back yard and, among other things, they grew parsley, parsnips, onions of several types, herbs, radishes, and several varieties of lettuces with peculiar names (deer tongue and oak leaf, for example).  The lettuces were tender and tasted wonderful, however.  They also grew carrots, beets, green beans, turnips, lima beans, peas, tomatoes, peppers (both hot and sweet) and garlic.  About 2 weeks after the ground thawed in the spring, Grandpa and Grandma would begin transplanting the seedlings that they had planted in February and March in egg cartons and kept under lights in their basement.  Grandpa and Grandma grew lots of garlic.  My Grandmother used a lot of garlic in her Moravian/Slavic cooking.  But they grew so much garlic that even she couldn't use it all.  There were two neighborhood food markets, not chains, within walking distance of their house. I used to go with Grandpa to sell the extra garlic to those markets.  He was their largest supplier of garlic in the summer and fall.

 

For dinner, they always had salad from the garden, and vegetables most likely from the garden. Grandpa and Grandma canned a lot of the produce from their garden, so they even had their garden produce in the winter. They also had meat, generally either chicken or veal with a gravy thickened with either sour cream or heavy cream, and dumplings, potatoes or what my Mother called rivulets.  It was not until I began taking a real interest in other ethnicities' foods that I realized that rivulets were the same as what the Germans call Späetzle, the Hungarians call Nokedli or Galuska, the Italians call Gnocchi, and the Polish call Halŭski.  Because Grandma always made her own noodles, they would almost always begin the meal with a small bowl of soup made from the stock of the meat she was preparing, vegetables and her noodles.  The meal almost always ended with a sweet pastry that my Grandma had baked the previous Saturday.  This might be a slice of poppy seed Buchta (we pronounced it Bouk-tee), Little Buchta which were stuffed with a plum filling, or Kolache (stuffed with a sweet mixture of dry cottage cheese, egg yolks, sugar and cream, or fruit filling).  Probably because I loved the poppy seed filling the best, I  remember most often having the Buchta. 

 

After Grandpa returned to work, I would willingly return to the feather bed to take my nap, and Grandma would do the ironing while she watched her stories on television. You have to remember that both my Grandparents were immigrants who didn't speak a lot of English.   Television was new to everyone in the early 1950s of course, and they thought it was a wonderful invention. They never really understood the entertainment industry, however.  For example, my Grandma would get visibly upset and cry during her stories, murmuring, "those poor, poor people."  I couldn't figure out how she got so wrapped up in the actors' crises.  It wasn't until many, many years later when my Grandfather went to live with my sister for the final years of his 105-year lifespan, that I learned that he and my Grandma thought the daytime soap operas depicted real-life situations, and that the people in them weren't actors, but real people, and real families, with real-life troubles.  Had they only suggested such a concept of "reality television" to television producers back then, they probably would have been millionaires.  They were way ahead of the concept's inception.  

 

I never thought to write down my Grandma's version of her recipes. When you're young, you just think your parents and grandparents will live forever, and that you'll enjoy the fruits of their labors ad infinitum.  My Grandma passed away when I was only 19 years old, and I remember thinking that those recipes were lost forever.  After all, my Mother never made them.  My Grandpa tried to mimick some of Grandma's culinary genius, but it just wasn't the same.  After I got married, and began gaining confidence in the kitchen, I decided I was going to try and duplicate what I remembered of my Grandmother's cooking.  Because my Grandma never used any type of standard measurement, or pre-packaged staples, and her cooking was a combination of Moravian and Slavic heritage, I have never been able to find recipes for her dishes.  Some are close, but not on the money.  That could  be because she added her own genius along the way.  But I have never tasted Kolache, or Sauerkraut, or Noodles, or Veal Birds like hers.  In fact, I've never even seen a recipe for Veal Birds.  The closest I've ever come to her Chicken Noodle Soup was on my first trip to Italy at age 48, almost thirty years after my Grandmother's death.  The second night we were in Rome, we ate in a Ristorante named Alfredo's where the house specialty was, you guessed it, Fettuccini Alfredo.  For my first course I ordered a chicken vegetable soup.  When I took my first bite, tears welled up in my eyes.  The flavor was the same.  The soup had the same taste, but it was without her straight-pin thin noodles.  The brain is a wonderful thing to have stored that flavor memory in me for so many years that I could recall its origin with one bite.  I had to fight back the tears as I slowly savored the soup.  I hoped that the bowl was bottomless and that the soup would go on forever. Alas, it did not. (For you inquiring minds out there, yes, I had the Fettuccini Alfredo as a second course.

