Mom's Chicken-Fried Pork Chops

     I call these Mom's - probably every baby boomer whose mother used the Betty Crocker Cookbook had them the same way. They are one of the only meats that I actually fry (unless you call bologna a meat!), preferring less fatty ways of cooking. Dipped in an egg/milk mixture and then in seasoned cracker crumbs, the chops are browned in hot oil till they are crispy and golden on both sides. Serving them with fresh steamed brocolli redeems the nutritional value of the meal a bit, and a small slice of homemade oatmeal bread completes one of Pop's favorite dinners.

Tale of the Powdered Floor

     The tale of the powdered floor has been stored away for a generation or more; my sisters and I have chuckled about it once or twice but we always suppose it has no significance to anyone else. And, of course, we are wrong.


     On this Sunday, the first in January to follow the holiday season, I am visiting my mother, who still lives in the large house where I spent my childhood. My granddaughter has accompanied me on this occasion to help carry boxes of Christmas decorations up the stairs to the second story and into the attic over the garage. She is seven years old and curious, having no notion of the nuances of an attic; therefore the girl who loves scary movies and delights in hide-n-seek, is anxious to do some exploring. But she doesn’t like the cobwebs or the chilly air, and when we are finished and the small door (which is just her size!) is firmly shut against the dimness, the dusty boxes and old luggage, she wants to investigate the rest of the upper story.
      I tell her the dormered bedroom to the left of the stairs belonged to my older brother, who had his own room as a result of being the only boy for so long. The access door to the attic is in this small room but usually hidden behind a chest of drawers. (Brother was playing with matches one day and accidentally burned a hole in his throw rug. He rolled up the rug and shoved it in the attic, hoping against really bad odds that no one would notice). Directly across the square landing from Brother’s, is another small dormered room where my grandmother slept. She was a widow who lived with us for many years and was a working woman before it was fashionable for a lady to have a career. (On more than one morning, Grandmother would call us to her room in a firm but slightly frantic manner, where she would be sitting on top of the bed with her feet drawn up off the floor. Our gerbils would escape their cage, find refuge in Grandmother’s closet, and a roundup would ensue).


     The last door off the landing opens to a large, light filled room that spans the back of the house and has four windows overlooking the backyard. To the right is a bathroom and a large walk-in closet (built at a time when walk-in closets weren’t the norm yet either). At the other end is also a closet, but one that had been the envy of all our small friends – a child could crawl under the hanging clothes and emerge in a closet that led into Brother’s room as well. It was, at various times, a hideout or a quick getaway. But best of all, with the lower shelf emptied of paraphernalia, and then outfitted with a desk lamp and a long extension cord, it became a secret clubhouse where we sat on the floor and crayoned in coloring books, drew pictures of horses or did homework.

     Granddaughter is politely interested in my narrative but the only story she really likes, of course, is the tale of the powdered floor. Now covered with plush carpeting, the original linoleum tile of the big bedroom was smooth enough but when sprinkled with a little talcum powder became a sort of skating rink, a place for limber skinny bodies to slip and slide on stockinged feet. Great fun until Grandmother, who was neither skinny nor limber, made a midnight visit to the bathroom and slipslided onto her backside.


     As Granddaughter and I tour this house of memories, I become nostalgic. Not for childhood innocence or teenage thrills but for some object or material thing. The big bedroom holds no trace of the little girls that played and worked, slept and scrapped through those years...no hairless teddy bear or baby dolls …no Nancy Drew book or box of carefully sharpened crayons...no saddle shoes or knee socks...no fountain pens or book bags piled on the small desk (now even the desk is gone). My eyes sweep over that bedroom that now assumes the role of a den, and observe the matching brocade love seats that face a small television, replacing the three twin beds of some indeterminate blond wood, and I note the venetian blinds blocking out the sunny view that was once framed by pairs of worn but frilly yellow cotton curtains.

     A silent sigh escapes me but Granddaughter notices. She grins and remarks that things must have been really different “back then”. I agree with her, musing that it wasn’t actually that long ago, and as I see the precocious twinkle in her eye and take her hand, I realize that this day will become a part of her own “back then”.

