Skillet Diary™
©Donna Pierce
Aug. 21, 2010

If it weren’t for the ornament we’ve hung on our tree every Christmas since he was a toddler, my son would not remember Fievel or the film, “An American Tale.”

He was 3 years old the afternoon we spent in a movie theater watching the Disney feature-length cartoon about a young mouse separated from his family during their voyage to a new home in America, where, according to rodent legend, mice enjoyed life without cats.

The movie introduced a song, “Somewhere Out There.” And when it was over, I sang it softly to my little boy as we walked to our car.

John was unusually quiet during the ride home. “Those cats were mean,” he said when I brought up the movie. It would take a few hours for me to discover what was really troubling him. Later, midway through his bedtime story, he stopped me with a question.

“What if we’re on a boat and I get lost from you, Mom?” he asked.

“There’s no chance of that,” I said, reaching to give his chubby little fingers a squeeze, “I’ll be holding your hand.”

“Promise?” he said, looking up with an expression so trusting it brought tears to my eyes.

“I’ll do the best I can, honey. I promise.”

“Do you promise you’ll never get lost from me?”

“I promise with all my heart, I’ll do the best I can,” I told him.

For a moment my answers consoled him. He snuggled deeper in my lap. Still, he was frowning when I finished reading the story.

“Do you promise you’ll always be here to read me a story every night?” he asked.

“As long as you want me to.” I said. “But one day soon, you’ll be able to read for yourself. Then one day when you’re tall and strong and growing into a man, you’re going to be happy to leave home.”

“Will you be sad?” he said, his brow still furrowed.

“I’ll be very happy to see you begin your adventure,” I answered. “But I’ll be a little sad to see you go…Don’t worry, it won’t happen for a long time, more than a dozen birthdays from now.”

During the past week spent packing for his move away to a college dorm, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone as excited as he.

“That’s cool, Mom,” he told me after I demonstrated a short-cut version of his favorite chicken and rice dish in the microwave one afternoon. “Buy one boneless breast and add two parts of water to one part rice.” I had told him.

His grandmother had demonstrated the George Foreman grill, she and my dad had bought for his dorm room. My dad had also offered campus cuisine advice he told John had served him well during his college days more than five decades ago: “Make friends with a student from town and never refuse invitations to family dinners,” he said.

At 18, John is tall and strong. But he hasn’t lost the crooked little boy grin. And sometimes when I look up at him from just the right angle, I still see the 3-year-old who begged me to leave the light on “to keep the cats away” the night after the movie.

John didn’t remember the mouse family when I reminded him. Neither did he remember our long-ago conversation about leaving home.

We were sitting on the floor of his room stuffing a duffel with a semester’s worth of sweatshirts. “That night you made me promise not to ever get lost from you,” I told him.

He grinned an “Oh, Mom” grin.

I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket and handed it to John. I had used his graduation laptop to look up lyrics from the long-ago movie.

“Somewhere out there

Beneath the pale blue light

Someone’s thinking of me

And loving me tonight.”

John flashed the crooked grin, reached out for my hand and gave my fingers a squeeze. I caught my breath, stuffing back a weird mix of happiness, sadness, panic and overwhelming love.

“Promise me you’ll at least glance at this in case you’re ever homesick?” I asked

“I promise, Mom,” he said.

Skillet Diary™
©Donna Pierce
Aug. 16, 2010

I celebrated Julia Child’s birthday yesterday recalling her encouragement during a time my ideas about food writing had been challenged by my mother, who described the shift as a “ridiculous limit of my talents.”

Several years later, mom, a great cook who had also earned a doctorate in education, accompanied me on what she described to my dad and siblings as a “Thelma and Louise road trip” to The Greenbier resort “for the spa only,” while I attended Toni Allegra’s amazing Symposium for Professional Food Writers.

When I emerged from the first morning’s seminar to find mom and Julia Child seated together on a couch in an alcove in the midst of an animated exchange, I must have looked concerned.

“I was explaining my secrets for Mobile gumbo,” Mom said as we rushed to keep spa appointments. Later that evening, my mom, the smartest and most fearless woman I have ever known, brought the subject up in a soft voice.

“I see what you mean about recipes. They’re about a lot more than how to cook. They’re about culture and history. When I get home, I’m going to send you some books and write out some old recipes you may be able to use as a food writer,” she said with a smile, adding, “There’s a lot of work to be added about African American contributions. I’m going to enjoy helping you.”

Last night I went to sleep filled with gratitude for the help, encouraging words and empowerment I have received along the way, remembering that it’s my turn to try to fill the large oven mitts my heroes left behind.

Skillet Diary™
©Donna Pierce
Aug. 16, 2010

When my mother’s kid sister, our last direct genetic link to Mom, joined our family for last night’s reunion dinner, emotions surprised me. For the first 10 minutes around my sister’s dining table, I felt about 8-years-old … hungry for her approval.

To be fair, the rolls I baked hadn’t exactly followed her mother’s (my grandmother’s) recipe. (I’m experimenting with buttermilk these days.) Dinner ended with only one reference to my efforts, which I took as thumbs down: “Everyone seemed to enjoy the rolls.”

I walked seven blocks home holding the empty wicker roll basket reflecting on long-ago advice from mom.