 

I'm sharing my recipe for Buchta (Coffeecake) with you today.  I think this is probably my favorite of all her pastries.  It's not difficult at all to make.  Although the dough is a just a sweet yeast dough, it took me some time to find a comparable imitation.  My sister gave me her recipe for it, but she uses a potato based yeast dough, and my taste buds and memory don't quite equate it to Grandma's.  Grandma used to make her own filling from ground poppy seeds, egg yolks, sugar and a little milk.  I used to have a poppy seed grinder, but it got lost in one of the fifteen moves I've made since I got married.  So I just use the Solo® brand poppy seed filling.  I can't tell the difference. If you're not fond of a poppy seed filling, use cinnamon sugar instead.  It then becomes just a large cinnamon Coffeecake.  I hope you enjoy this taste of my Grandmother's cooking that I so loved.  I know she would be pleased!

©2012 Grandma's Buchta by Kathy Striggow (text)

Grandma Lasak's Buchta©   (Coffeecake)

 

Yield:  2 large Coffeecakes

Ingredients

4-1/2 tsps. active dry yeast (2 packages)

1/2 cup sugar

1 cup lukewarm water

1 cup butter or margarine (2 sticks), softened (not melted)

1 large egg

1 cup warm milk

6 cups all-purpose flour (approximately)
1-1/2 teaspoons salt

2-3 large eggs lightly beaten, combined with 2 Tbsp. water for eggwash

2 cans Solo® poppy seed filling OR approximately 1 c. cinnamon-sugar blend

Melted butter for brushing tops of coffeecakes

  

Directions 

1. Using an electric mixer with a dough hook, combine the yeast, sugar and lukewarm water and mix on low for 2 minutes to dissolve the yeast.
2. Add butter, egg and warm milk, increase speed to medium and mix for 2 minutes, scraping sides of bowl with rubber scraper.
3. Add 3 cups of the flour and the salt. With the mixer on low, mix until the dough starts to come together.
4. Continue gradually adding the remaining flour and when it appears the dough is soft and coming together, increase the mixer speed to medium-high and mix until the dough comes away from the sides of the bowl and crawls up the dough hook.
5. Continue mixing on medium high for about 10 minutes (to knead the dough), until the dough is smooth and elastic.
6. Shape the dough into a ball and place in large bowl that has been greased with 1 Tbsp. vegetable oil or butter, turning the dough over once so that top of dough ball is greased. Cover loosely with a lightweight, dampened towel or plastic wrap and let the dough rise in a warm place (80 to 85 degrees F.)¹, until doubled--about 1-1/2 to 2 hours. (Dough is doubled when 2 fingers pressed into the center of the dough leaves indentations.)
7. Punch down the dough by pushing in the center of the dough with your fist, then folding the edges of the dough into the center.
8. Turn dough onto lightly floured surface; knead lightly to make smooth ball.
9. Divide the dough into two equal sized balls and cover each with a bowl. Let the dough rest for about 15 minutes.
10. Preheat the oven to 400° F. Butter the bottom and sides of 2 bundt or angel food cake pans, or spray them with non-stick baking spray.
11. On a lightly floured surface with a floured rolling pin, roll one of the balls of dough into a rectangle about 12 in. x 15 in. and 1/2 in. thick. Gently poke your fingers into (not through) the dough to make indentations.
12. Brush the egg wash onto the top of the dough. Make sure you extend the egg wash to each end of the rectangle. Liberally spread the poppy seed (or cinnamon sugar) filling over the egg, making sure to cover all the indentations. Use one can of poppy seed filling for each Coffeecake.
13. Starting at the long side of the rectangle, roll the dough topped with filling into a log, tucking the ends in tight. Place the log around the center of one of the buttered or sprayed bundt or angel food cake pans and pinch the ends of the dough together to seal the seam.
14. Cover the pan with a lightweight dampened towel. Repeat the process with the other dough ball. Place the pans in a warm place for about 45-50 minutes, or until the dough has doubled.
15. Gently brush the tops with melted butter.
16. Bake the Coffeecakes for about 30-40 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown and they smell like they are done. (You will get to know the smell of yeast dough when it is finished baking).
17. Remove from the oven and place on cooling racks. Brush melted butter over the tops.
18. Wait for about 10-15 minutes before removing the Coffeecakes from the pans and onto the cooling racks.
19. Cool completely before serving or storing. Top with confectioners' sugar before serving.
20. Store in tightly sealed containers. You can freeze them for serving at a later date, but they are best served fresh.

