Every year, my grandmother sent us a package for Christmas. An old-school, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string package.
Inside were two things. One was the very fruitcake that every Christmas fruitcake joke is based on. She’d baked it, wrapped it in cotton fabric, and continually drenched it in some type of alcohol for months. It was so full of hooch it made the mailman drunk just delivering it. 
When Dad unwrapped that bandaged baked good, my mom, two brothers, and I eyed it like it was a coiled rattlesnake or a six-car pile-up. It frightened and upset us, but held over us a primal fascination, and we couldn’t look away. If that stuff had been weaponized, and the Russians knew about it, the cold war would have been won by the USA in the mid-sixties.
The second item in the box was a large coffee can. Inside was something that our family literally fought over. Each time somebody walked into the kitchen, they’d walk out munching, and the rest of us would grumble and quickly find a reason to go in there ourselves and exit munching.
In that Maxwell House can was my grandmother’s scrabble.
No…Yes
Granny had her own vocabulary. She called pimples. “hickeys”. One didn’t brush their teeth, they cleaned them. Her word for posterior was bum. A crick is a creek. And, scrabble was Chex mix.
Her stuff was addictive. When the can was empty we’d run our fingers around it and lick them—or at least I did. She used Cheerios and All Bran in addition to Chex cereal, peanuts, and pretzels. Then she made a seasoned butter that tied everything together in savory, garlicky succulence.
I never thought to get her recipe for the butter, so I make my own version. I leave out the All Bran and use deluxe mixed nuts from the Peanut Roaster in Henderson. It’s not the same as the scrabble that came in the mail, sealed up in coffee cans, but like hers, it’s pretty hard to keep one’s fingers out of it.
Granny-inspired Scrabble
1-10 ounce can fancy mixed nuts
Rice Chex
Corn Chex
Cheerios
Gluten-free pretzels
Butter Sauce:
12 ounces butter (1 ½ sticks)
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 ½ teaspoons mushroom soy (or other very thick flavorful soy)
1 ½ teaspoons Goya adobo seasoning blend-bitter orange flavor
½ teaspoon garlic powder
¼ teaspoon smoked sweet paprika
Dash of cayenne or hot sauce (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 275. Place inside oven two large rimmed baking sheets.
Empty nuts into large bowl. Using the empty nut cup, measure out the next four ingredients, plus an extra ½ of the cup of your favorite ingredient (mine’s rice chex).
Melt butter on medium-low and whisk in rest of sauce ingredients except salt & pepper. Pour over nut/cereal mixture. Very gently, fold to coat, then taste for seasoning. Add salt & pepper as needed.
Pour mixture into pans, half in each. Carefully stirring every 15 minutes, bake for 45-60 minutes until browned and toasty.
Let cool and store in airtight container or zip-top bags for up to three weeks. Makes about eight cups.
A few variations: add different nuts or cereal. Make the butter, adding minced sundried tomatoes, let it cool to softened butter stage, then put it into a piece of plastic wrap, roll into neat log and refrigerate. This flavored butter can be used on meat, pasta, or with some Parmesan cheese grated on top, delicious garlic bread.
The cereal mix is perfect for game day.
So, get off your bum, throw those boring chips into the crick, and make some scrabble.
Thanks for your time.
Hello.
Take care, and thanks for your time.
The horse originally belonged to Hank Hitch, the angriest kid I have ever, ever known. If 1 is totally emotionless, and 10 is running around, shrieking, and tearing your hair out in rage, Hank got out of bed every morning at about an 8.5.
He and his family lived in Puerto Rico when we did, on the same base. His dad ran the base exchange; it’s a military general store. Everything from perfume to bicycles. When they moved there, they joined the on-base ranch, Lazy R, and got a couple of horses for the kids.
Rufus was a run of the mill buckskin. That’s a horse with a blond-ish body and a black mane. The thing was, though, Rufus was kind of a jerk..jpg?ver=2017-06-21-123040-550)
One morning our little base, our Mayberry with palm trees woke to an exciting scandal.
Homer had bought Bud and me a couple of sodas, so Mom decided, as a joke, to pay back the $1 by buying him a raffle ticket for Rufus.
A couple of times a year local youth would come to Lazy R in the middle of the night and take seven or eight horses. It was the equine equivalent of a joy ride.
In a day or so, a message would come that our horses had been found safe, and for a small finder’s fee they would be returned. The fee was a ten spot, six-pack, or a carton of smokes (remember, this was the seventies). It was a game, the horses were never harmed, and everybody involved kind of enjoyed it. A little innocent skullduggery to break up the day.
It was unprecedented. But ranch members knew the temperament of the beast, and completely understood his choice.
Thanks for your time.