“Get over your ego, not everything in life is about you. Be the person you want others to be. Give yourself approval and then generously pass it around.”
I already miss my beautiful Aunt, a retired college professor and dean, who returned to Florida this morning. She loves us generously and unconditionally.
And yes, the rolls were tender, light and delicious …If I should say so myself.

Skillet Diary™
©Donna Pierce
Aug. 9, 2010

My grandmother, who like many of her “girlhood” friends, honeymooned in Havana in the 1920s, was fond of describing her Mobile, Alabama home town as “South of the South” based on cuisine and lifestyle.

I thought of her this weekend while gazing at the Mississippi River in the company of family from New Orleans, Atlanta, Washington D.C., Minneapolis, Tallahassee, Columbia and Chicago.

Weekend activities for this family reunion made perfect sense to us…but it may help others understand the family’s “South of the South” perspective still flourishing based on five generations of our Gulf Coast heritage.

We gathered to celebrate my cousin Tanya’s final profession as a nun with the Sinsinawa Dominican Sisters.

Our gathering place? A hotel with a casino. (I broke even.)

Poem Continued From Home Page

Thanks for lamb, soy and

brisket

velvet cakes colored red.

Thanks for bagels, injera

and other great bread.

Thanks for couscous and sushi

and sweetened ice teas.

Thanks for tacos, tamales

and pasta with peas.

Thanks for burgers with mustard

and baked macaroni,

Thanks for salsa and ketchup

and thick minestrone.

Thanks for chocolate chip

cookies

and blackberry jam.

Thanks for Boston Cream Pie

and Boone County ham.

Thanks for strawberry

smoothies,

grape juice and punch.

Thanks for butterscotch sundaes

and grilled cheese for lunch.

Thanks for chicken pot pie

and fried green tomatoes.

Thanks for Kosher dill pickles

and mashed Irish potatoes.

Thanks for stir fries and French fries

and onion rings, too.

Thanks for tandoori chicken,

poi and venison stew.

Thanks for waking up early

to bake cinnamon rolls

Thanks for slice-and-bake cookies

and s’mores over coals.

Thanks for big feasts for dozens

and snacks all alone.

Thanks for seasoning my life

with the flavors of home.

Juneteenth
“Henceforth and Forever Free”
By Donna Pierce

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More than a half-century after riding to El Paso, Texas, next to his grandfather in a horse-drawn wagon, Charles Petty recalled his first glimpse of an emancipation celebration.

“There were about 500 to 600 people at the picnic,” Petty said. “Our family lived a relatively quiet life on an 1,100-acre ranch midway between El Paso and Las Cruces, N.M. I had never seen anything like it.”

He remembers the sheer size of the barbecue: huge pits hollowed out from the ground, fired with smoldering logs.”The men roasted whole cows and whole pigs,” Petty said.

He remembers side dishes made with ingredients fresh-picked from family gardens and rough tables laden with homemade baked goods, including tea cakes and pies.

But Petty takes a “don’t-mess-with-Texas” approach to the celebration: He attends Juneteenth events when he returns to the family ranch in the Lone Star state, but he just doesn’t favor them in Chicago, where he now owns an exterminating business.

“It’s a Texas celebration,” he said. “We like to keep certain things to ourselves.”

Juneteenth does refer to a specific moment in Texas history. On June 19, 1865, two months after the Confederacy’s defeat in the Civil War and nearly three years after the Emancipation Proclamation first offered the promise of freedom, a group of still-enslaved men, women and children gathered in Galveston to hear Major General Gordon Granger read a proclamation informing them that they were free. This group made up the last enslaved people in the U.S. to learn that 12 generations of slavery had come to an end.

During the years that followed, free men, women and children celebrated emancipation with prayer, rodeos, games and bountiful picnic buffets. Then, because the holidays people hold dear move with them and their offspring, Juneteenth began to slip across the Texas borders

“It was westward moving initially,” said William Wiggins Jr., professor emeritus of African-American history at Indiana University, from his Bloomington, Ind., home. Wiggins is the author of “O Freedom!: Afro-American Emancipation Celebrations,” which tracks dozens of regional holidays that take place throughout the year.

“When children migrated west they took it with them to Oklahoma, Arizona, California, into the western territories.” he said. The holiday got a boost to national prominence when a Juneteenth celebration was scheduled during the Poor People’s March on Washington in 1968.

“It was the right place, the right time,” Wiggins said. “Delegates from all over the country took the cultural knowledge of Juneteenth back with them to their communities.

“Now, Juneteenth is sort of like Mahalia Jackson’s song . . . so big you can’t get over it; so big you can’t get around it.”

The Texas celebration has grown legs. And wings. There’s a good chance you’ll find fried chicken, potato salad and fried fish on the menu at the annual Juneteenth picnic sponsored by Sisters, an organization of African-American women living in Paris. This year, they’ll meet at the Parc Florale in the Bois de Vincennes, said Monique Wells, author of “Food for the Soul.” Wells introduced the holiday to the group nine years ago, based on memories of family celebrations in, you guessed it, Texas.

“I think it’s a good thing when people who have been born and raised with traditions move and take the holiday with them,” Wells said from her Paris apartment.