¹Before I even pull out my mixer, I begin the preparations for a nice incubator environment for my yeast dough. I heat the oven to 170° F., and as soon as it reaches that temperature, I turn it off. I then stand the door open slightly. I mix together my dough, then check the oven temperature. It should be warm, but not hot, I check the rack where I am putting the dough to raise. It should be warm--NOT hot. I place a doubled kitchen towel on the rack and place the covered bowl on top of the towel. Then I close the door. The dough has a nice, warm little house in which to do its magic. If I already have something in the oven and I'm doing laundry, I place the bowl in the laundry room and close the door. The humidity from the washer and the heat from the dryer make a cozy environment for my dough. (Just don't place the
bowl on top of the washer or dryer as it's liable to take a tumble!)

 

©2010,2012 Grandma's Buchta by Kathy Striggow 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Praline Bottom Pumpkin Pie©

The first year I was married, we were spending Thanksgiving with my husband's family.  I offered to make the pumpkin pies since I thought the recipe looked fairly easy if you could get past the pie crust (which I figured I'd buy).  The filling looked like it would be difficult to screw up.   The recipe called for evaporated milk, and of course you had to have whipped cream for garnish.  I didn't have evaporated milk like the recipe called for, and I didn't have whipped cream, so I sent my husband to the store the night before to pick up both for me.  He came home with only half and half instead, thinking I could kill two birds with one stone.  As little as I knew about cooking, he was not a cook at all--remember, this was the early 1970s and back then most men weren't comfortable in the kitchen, at least in my experience.  His domain was the grill, but that was about it.  He would surprise me once in a while on Sunday mornings with bacon, potatoes and eggs which he cooked all in one pan. It was a surprise all right. He never drained the bacon grease from the pan before adding the eggs and potatoes.  He covered the entire concoction with ketchup, so I don't think he noticed all the grease.  Needless to say, it wasn't a real favorite of mine (but I never told him.  I appreciated the fact that I didn't have to fix breakfast, and that he was at least trying to cook.  I'm sure he granted me the same courtesy for some of the first meals I'd prepared).

Lest I digress and go on about newly married courtesies, or breakfast foods (I'll save that for another day), let me say that at first I was upset and worried that the pies wouldn't turn out.  Back then, I had a very low anxiety trigger and I tried not to panic (reference the "Easter Eggs" post). I wasn't too worried about the whipped cream because we could stop at the store the next day and pick some up on our way to the in-laws.  I knew half and half wouldn't whip, BUT, I thought, maybe I could use it in the filling.  I wasn't really sure what evaporated milk was at that time, but it always looked funny to me; it was kind of yellowish, and I remembered it smelled tinny and weird.  I knew what half and half was.  Remember, I had a grandmother that taught me to love all products made from cream [she buttered both sides of my toast, pancakes, french toast, etc.  :-) ] . When I tasted the custard after adding the half and half, I knew it was probably better than it would have been with evaporated milk. It tasted fresh instead of having that tinny taste from the evaporated milk.  And it was creamy (always a good thing).  It was good enough to pour in a glass and drink. 