Well, inside of this person (me) is a three-year-old who flat-out hates to wait. Who wants to know when it’ll be over. Who thinks this is stupid and it’s gonna take forever. Who don’t wanna…Who’s done and will now sit and pout and probably cry dramatically.
My mom used to order one of those honey-glazed, spiral-sliced, straight from central casting holiday hams. They were gorgeous, and delicious.
They cost about a thousand dollars per pound. And, Jason had an easier time getting his mitts on the golden fleece. The hams must be pre-ordered in advance. The stores are usually at some random strip mall in the middle of nowhere. 
And pickup is its very own circle of hell. I’ve seen the lines. They are so long that while in it, time moves in reverse. Folks at the head of the line check the time by glancing at their phones. In the middle of the line, they rely on sun dials. At the back of the line, time frightens and confuses them, and they entreat the sun to ensure a good harvest.
That little impatient three-year-old inside me just couldn’t let my mother subject herself to that porky purgatory one more time.
So, I am now the family pig preparer. Each year I make a different flavored glaze, then crust it with chopped nuts that go, flavor-wise. This year it’s watermelon rind preserves and pistachios.
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But we always have a ton left after the holiday meal. And everybody’s got their favorite ham dish.
Refrigerate for at least an hour, then serve on bread, or use as a dip for crackers or crostini.
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Make three-part dredge. Put seasoned flour in one vessel, beaten eggs and milk in another, and Panko in a third.
The Kid?
Thanks for your time.
It will come as no surprise to a student of the human mind, or frankly, anybody with a lick of sense, my view of Christmas was informed by the first one I remember.
That earliest Christmas memory, when I was five or six, was spent on the couch. I had pneumonia, and just enough energy to observe. My holiday was whatever went on around me. I had a Disney Christmas anthology book and many seasonal Little Golden Books, including my favorite, “The Night Before Christmas”.
I watched all the Rankin/Bass shows of Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, and the Island of Misfit Toys. And of course, Charlie Brown’s Christmas. The Peanuts gave me an appreciation for jazz, in the form of the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and the beautiful, majestic Shakespearian language of the King James version of the nativity.
In 1973 I was nine, and it was all about my brother Homer’s wedding. He was marrying Kelly, a very sweet young woman. Mom told me she’d sew my outfit for the wedding and it could be whatever I wanted. She probably regretted that promise when she found herself stitching together a purple velvet skirt and vest, with a coordinating lavender frilly-fronted shirt.
Mom was panicked because the order she’d placed in mid-September for my gifts hadn’t yet arrived. My little brother’s presents had been received and wrapped weeks ago. I knew nothing of this drama.
Until my dad asked me to go into the kitchen and fetch him a cup of coffee. I was more than a little grumpy. C’mon, I had just opened my gifts!
Later I proudly wheeled it outside for a ride. Along with twenty or thirty other kids. It seems the exchange had received a huge shipment of one particular model of cantaloupe-hued 10-speeds. That day a horde of tween Mongols mounted on tangerine bicycles was released upon the streets. We traveled in packs as wobbly as new-born colts on our brand-new, slightly too-big bikes.
But it was that 1960s holiday convalescence on the sofa which deeply and irrevocably set a reindeer on rooftop, joyfully over-decorated, scary fruitcake, white Christmas in my heart.
It made my expectations high, but my standards low. In my head is a Currier and Ives print set to the dulcet tones of Johnny Mathis. But to make me think, “Best Christmas ever!”, all I need is the sound of bells, a glimpse of ribbon and tinsel, a few thousand Christmas carols on a playlist, and the pure crystalline happiness when passersby smile back.
The Kid calls this annual lunacy my Chistma-thusiasm.
I watch an awful lot of Food Network. If I didn’t write about food, and could call it professional research, someone would probably stage an intervention.
I try not to miss Chopped. Four chefs get a basket of four mystery ingredients in each round. In the first they make an appetizer, then the least successful dish and its chef are eliminated. The second round is main course, after which another elimination. Finally, two chefs prepare dessert, and the best group of three dishes and their chef wins.
On one year’s Thanksgiving/Christmas/Chanukah super bowl, there was a competitor named Jason from Kentucky. He has a large personality. He’s also very country. His accent is extreme, and he’s full of folksy sayings about his “mama” and various critters, with a whole lot of “Lord Honey’s” thrown in for good measure. I felt it all seemed a tad studied and a little exaggerated for the non-Southern viewers.
He was in the final round and they had to make a big showy cake. He made a clever Santa’s workshop with elf silhouettes in the windows set in a snow-blown winter scene. One of the decorations were piles of fluffy frosting piped to look like snow drifts.