Angela Medearis began celebrating the holiday after marrying a Texan and moving to Austin, Texas, 20 years ago. When she wrote “Ideas for Entertaining from the African-American Kitchen,” she included a Juneteenth menu with a recipe for Caribbean-style grilled fish.

“You’re going to find plenty of brisket and ribs at Juneteenth parties,” she said from her office in Austin, where she’s working on “The Ethnic Vegetarian Cookbook,” due out in December. “I wanted to offer a lighter alternative. It’s cooked on a grill, which is pretty much a requirement for Juneteenth meals.”

It’s also routine to serve a red beverage such as strawberry lemonade punch.

“Don’t ask me why,” Medearis said. “But it’s a tradition you don’t break. People expect a red drink on Juneteenth. You’re at a Juneteenth party; you smell the barbecue. Then, you automatically look for potato salad and something red to drink. People here favor a brand of soda water known as Big Red.”

In Chicago this year, floats will depict Bronzeville history when the Coalition for Improved Education in South Shore Juneteenth parade winds down 79th Street toward the Rainbow Beach Park entrance at South Shore Drive. There will be entertainment, food vendors and free food at the park. But some lucky diners, float riders and their guests will have a chance to sample the menu prepared by Catherine Bounds, chairwoman of the event’s hospitality committee.

Bounds, the daughter of a Baptist minister, grew up in Clarksdale, Miss. She moved to Chicago as a young bride in 1953. Without benefit of Texas connections, she didn’t celebrate Juneteenth until it was her turn on the hospitality committee. Juneteenth inspired her to research her family back six generations to slavery, findings she documented in an illustrated binder.

“It made me realize how important it is for our young people to know from whence they came,” she said. There’s a section devoted to cousin Louis Satterfield, a musician and member of the group Earth, Wind and Fire.

Bounds called the menu she’s planning for this year’s celebration “A Taste of Cathy’s Soul Food Kitchen.” She said it’s based on the greens, hens, catfish, cobblers, cakes and fresh fruit that celebrants might have put together quickly for the first Juneteenth feast in Galveston.

Bounds said preparing these dishes makes her feel close to the meaning of the holiday, and its beginnings.

“It feels almost as if I were there when they got the news about freedom,” she said.

Making Juneteenth a national holiday

Two national Juneteenth organizations help spread the word about Juneteenth, but each has a separate vision.

The National Association of Juneteenth Lineage proposes celebrating the holiday on its actual date, June 19.

“The same way the 4th of July is honored,” said Lula Briggs Galloway, president of the Saginaw, Mich.-based group. She grew up celebrating the Juneteenth holiday with tripe, sweet potatoes and greens from her parents’ garden.

“I didn’t know about the 4th of July until I went to school,” she said. “At our house, Juneteenth was Independence Day.”

Information about the organization and a list of national celebrations are available on www.juneteenth.com.

The other group, the National Juneteenth Observance Foundation, was founded by Chicago native Ron Myers, a Mississippi physician and Baptist minister. Myers, working to establish Juneteenth as a national holiday observance, compares it to Flag Day. Eleven states recognize Juneteenth as a legal holiday observance. In Illinois, both legislative houses have passed a bill making it a statewide observance; the governor still has to sign it. More information about the foundation, including a national listing of Juneteenth events, is available on www.19thofJune.com.

– D.P.

Raspberry lemonade

Preparation time: 15 minutes

Yield: 1 1/2 quarts

This tart, refreshing drink is adapted from a recipe in “The African-American Heritage Cookbook,” by Carolyn Tillery.

Juice of 7 lemons

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 quart plus 1 cup water

1 1/2 pints fresh raspberries or 1 package (16 ounces) frozen, unsweetened raspberries, thawed

Fresh mint sprigs, lemon slices

1. Combine the lemon juice, sugar and 1 quart of the water in a pitcher; set aside. Place fine strainer over medium bowl; press berries through the sieve with the back of a wooden spoon. Stir in remaining 1 cup of the water.

2. Stir raspberry juice into lemonade; add more sugar if needed. Garnish with fresh mint sprigs and lemon slices.

Nutrition information per cup:

225 calories, 1% calories from fat, 0.2 g fat, 0 g saturated fat, 0 mg cholesterol, 7 mg sodium, 59 g carbohydrate, 0.6 g protein, 3 g fiber

Wild blackberry cobbler

Preparation time: 20 minutes

Cooking time: 40 minutes

Yield: 8 servings

This cobbler, really more like a pie, is adapted from “Dori Sanders’ Country Cooking,” by Dori Sanders, who makes it with wild berries. Cultivated berries work just as well.

2 pints fresh blackberries

3/4 cup sugar or to taste

1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter, melted

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1 teaspoon grated lemon zest

3/4 cup flour

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

1/8 teaspoon each: ground nutmeg, salt

1 large egg

2 tablespoons half-and-half

1 nine-inch uncooked pie shell

1. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Combine the berries, 1/2 cup of the sugar, 2 tablespoons of the butter, cornstarch, lemon juice and lemon zest in a medium bowl until well mixed; set aside.

2. Combine the flour, remaining 1/4 cup of the sugar, baking powder, nutmeg and salt in a small bowl until well mixed; set aside.

3. Combine the egg, half-and-half and remaining 2 tablespoons butter in a separate bowl; add to flour mixture. Mix with your hands to form a soft dough.