I've used half and half ever since (or sometimes whole cream when I'm in a very nostalgic mood and missing my grandma--don't tell anyone)!   I think it makes a wonderful filling.   And I've always made it with just brown sugar instead of half granulated and half brown; I think it gives it a fuller flavor.  I've never used cloves like the recipe called for.  For those first pies 40 years ago, I didn't have any cloves on my new bride's spice shelf.  But I did have nutmeg, so I substituted nutmeg for the cloves, and because I liked the flavor so much,  I've never even tried adding cloves.  Fresh nutmeg definitely makes a difference, too.  My husband's family loved the pies, and it was just assumed after that that I would make the pies for every Thanksgiving Dinner.  In fact, my brother-in-law, who is a chef and has owned restaurants all over the country, included my reworked recipe on his menus under the offering, "Sis's Pumpkin Pie."   After that first experience, I also started making my own pumpkin from pie pumpkins.  (I obviously had a lot of time on my hands and I had visions of becoming a Martha Stewart.  Of course, I didn't even know who Martha Stewart was back then.)

What started out as what I thought was going to be a disaster, taught me a very important lesson.  I had good instincts about recipes and food.  I could imagine what the substitutions would taste like.  I didn't have to follow a recipe to the letter.  I could create my own version.  This is the only pumpkin pie I've made for 40 years.  I can't tell you how many times I've been asked to share the recipe. The praline bottom gives you the taste of pecan pie without all the sugar and richness of pecan pie.  Because I believe that good recipes should be shared, I'm posting it here.  You can either put in the praline bottom or not; it's wonderful either way. And don't think you have to put it in a crust.  If you don't want the heaviness of pie crust, simply make the praline bottom in either a casserole dish or individual ramekins, top with the pumpkin custard and adjust the baking time.    Either way, I hope you enjoy it as much as my family does.


Praline Bottom Pumpkin Pie ©

Prep Time:  15 min.

Cooking Time:  55 min.                     
Yield:  8 servings

Ingredients:

**1 unbaked 9 or 10-inch pie shell

For Praline Bottom

1/3 c. chopped pecans
1/3 c. brown sugar
2 Tbsp. softened butter

For Pie Filling
2 large eggs (make sure they're large, the last time I purchased "large" eggs they were more like medium-small--personally I prefer "Jumbo" which are now what used to be "large")
¾- 1 c. brown sugar (depending on how sweet you want it)
1 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. ground nutmeg (freshly ground is best)
1 Tbsp. flour
1 can (15 or 15-1/2 or 14-1/2) pumpkin
14 oz. half and half

For Garnish (optional) 
Whipped cream, Chopped pecans

Directions

Heat oven to 425° F.

For  Praline Bottom:

Mix together ground pecans and brown sugar.  Blend in softened butter.  Gently press the praline mixture into the bottom of the pie crust.  Place on middle rack of oven and Bake for 10 minutes or until the praline is bubbling but not hardened.  Remove from oven and place on rack to cool slightly.

While praline bottom is baking, Beat eggs in large bowl until light and fluffy.  Add sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger, nutmeg, and flour. Mix until sugar and spices are incorporated into the eggs.  Stir in the pumpkin.  Gradually Add the half and half.  Pour into the praline bottomed pie shell.

BAKE in preheated 350°F oven for 40 to 50 minutes or until knife inserted near center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack for 2 hours. Serve immediately or refrigerate. Top with whipped cream and/or pecans, if desired before serving.  ENJOY! 

 

** If you don’t want to make this recipe as a pie (for your gluten free friends), just follow the same directions except omit the crust and the flour in the filling.  Bake in a casserole dish or individual ramekins.  Baking time will be reduced to about 5-7 min. for the praline, and 20-25 min for the pumpkin custard in a casserole dish, 15 min if you bake it in ramekins.

©1972, 2012 Praline Bottom Pumpkin Pie by Kathy Striggow
©2012 by Kathy Striggow

How to Boil an Egg©

I couldn't cook to save my life when I got married. And since I went straight from my childhood home into marriage, I didn't have a chance to experiment by being on my own and having to cook for myself. One of my earliest experiences as a home cook happened the day before my first Easter as a married woman.

My husband and I married on a carefully planned date in mid-March (between the end of college basketball season and the opening day of the professional baseball season), and Easter was only about two weeks after the wedding. I thought it would be a nice surprise for my husband if I made eggs for us to color for our first Easter together.  So while I was at the grocery store the week before Easter I purchased about 3 dozen eggs. After my husband left for work that Saturday afternoon, I placed the eggs in a dutch oven, covered them with water, set them on the burner and turned the stove to "hot" as I had seen my mother do countless times.