2008

Pantry Between-the-Studs

     Our ranch house, built in 1959, has a spacious feel due to the soaring vaulted ceilings, large open entry and big windows. It is, however, sorely lacking in closet/storage space on the main level, especially in the kitchen. Being an avid from-scratch cook, I keep stock of several types of vinegars, oils, flours, sugars. Canned goods and small tubs of extra beans, rice and nuts are stockpiled on sturdy shelves in the basement laundry room (this area doubles as storage for a small supply of natural disaster survival staples such as water, paper supplies, pet food, etc.) The kitchen's food storage situation is haphazard at best: a couple of small cabinet shelves, and an island for everyday essentials.At the very least, I can boast a large well-organized spice drawer!

     The last storage area is wall space grabbed from the basement stairway just off the kitchen - an ugly wire shelf mounted with clips. It has served its purpose but not very gracefully. I have long wanted to replace it and finally found an idea that appealed and actually opened up the stairwell by a few inches: between-the-studs shelving.

     So we began knocking out drywall, which was scary at first but after a bit we got braver and finished with a nice sized opening in which to place our shelves. After measuring, we visited the home improvement store and bought some lengths of durable but pretty poplar (Pop laughs at my descriptions of utilitarian wood), brads, and shelf clips. I measured and marked, Pop sawed and then I assembled, drilled shelf holes and painted - this was fun stuff!

     Putting the shelf boxes in place was a joint effort; the far one went in quite easily but the near one did not. My fault - I had measured the width between the studs close to the bottom and did not figure that it might be different at the top. Well it was - narrower by half an inch!@# Oh well, nothing for it but to disassemble that side of the box, cut the frame and the backing, and then nail it all back together again. Lesson learned!

     Pop used a nail gun to attach the boxes to the studs; I think he found this task highly entertaining - he loves wielding that tool! We were pleased as punch with the way things were looking (and that the drafty hole in the wall was mostly covered). The vodka bottle was kept handy because it was, ahem, essential for placing the lower shelves at the correct height.

     Here is a close up of the wires we encountered and how we dealt with that obstacle. It was simple to just construct that box a little narrower and use shims to hold it in place, thereby keeping the wires unobstructed and safely enclosed.

     The next step was cutting and assembling the face frame.  After considering some type of milled molding, we decided a clean flat surface was more appropriate, so the choice was 2 1/2 inch poplar for the outside and 3 1/2 inch for the vertical center piece. This photo shows a different angle - looking up the stairway.
















     The final step was placing the shelves. These were lengths cut from an old cd tower and after seeing how they looked in their natural wood finish, I decided not to paint them white. Actually the look mimics the kitchen island, which is white with a butcher-block top.

     And with the stocking of the shelves, we reach the end of our project and couldn't be more pleased. Now we are anxious to start another! 

                                          

 Mayhap now we need a shot of that American Honey to toast our hard work...

Roast Beef Nachos...and a Beer

     Football Sundays are in full swing at our house and on the last few balmy days of autumn (of which we have had quite a few this year!), Pop enjoys the televised games on the screened-in porch. Sometimes I will join him for awhile and almost always we have lunch there on our laps. Finger food is the easiest option; a favorite is nachos, but yesterday I changed things up a bit and instead of the usual ground beef, I chopped up some leftover chuck roast, which was heated in a few spoonfuls of beef broth. Tortilla chips were spread an a platter with the beef scattered atop and then  sprinkled with lots of cheddar and monterey cheese. After a quick spin in the microwave, the nachos were served with small side bowls of sour cream and salsa. Oh, plus several napkins and a beer!

Tim & Lydia's Pumpkin Patch

     Neighbor Tim and his children planted a couple of pumpkin seeds in the spring. The vines refused to be confined to a garden and crept into the front yard, overtaking a good third of the lawn. Now the growing season has reached an end and the last pumpkins need to be picked, the massive vines removed and the grass restored to suburban orderliness. (Surprisingly, the zoysia underneath survived unscathed and the only facelift needed was  a quick trim with a mower!)

     Lydia may be tiny yet but she is not afraid of work and she is quite proud of her harvest. She is also cute as a button!