4. Spoon the blackberry mixture into pie shell. Drop the flour-egg mixture onto the blackberry mixture by tablespoons, covering the blackberries almost completely. Bake until the topping is golden, about 40 minutes. Cool on a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Nutrition information per serving:

345 calories, 38% calories from fat, 15 g fat, 6 g saturated fat, 45 mg cholesterol, 215 mg sodium, 50 g carbohydrate, 4.2 g protein, 5 g fiber

Down-home potato salad

Preparation time: 20 minutes

Cooking time: 30 minutes

Yield: 8 servings

Adapted from a recipe in “A Taste of Heritage,” by Joe Randall and Toni Tipton-Martin.

6 russet potatoes, about 2 pounds

1/2 cup mayonnaise

1 tablespoon prepared mustard

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon each: ground white pepper, celery salt

2 ribs celery, finely chopped

1/2 small onion, minced

2 tablespoons sweet pickle relish

4 hard-cooked eggs, peeled, diced

2 teaspoons chopped fresh chives

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1. Place potatoes in a large pot; cover with water. Cover; heat to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to medium. Cook until fork-tender, about 30 minutes. Drain; set aside until cool enough to handle.

2. Meanwhile, combine mayonnaise, mustard, salt, pepper and celery salt in a small bowl; set aside. Peel potatoes; chop coarsely. Place in a large mixing bowl. Add the celery, onion, relish and eggs. Add mayonnaise mixture; toss gently to mix. Sprinkle with chives and paprika.

Nutrition information per serving:

245 calories, 50% calories from fat, 14 g fat, 2.4 g saturated fat, 110 mg cholesterol, 555 mg sodium, 25 g carbohydrate, 5 g protein, 2.4 g fiber

xxx

Spicy West Indies fish

Preparation time: 20 minutes

Cooking time: 8 minutes

Yield: 8 servings

This recipe is from a menu for a Caribbean-style Juneteenth picnic in “Ideas for Entertaining from the African-American Kitchen,” by Angela Medearis, who suggests taking the marinated fish in an ice chest to the park to grill. If you like less spicy food, reduce the amount of black and red pepper.

4 pounds red snapper fillets or other firm white fish

Juice of 12 limes

1 tablespoon each: curry powder, ground cumin, paprika, allspice, ground ginger, salt, freshly ground black pepper

1 1/2 teaspoons ground red pepper

Olive oil or cooking spray

1. Prepare a grill. Place fish in a non-reactive pan. Pour lime juice over fish; set aside. Combine curry powder, cumin, paprika, allspice, ginger, salt and peppers in a small bowl; stir until blended.

2. Place fillets on individual sheets of foil, reserving lime juice. Coat each fillet with the spice mixture; sprinkle with reserved lime juice. Wrap tightly. Grill fish packets 5 minutes over high heat; turn packets. Cook until flesh is opaque and skin pulls away from the flesh, about 3 minutes.

Nutrition information per serving:

235 calories, 13% calories from fat, 3.2 g fat, 0.7 g saturated fat, 80 mg cholesterol, 535 mg sodium, 4 g carbohydrate, 45 g protein, 0.9 g fiber

From the Chicago Tribune, June 11, 2003

The Joy of Soul Food

Edna Stewart 1938-2010

©Donna Pierce

My friend, cookbook author Wilbert Jones, reached me Friday by phone while I was in Washington DC for business and a family visit.
“Have you heard?” he asked, his voice oozing sorrow; I held my breath while he delivered the news.

Edna Stewart, the beloved soul food cook and owner of her namesake Chicago Restaurant, had made her transition after losing her battle with cancer.

Wilbert introduced me to Edna and a few weeks after my move to Chicago, describing her as a “gentle spirit…inspirational, down-to-Earth and incredibly generous with her soul food knowledge.” I would learn during our 8 years of conversations about soul food history and recipes with Edna that his description was an understatement.

Two days ago, after learning the news, my first thought was gratitude that I had ever known such a remarkable woman.  Then I thought about my grandmother’s long-ago suggestions relating to grieving and honoring important people in your life who pass away. “When someone has inspired you and touched your spirit deeply, their passing calls for action on your part,” my grandmother had said. ”You honor their memory by holding their torch high, keeping the flame of their good works burning,” she said.

During the time I’ve known Edna, I had the honor of baking those world famous biscuits with her, as well as being on the guest list when Wilbert and Brian Duncan (a James Beard nominee and award winning wine director) threw a surprise birthday party at Chicago’s Sinha (Jorgina Pereira’s Brazilian restaurant) last year.

Memories of Edna’s beaming smile during the party’s heartfelt toasts keep me reminded of something Edna spoke about often: the importance of “showering the people we love with love” while they are living to receive it.

This morning, rolling out biscuit dough in her honor, I thought about my added “torch-bearing” responsibilities, remembering a conversation with Edna when we laughed about our work based on soul food recipes and soul food traditions while both our sisters had both become attorneys. (She proudly referred to her sister as Judge Judy.)

“You and I understand that keeping these traditions going s a way of honoring our past and our future,” she had said. “We’re sharing love. Cooking may not be as intellectual as law or medicine or other so-called loftier professions…”

“But you and I both know “the soul food calling” is just as important…maybe more,” she added with a wink.