Not long after the water began steaming, I heard these high pitched noises coming from the pot. I wasn't sure, but I thought they sounded like peeps. I picked up the lid and saw there was nothing in the pot except eggs and water, as I expected. (I probably didn't even salt the water as I would do now, of course.)  I put the lid back down on the pot and the chirping noise continued. And it was getting louder.  I looked in the pot again; nothing there but eggs and water.  Now I was beginning to worry.  My mind was racing for an explanation, all the while conscious that the water was continuing to increase in temperature. Could the farmer who sold the eggs to the grocery store actually have put eggs in the cartons that were ready to hatch, instead of unfertilized eggs?

I called my mother. Of course, she wasn't home; and since my father had never boiled an egg, he couldn't explain the noise. By this time I had taken the eggs off the heat because I didn't want the responsibility for the homicide of 3 dozen baby chicks on my head. I looked back in the pan. The water was still steaming. And I still heard peeping. Maybe it wasn't too late. I had to make a hasty decision. I couldn't stand the thought of having our family cracking those eggs open on Easter Sunday and finding dead baby chicks. So, I thought I'd just chalk this up to experience and make sure the next time I bought eggs, they weren't directly from a farmer. I decided to cut my losses. I drained the eggs and wrapped them carefully in newspaper.  I placed the package inside a brown grocery bag and carefully folded down the top, stapled it together and placed the bag into a cardboard box. Snug and soft. I carried the box out to the trash and laid it gently inside the dumpster. At least they were given a decent burial. I didn't think it would look good to the neighbors if I started digging up the back yard to bury the box. Besides, I didn't have a shovel and the ground was still frozen from the cold winter we'd just had.

I put my coat on, grabbed the car keys and left for the grocery store. Back then (in the early 1970s), eggs were only about 39 cents a dozen, so I wasn't being extravagant by disposing of those other eggs and starting over. As I drove to the store, my over-active imagination thought of endless possibilities with those eggs. What if I'd left them in the refrigerator and not made boiled eggs that day? Would they have hatched? What would I do with 3 dozen baby chicks? What would I tell my husband? He didn't even want a dog. Our apartment wasn't big enough for the two of us, let alone 3 dozen baby chicks. Certainly there was a different shipment of eggs at the grocery store than the ones I'd purchased a few days before. Or so I hoped. I hedged my bets and instead I went to a different grocery store where I carefully checked out the egg distributors. Some were the same, but some were different. I picked up 3 dozen eggs in styrofoam containers that looked like they came directly from a factory and not some farmer's chicken coop. I also checked the date on the carton to make sure that the eggs weren't too fresh. I wanted to be certain that if I decided not to boil all the eggs and left some in the refrigerator, they were already past their hatching time.

I got home and again put the eggs into the dutch oven, covered them with water and put the pot on to boil (still no salt). About 7 minutes into the process I heard, "peep, peep, peep." This couldn't be happening. Did anyone check eggs to make sure they weren't fertilized before they placed them in the refrigerated section at the store? What did I do now? What should have been a half an hour process was now going on 3 hours. I looked into the pot. Eggs and water. More peeping. Finally, I decided I had to find out if it was normal. But who would I call? Certainly not the police. I was pretty sure there wasn't any statute or local ordinance against chick killing. But maybe it did qualify as cruelty to animals. Did farm animals count the same as domesticated animals for those laws? I wasn't aware of any PETA groups protecting chicks. How about the Humane Society? I never heard of anyone adopting baby chicks from the Humane Society. I didn’t know where to find that out. Remember, at that time there was no internet, Ask.com or other source for instantaneously obtaining obscure information. And time was of the essence here.

I was sure the police would think I was either silly or stupid if I called them. But maybe they didn't grow up on farms and they didn't know either. I then thought of someone who did grow up on a farm, and was probably one of the best cooks I'd ever known. But because I was hesitant to call that source directly, I decided to call her son. He hated it when I interrupted him at work, but I knew I had no other choice. I wasn't going to make a fool out of myself by calling my mother-in-law of only two weeks and reporting "peeping" eggs. Surely she'd think I was a dolt, thereby giving her proof that I really was as inept in the kitchen as she probably thought I was. So, I called my husband. Forget the surprise of coloring eggs. I was afraid I was killing chicks. This was surely an important reason for interrupting him at work. He didn't laugh at me (a wise decision for a new husband), and he listened calmly as I related to him, rather frantically I'm sure, the saga of the peeping eggs.