It was a huge hit with the judges, Duff Goldman, Lorraine Pascale and Nancy Fuller. Duff Goldman, a trained chef and owner of the fabulously successful Charm City Cakes said he had never had seven-minute frosting before but was a true convert.
A few weeks ago I went to a dinner and met Erin Rolandelli.
In college, the students had to be placed in a classroom to observe and learn from seasoned vets. She was given an ESL (English as a second language) class.
“It was gritty. It was what I expected it to be, and not what I expected it to be, all at the same time.”
Erin wanted to keep her kids engaged and learning. She was informed budget cuts in the coming year made any improvements impossible.
One of the things they discovered to be a need and if fulfilled, a game changer for children was mentoring. An adult that children can rely on to have their backs, be a support, but also have expectations for them and hold them accountable.
Right now, One Compassion is working to make sure every family in the county has a Christmas. That parents have the joy of providing for their children. What that may look like is individual to each family. To determine needs, Erin works with them, her team, and their resources. It could be funds for groceries, help with gifts, or even a repair to a broken window so the children can be nestled all snug in warm beds.
Thanks for your time, and have a wonderful holiday season and a joyous and peaceful new year.
It’s much maligned, but sugar can be deceptively beneficial.
Sugar sprinkled over wounds kills infectious microbes and speeds healing.
And sugar, almost all by itself can make lots of dreamy dishes.
Hard candy, or what the Brits call “boiled sweets” are just cooked sugar with a little color and flavor. Taffy is cooked sugar pulled, stretched and aerated. Cotton candy is sugar, melted and spun into gossamer strands.
The first way is through the divine meringue. Not the topping for lemon pie, although they both begin life the same way; egg whites beaten into foam with sugar slowly added. For the candy meringues, you pipe out individual portions and then bake them so low and slowly they dry out and pick up no browning. Think of them as giant, irresistible Lucky Charm marshmallows.
The recipe is easy. But preparation is more often than not, a heartbreaker. If it’s humid, they’ll never completely dry out. If they’re not all consistent sizes, some may brown, while others may stay soft in the middle. They literally attract and retain moisture from the air, so must be stored with extreme care.
One paltry dollar. And the place is so full of other scratch-made delights you’ll find loads of other treats on which to spend the rest of your dollars—so be careful.
I’m always a little skeptical about those sweeping “metaphor for life” pronouncements.
Thanks for your time.
When I was little I had a bit of an overbite.
As soon as my last baby tooth was replaced by the adult version an orthodontist outfitted me with enough metal wires and bands to build a suspension bridge over the Atlantic.
Fittingly (or alarmingly, depending on which side of the blue paper bib you fall), my tormenter grew up to become a dentist.
Mobile’s weather is tropical and outdoor activities occur all year long. One December evening, my parents planned to take my big brother Homer, me, and our eighteen-month-old brother to a Christmas carnival.
Homer opened the front door to go out and immediately spun around and yelled, “Somebody’s siphoning gas out of the Opel!”
We stepped out of the front door and saw two figures running away. We ran to the car, Dad jumped into the driver’s seat, Homer jumped in next to him, and put me on his lap.
By the time we got to the end of the driveway, it was clear that our hunt was over.
To release me, they popped my face out of the car like a champagne cork, and we headed back inside.
Thanks for your time.
I should maybe feel delighted that at my advanced age, I’m still discovering things about myself.
It concerns marshmallows. 
But, I’m a fiend for rice crispy treats. Those Lucky Charms marshmallows make my heart skip a beat. I even enjoy toasted marshmallow Jelly Bellies.
Turn on mixer. Using whisk attachment, turn on low speed and, while running, slowly pour sugar syrup down side of the bowl into gelatin mixture. Once you’ve added all the syrup, increase speed to high. Continue to whip until mixture becomes very thick and is lukewarm, approximately 10 to 13 minutes. Add the vanilla bean caviar during last minute of whipping. While mixture’s whipping prepare pan:
Put confectioners’ sugar into small bowl. Lightly spray 13 by 9-inch metal baking pan with cooking spray. Cover with a piece of oiled foil. Add sugar and swirl to coat bottom and sides. Save remaining sugar for later.
Once candy’s set, place a piece of parchment onto large cutting board. Turn marshmallows out and peel off foil. Dust bottom and sides with more powdered sugar. Using powdered sugar dusted pizza cutter, cut 8 pieces wide and 4 long. As you cut, place into zip-top bag with powdered sugar in it. Gently shake to coat. Place onto parchment to fully set.
What I discovered about marshmallows is I love the flavor. It’s the texture that weirds me out. That spongy, bounce-back, “it’s alive and will devour you” feeling—I can’t even. I do not like food that feels like it’s fighting back.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 