Thank you, Edna.

The concept caught my attention when the Apple store employee described her process for successfully dealing with difficult people:

“Assume good intentions,” she said. This had not been my automatic response to such challenges.

It is now.

Understanding that the only person I can change is myself, I used this approach during the past 24 hours: with a”difficult” butcher, a grouchy cab driver and a poorly written cookbook recipe.

I highly recommend this attitude upgrade. Try it…along with today’s refreshing recipe tossing strawberries with spinach in Farmer’s Market Strawberry Nut Salad

©Donna Pierce

I guess I have been watching too much of The Food Network. And because I log in so many hours with TV chefs, I immediately said “yes” when a TV reporter asked if a camera crew could come to my home to interview me for a demonstration about grilled vegetables.
I envisioned myself standing before the camera, wearing a chic outfit, rattling off vegetable-grilling wisdom while I created wonderful dishes.
Then reality set in. My 9-year-old kettle needed a new grill. The weather forecast called for a humid days with temperatures more than 90 degrees. And since the barbecue grill had been the one cooking appliance that didn’t fall under my jurisdiction at the house, I had very little actual hands-on experience with a grill.
At that moment I decided to adopt a more spiritual approach and hold an imaginary conversation with one of my food writing heroines, the late M.F.K. Fisher.
In what can best be described as a culinary seance, I asked for recipes, and she returned succinct answers.
“Asparagus, red peppers, eggplant, olive oil,” she replied to my grilling question. “The trick is not to turn your back on the grill, use tongs to turn them often and keep them brushed with olive oil.”
On the day of the interview, I bought a new metal grill, two small vegetable racks and a very chic oven mitt.
I purchased three red peppers, a pound of asparagus, three pounds of new potatoes, two eggplants, a leek and portobello mushrooms. The bag of charcoal marked as self-lighting seemed like a good idea.
It was 96 degrees on the deck when I lit the charcoal at 2:24 p.m.
The ensuing fireball might not have been so frightening had it not been for the sudden afternoon wind burst that made the deck feel like standing in the middle of a furnace.
When flames finally died down, I brought out the platters of food I had arranged in the kitchen in miss en place perfection. Salt and herbs arranged in little bowls…prepped vegetables displayed on exquisite fashion-forward plates coordinated to match the pre-grilled plates in a brilliant before and after display.

The telephone rang just as the fire reached the perfect temperature for grilling. It was someone from the station calling to say that the reporter was running late and that they would keep me posted.
I hung up the phone and walked back onto the deck to find my son bouncing a basketball next to the grill. When he looked at me, his words were guarded and polite.
“Maybe you should comb your hair,” he said.
I dashed back to glance at a mirror and could barely recognize myself. I resembled a frantic firefighter coming off of a six-hour shift.
When I checked back with M.F.K. Fisher, she said,“Cook while the fire is hot. If you want advice about style and fashion, talk to Coco Chanel.”
I used my tongs and basting brush to grill the asparagus spears on the mini-grill. The eggplant slices went on next.  I circled the grill with red peppers and filled in the empty spaces with thick slices of portobello mushroom.
I checked my telephone messages when I finished. A peppy reporter’s voice apologized for missing the interview. “I hope you put the veggies in the refrigerator so we can film tomorrow,” she said.
Instead, I parceled everything off to neighbors who by now have become accustomed to impromptu food deliveries.
I declined the reporter’s request for another appointment. Yes, I still want to cook on TV, but until the weather breaks I’m restricting appearances to indoor venues.  

March 11, 2010

Recall Update

Click to Search HVP Recall List From FDA

(HVP is a “food-like” substance used as a flavor enhancer in processed food.)

March 10, 2010

Learn How Oprah’s Former Chef, Art Smith, lost 90 pounds

____________

March 3, 2010

Beg your grandparents for “Hip-Hop” recipes…

a New York Times quote describes rabbit as “the new chicken”

Mom Packed
Sandwiches and
Courage for Trip

Donna Pierce

It was mid-summer during the mid-1960s when my mom got behind the steering wheel of our family station wagon and drove her four children 900 miles to the Rocky Mountains. Our ages ranged from 10 to 15, and we brought along luggage for four days, a basket of sandwiches and a big cooler of sodas.

We did not have my dad’s blessing. He had very sound reasons for concluding that my sister’s plans for two weeks at a Colorado Girl Scout camp should be scrapped: He couldn’t leave his brand new job at the university, and an airline strike had grounded the nation’s airlines.

Mom knew that between the baby-sitting jobs, extra Scout meetings and the complicated application process, my sister, Carolyn, had been working to go to this camp for close to a year. And because we knew her well, none of her kids was surprised when she decided — then insisted — on making the drive. Dad proclaimed the idea ridiculous. Mom announced that she wasn’t going to let 900 miles stand in the way of her daughter’s chance to meet Girl Scouts from all over the country and camp under Colorado stars.

When we left early on a hot July morning, everything went well — for at least an hour. That’s when we noticed the steam rising up from under the car’s hood.  A service station mechanic — in those days they were plentiful — informed us that although the car was overheating we were in no imminent danger. But he recommended cutting our trip short.