By that time, I had removed the eggs from the burner again (just in case). He didn't answer me immediately, so I closely examined the eggs again. Finally, he said that maybe the peeping sound was normal. He suggested that perhaps because the eggshells were porous, the hot water expanded the pores in the shells thereby letting air escape which created the hissing sound. Thus, the peeping noise.  I still wasn't sure, but I thanked him, took a deep breath and put the pot back on the burner. I turned the water back on, this time with the lid off, and watched as the water reheated. Sure enough, there were little bubbles coming out of the shells. And though I couldn't be sure, I thought the sound coincided with the continuous bubbles escaping through the shells.

Our Easter eggs that year were more than a little overdone. Yes, there was a gray-green ring around the yolks. In fact as I remember it, I'd say there was more gray-green to the yolks than yellow. Probably that action of putting on the heat, taking off the heat, putting back on the heat didn't help.  I have since learned how to make the "perfect" hard boiled egg. And I still make eggs for coloring at Easter time. But it's not nearly as exciting as that first experience. I still can't make hard boiled eggs without hearing that "peeping" noise and envisioning those baby chicks trying to escape. At least that's how I see it!

©2012 How to Boil an Egg by Kathy Striggow

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

The Perfect Boiled Eggs

Yield: 6 soft- or hard-boiled eggs

Preparation Time (includes cooking and cooling time): Appx. 9 minutes for soft-boiled, 14 minutes for hard-boiled

Ingredients

6 Large Eggs,with no cracks in the shells¹
1-1/2 tsp. salt

The Perfect Soft-Boiled Egg

Directions

1.  Place the eggs carefully in a small saucepan and cover with cold water². Water should be at least one-inch higher than the eggs.

2.   Add salt to the pan and cover.

3.   Over high heat, bring the water to a boil.

4.   Once the water has reached the boiling point, turn off the heat but leave pan on the burner for one minute.

5.   After one minute has elapsed, remove the pan from the burner and set aside, keeping the pan covered.

6.   Let the sit untouched for the following times depending on the level of doneness you want your eggs:

Five minutes for soft-boiled eggs and

Ten Minutes for hard-boiled eggs

 

7.  Keeping the eggs in the pan, drain off the hot water and cover the eggs completely with cold water and ice cubes. (Fill pan to the top with ice cubes and run cold water over the top until the pan is filled.)

8. Replace ice as necessary to keep water ice cold.

9. When the eggs are completely cooled, remove them from the pan and dry them.

10. When the eggs are completely cooled, remove them from the pan and dry them with paper towels.

11. If you are using immedicately, peel and use them, or store them in an air-tight container and place in the refrigerator.

¹Older eggs make the best hard-boiled eggs as the whites separate from the shells easier when peeling.
²Always start the eggs in cold water. Do not place the raw eggs into boiling water as the yolk and the white will not cook evenly.

©2012 The Cook in Me: How to Boil an Egg by Kathy Striggow
 


 

 

Welcome to The Cook in Me©

I created this blog to document and share with my grandchildren and friends some of the recipes I've created over the past 40 years. I'm kind of thinking of it as my cooking legacy to my family.  I've found that with every good recipe, there is a story.  I want to share those stories too.  I know that my grandchildren, and probably even my children, are unaware of  these stories.  They're just something you don't think to share unless the need arises.  I hope that some of you readers (if there are any readers) will share some of your stories with me.  All of life's stories tell us something about ourselves. One of the most important things I've learned during my life, through the good experiences and the not-so-good ones, is that I cannot survive without a sense of humor.   Some of my best stories today happened at a time when I thought I was in the middle of a catastrophic event.  There I was at the time, clutching the pearls, thinking that there was no way out of a crisis situation, when in fact it's the humorous side of the incident that I always remember.  It's better to recall the humor in the story, than to relive the fear and anxiety that the circumstances elicited.  I'm sure it prolongs your life.