Mom watched the mechanic cool the engine by dousing it with water from a hose, then she returned to the highway and continuing westward.

We stopped at service stations across Kansas and all the way to the Rocky Mountains, where we dropped off the happy camper. Then, after our slow descent down the narrow mountain road, we reached the highway, where all at once the occupants in passing cars became overwhelmingly friendly — waving as they passed.

Soon there was a highway patrolman with flashing lights. And when Mom pulled over to the shoulder he urgently gestured for us to move away from the car.

By then blasts of steam were gushing out from under the hood.  But by the time we saw flames, the patrolman was already controlling them with blasts from a fire extinguisher.  When it was out, we stood by the side of the road next to the car’s remains and huge clouds of black smoke.

Our family has rarely spoken about this trip. Dad never said “I told you so.” And it must have been a financial disaster for my parents, who were raising four children on teachers’ salaries. The car was totalled, the airline strike continued and Dad arranged for the four of us to come home on an empty Greyhound bus that was returning to Missouri for repairs.

Taking that trip was by far the dumbest thing that my mother ever did. And I think maybe the most profound — at least for her daughters in those days long before the women’s movement.

Last week a friend reminded me to find my center in order to find my strength, and that’s when I found myself thinking a lot about that trip and the reason my mother made it.

This weekend my sister graduates from the law school she entered the same year her son enrolled as a freshman in college. She’s graduating with highest honors. But that should come as no surprise. She is, after all, the daughter of a woman who taught her to value her dreams and not to stop until they come true.

(The sister for whom this Skillet Diary was written passed the bar 14 years ago.)

Hats off to
Dorothy Height

Everything must change; nothing stays the same.

“What you’re doing is important,” Dr. Dorothy Height said as I knelt down beside her to whisper what an honor it was to meet the woman my mother had quoted at least once a week during my childhood.
“Don’t give up on your venture. Think of all the people depending on you to tell the story of Black American Cooks,” Dr. Height told me, emphasizing every word as if we were speaking about brain surgery. I took a deep breath of relief and answered.
“I won’t. I promise.”
I didn’t take the moment for granted when Dr. Height looked up with advice last summer during the beginning stages of planning Black America Cooks.
We had been invited to the National Council of Negro Women’s 2009 Family Reunion. Dr. Height addressed the crowd under the tent just before my first official presentation for the new website and book.
Until my mother passed away seven years ago, Dorothy Height and Dr. Height’s mentor, Mary McLeod Bethune, served as my mom’s most revered role models.
From our early childhood, mother’s three daughters were treated to daily quote reminders about growing into strong women through education and compassion for others.
“I remember the first time I saw Mary McLeod Bethune speak at college,” my mom told my sisters and me often enough for us to finish her sentence. “She told us all to stand up and repeat her words… I’ve never forgotten.”
At this point, my sister Carolyn, Muriel and I always joined in, almost shouting, “I’m going to be somebody…” with enough exaggerated enthusiasm for our mother to flash a warning expression.
Looking back, that’s an easy frown to understand. For our mother and lots of mothers raising daughters during the Civil Rights Movement, our future as strong women was no joking matter.
Mom used Dr. Height as an example of intelligence and elegance combined with humility and service.
When my mother cautioned against self promotion, she always backed it up with a Dr. Height quote: “If you worry about who is going to get credit; you don’t get much work done.”
I hadn’t realized until today, but that is exactly the ingrained advice that prompts so many links from Black America Cooks to other websites featuring African American restaurants, cookbooks, chefs food writers and blogs.
In the introduction to “The Black Family Reunion Cookbook”, published by The National Council of Negro Women in 1992, Dr. Height writes “The sharing of good food among loved ones and good friends not only gives us sustenance but also strength to meet life’s challenges.”
Now that my sisters and I are parents of adults and my sister, Carolyn, a grandmother, we often speak in shorthand using quotes from our mother’s instruction during our girlhood.

I felt the challenge of sorrow this morning because I knew Dr. Height had been recently hospitalized. When I awakened to the sound of her voice on the clock radio, I guessed correctly it was a tribute.
For a few minutes before getting up to start the day, I lay in bed thinking about all the people…especially the strong women… who have mattered so much in my life. I thought of the women who have given me courage and strength and hope just by standing tall and standing up for what they believe.

The young become the old; mysteries do unfold.
Now it’s our turn to light the way for the people who come after us. My little part to play has to do with soulful recipes, remembering always these words from Dr. Height’s introduction…

”You are an advocate of a very simple pleasure in life that cannot be overlooked in its importance.”

“Real Recipe
For Friendship“
March 29, 2010
©Donna Pierce

The paper boy in our old neighborhood said she looked like a witch. She was barely five feet tall and weighed less than 100 pounds. She had few visitors and rarely ventured outside the house, so she didn’t trouble herself with wearing dentures. When her gray hair grew into wisps that blew into her eyes, she cut it with utility shears.

She spent weekdays simultaneously working crossword puzzles and flipping her TV remote control between talk shows and the home shopping network. Her scowl was divided equally between every adult, child, dog or cat who ventured too closely to the front door.

As I stood on her doorstep holding a foil-wrapped plate, I wondered if ringing her doorbell had been the right decision. When she opened the door, I babbled a few words and offered her the plate. Her icy blue eyes scrutinized me for almost a full minute before she accepted it and quietly closed the door.

The next day my son came in from play with the cleaned plate and a note that read, “It was pleasant dining on fresh beans this time of year.”

That’s how our friendship began — with a dinner that included my husband’s favorite sliced roast beef, mashed potatoes and green beans topped with sauteed mushrooms. Our plate exchange proved to be an ideal arrangement because I loved to cook big meals and had only a husband and son to feed. She didn’t much care for cooking but she had an adventuresome palate.

Soon, she began inviting me into her living room for chats. And as we got to know each other better, I learned of her childhood spent in a St. Joseph orphanage where she and the others were called “the poor orphans” by both teachers and students at the public school and where her happiest memories were of the orphanage cook who always hugged her and offered her almond-flavored butter cookies when she snuck down the back stairs before bedtime.

Once she showed me pictures of herself as a beautiful young woman with chestnut hair and a dazzling smile seated next to a dashing escort — taken at a Kansas City nightclub. And there was a photograph, about which she would later recount a sad story filled with regrets.  It pictured her smiling, surrounded by four, well-dressed children.

BJ prized a scrapbook filled with clippings she kept during the years she had worked as a secretary for a state supreme court justice. I remember her beaming over the collection of snapshots taken during that time showing her dressed in smart business suits accessorized with coordinating high heels and handbags.

Over the course of four years, our conversations covered every imaginable topic. It was as if we had known each other for years. We found ourselves sharing our dreams, fears, hopes and disappointments. Most of all I remember her grave voice saying, “Don’t be afraid to take risks, kid. You don’t want to wind up an old lady with regrets.”

Our talks continued during her illness and during the last four months of her life, which she spent in a nursing home before her death two years ago next week.

I think of her every time I use the black-handled bread knife she was so excited to give me for my birthday — ordered from the Home Shopping Network. I think of her every time I’m nervous about looking foolish or taking a risk.

Most of all, I think of her each I’m tempted to judge a person based on their outside packaging or demeanor. If I had, I might have missed a dear friendship.

As I recall long ago conversations, Margery Williams’ book “The

Velveteen Rabbit” and the answer the Skin Horse gave the toy rabbit when asked how to become real comes to mind.

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Click here for the recipe I adapted based on the almond butter cookies BJ remembered from her childhood in the orphanage.

“The Dish That

Keeps on Giving“

March 22, 2010

©Donna Pierce

Several birthdays ago, I glanced up from my desk, to watch in shocked disbelief as a handwritten recipe slipped out of my printer/copier/fax machine without a cover page. I recognized my maternal grandmother’s elegant penmanship immediately from a few clues, including her habit of highlighting instructions and important tips with graceful exclamation marks.

“Mama Williams” was everyone’s go-to resource for recipes, not just traditional grandmotherly ones. My grandmother could dine at any table (including the most famous restaurants) and recreate the recipe in her home kitchen, always with an improvement.

She experimented with international flavors learned from her travels. She loved sharing her findings with anyone who even remotely expressed an interest in cooking, keeping up a regular exchange with relatives, her children’s friends, strangers, people she met when she traveled and her grandchildren.

Until her death, I was her most devoted student, and my hands were shaking when I picked up the paper that rolled out of my fax several years ago. During her lifetime she and I had exchanged hundreds of recipes. But this fax was highly unusual. Granny had died more than a decade before fax machines became a popular way to transmit printed messages over telephone lines.

Still, there was no mistaking her elegant script and uplifting style of coaching a new cook in the faxed recipe. She reminded me about the importance of fresh ingredients, adding “Don’t forget, recipes are only meant to be guidelines. Adjust ingredients according to best available ingredients and personal taste, to make any recipe your own. “Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien (He who risks nothing, gains nothing) she had copied from a French recipe collection.

In the kitchen, my grandmother refused to play by the rules. She was creative, innovative, determined and fascinated by modern inventions.

Nothing stood in her way when it came to sharing recipes. I opened the antique recipe box in my kitchen filled with my grandmother’s letters and recipes, reminded how, after all these years, I still think about her everyday in the kitchen.

The telephone call from a cousin offered disappointing news. “Did you get the recipe?” she asked. She had faxed her 20-year-old copy of my grandmother’s recipe, sent without a cover sheet. “Everyone Continued agrees as far as cooking is concerned, you’re following Mama Williams’ footsteps,” she said, adding.,“You’re the family recipe go-to person.”

I turned on the oven, pulled out a recipe letter and rummaged through the drawer for my favorite measuring spoons.

Mystery solved. My grandmother was not faxing recipes. Still, I appreciated the few moments when evidence appeared otherwise. Did I mention that this happened on my birthday?

That year, I spent the afternoon baking. No fax…no problem. My love of cooking had become my grandmother’s lifetime birthday gift to me.

This year as I’m planning to spend the day in the kitchen with some of my grandmother’s recipes. I’m even more aware of the gifts she gave me through her love for cooking and recipes …including a food writing career and this web site.