Sometimes I think I missed my calling and should have embarked on a career that I knew I would love.  That would have been cooking or writing.   But being a single mom with two elementary school boys was not conducive to the hours that a culinary career or free lance writer career requires. And I didn't think I would be able to financially support my family as an apprentice chef. I didn't think, I KNEW I wouldn't be able to support my boys as a writer.  I wasn't actually sure I could write well.  And I didn't have the time to find out.  So I opted for an entirely different profession.  But I love to cook, and I love to write, and I knew I could still do both while pursuing  gainful employment.   I believe cooking is one of the ways that even we emotionally guarded, seemingly uninspired people can express love and artistic creativity.  I love entertaining family and friends.  I love making a knock out meal for friends, family, and even strangers.   To me, there is nothing more satisfying.  I don't care if I eat it or not.  That's not where the satisfaction lies.  It's in the process.  Once I  had a dinner party for a few friends when I was on an all liquid diet.  It didn't faze me at all.  They probably thought I was crazy, but they wouldn't be the first ones.  They enjoyed the meal, though!

I'm creating this blog at this time of year because the holidays evoke such wonderful memories, many of which are related to, or accompanied by food. I know that we all have our traditional holiday meals.  But if you're like I am, there's always something new and different to try--not better, just different.  I learned to cook from my GrandmaLasak (my mother's mother).  I also married into a family with two wonderful cooks from which I greatly benefited by observation:  my husband's maternal grandmother (Annie Myers), and my mother-in-law (Alma). My grandmother was from what is now the Czech Republic. She was actually either Moravian or Slavic. She immigrated to this country in the early 1920s when she was a young woman. I had to watch her closely to learn her foods. None of her recipes were written on paper, and when she said a cup of flour, she meant a heaping cup in one of her coffee mugs (probably about 12 oz.). I learned to make bread and pastries by watching her knead the dough for what seemed like hours. I can't knead a loaf of bread today without thinking of her. And the simple aroma of yeast dough immediately evokes Saturday morning memories.


Every Saturday morning she awakened about 4 a.m. in order to make her bread and pastries. They had to be ready before she and my grandpa went to the farmer's market to buy the chicken grandpa would slaughter for Sunday dinner. And oh, the pastries. I would be sleeping in the feather bed, tightly tucked beneath the feather comforter with my head on the goose down pillow, and by 7 a.m., the heavenly aroma of yeast pastries wafted under my door and tickled my taste buds. What a breakfast I would have! Buchta, little buchta, kolachke, breads, noodles as thin as a straight pin. If it was a Moravian or Slavic, she made it expertly. Whether it was stuffed with poppy seed or plum fillings, covered in powdered sugar (angel wings), or sugared with cinnamon, it was on that table every Saturday morning. My grandmother passed away when I was only 19 years ago. I regret that I didn't pay closer attention during my teenage years because I would give anything today to be able to replicate my grandmother's cooking. I've searched through cookbook after cookbook, but those recipes of hers, whether in reality or just in my own mind, aren't there.

Unfortunately, my mother did not embrace her heritage. As a child, her parents spoke only Czech at home, and my mother primarily learned English at school. She was taunted by classmates because they thought she was Polish (the similarities in Eastern European dialects are sometimes hard to identify to the untrained ear), and apparently in Northwest Ohio pre-World War II, the poles were not highly regarded. My father also didn't embrace my mother's heritage. His mother was also a good cook, and my father wanted my mother to cook like his mother. Consequently, mom did not make the wonderful ethnic dishes that my grandmother did. I loved my mother, but as cooking goes, she was a plain cook. She didn't like to use spices. She didn't try new things--dad didn't like it. We had wonderful times around the dinner table however, despite what the meal was--meatloaf, pork chops, ham and bean soup, and the standard Sunday dinner meal--pot roast. I have many stories that revolve around spaghetti & meatballs, or cook outs, and I'm sure we'll hit on those.

So, sit back, grab a cup of coffee, and plan to peruse my life as a cook.  If anything strikes you as familiar, or evokes a memory, please let me hear from you.  I'd love to hear your stories.

©2012 by Kathy Striggow