If the person who taught you to love recipes and cooking is still alive, this would be a good time to write a note, pick up the phone …or maybe you could send a fax.

dp@soul2keep

“Rich, Rich, Rich
In Asparagus”
March 8, 2010

By Donna Pierce

I don’t keep a census count of robins returning to the neighborhood park. You won’t
find me searching for signs of spring in a flower bed or checking off calendar dates.
As far as I’m concerned, winter officially ends and spring begins in the produce section of the supermarket when asparagus
shipments multiply and the price for slender (and thicker) stalks sharply decline to offer once-a-year bargains.
For approximately eight weeks, while I’m feeling asparagus-wealthy, tender stalks make their way to my table daily. At the beginning of the season I steam or roast them to enjoy as a side dish, doused with fresh lemon juice or sprinkled with feta cheese.
Once I’ve eaten my way through the initial thrill, I progress to sauces, tarts,
stir-fry dishes, frittatas and even old-fashioned tea sandwiches made up of roasted spears pressed in to buttered rolls.
No recipe from my collection is exempt, and except for desserts, I’ve never run across a recipe that couldn’t be made more delicious to my taste with an asparagus
tip or two.
Asparagus spears are native to Europe. The name comes from the Greek asparagos,
meaning “to swell”.

The plant is a shoot vegetable, classified with artichokes, hearts of palm, endive and celery.
Select tightly budded young green spears of the same dimension — pencil thin or fat.
Cook like sizes together so they will steam or roast
evenly.

Spears snap off at a natural breaking point. Trim
thicker stalks with a vegetable peeler or sharp knife by holding the stalk
with the buds pointing downward and peeling toward the tender tip.
Steam asparagus in a vegetable steamer or boil uncovered in a heavy skillet of
simmering water. They will cook to an al dente stage in six to eight minutes.
Roast asparagus in a 400 degree oven on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Cook, turning occasionally, until tender and tips begin to bronze.

Secret to Happiness

March 2, 1010

By Donna Pierce

This week, when my friend raved about springtime blooms around her
California home, she wasn’t bragging…just stating the facts.

But for a moment, forgetting my mom’s advice, I felt a tug of envy.

My mom’s advice came to mind right after wasting several cell phone minutes bemoaning the fact that I never fully appreciated the lemon and avocado trees that once flourished in my California backyard. “ I took them for granted,

leaving more on the ground that I ever used in lemon bars, meringue pies or guacamole,” I said. “ If only I had considered I wouldn’t have that backyard forever.”

You see, I live in a place where we don’t entertain

groundhogs’ February predictions.

A month later, when the calendar flips… when others look forward to tulips and daffodils, we know we’re still knee-deep in winter. March still translates to winter for me here, as it has for the seven years since I moved away from a more gentle climate.

“If only…is such a sorry phrase,” my mother used to say before she repeated what she described as the foolproof secret to a happy life. At this point, my siblings and I all remember her lowering her voice to a whisper as a way of emphasizing her most important motherly advice.

“Life is full of wonderful chapters and seasons when you live in the present,” my mother would say, leaning in closely as if she were imparting deep secrets of the universe, which it turns out she was.

Think about it. How many times

have we wished away moments we now look back on as precious?

Lemons ripening in a backyard…
Earnest from our children when we thought ourselves desperate for a moment of quiet time alone…
Walking in silence with an old friend who offers the gift of unconditional acceptance…

MORE…Continued from Home Page:

A parent leaning in to offer unsolicited advice we would come to treasure the rest of our lives…

The secret to happiness?

The seasons of our lives include much more than gentle California breezes or harsh Chicago winds. Children grow up; friends more away. One day life gives you lemons, next thing you know you’re sorting through a produce bin and paying by the pound.

The secret to happiness?

“Choose what you have,”  my mom whispered dramatically, explaining how life offers wonderful lessons when we pay attention to our personal journey by living in the moment and valuing the things at hand.

So, this week you won’t find me wishing away my season of bare trees and light snow.

Instead, I’m following Mom’s advice, appreciating six more weeks of dumplings in my favorite slow cooker chicken.

___________________________________________

dp@soul2keep.com

“Food plays a major role in our culture…”

Sweet Dreams
February 21, 2010
by Donna Pierce

When I include hearing Randy Pauch’s “Last Lecture, Achieving Your Childhood Dreams” among my life-changing moments, it’s because the televised address made in 2008, by the dying Carnegie Melon professor, served as my high-pitched wake-up call, a reminder that life has no guarantees. It was time to dust off the unfulfilled dream for which I had a decade of research locked away in storage.

“If not now…when?” I said to everyone who questioned my early plans to focus full-time on African-American cooks. But mostly I said it to myself… a lot…when the path seemed scary.

So many blocks seemed to appear when I first rekindled the dream of a website to honor today’s African-American home cooks, food writers and chefs, as well as Black cooks and food writers who came before me, that I would have given up again except for Pauch’s profound second message that still makes me cry with relief when I read it taped to my computer:

“Brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out. Brick walls give us a chance to show how badly we want something…”

I read the message aloud while on hold when I made reservations for my first hands-on digital conference sponsored by the National Association of Black Journalists in Nashville (Thank you, Sybril and Val).

And several months later, I could recite Pauch’s quote from memory when I stood in

the Michigan Avenue Apple store converting from my PC safety zone, determined to learn everything I could about websites and blogs.

This week, while spreading the news about the launch (the Beta stays up until the family cookbook portion launches) of Black America Cooks website, I’ve heard myself describing the website as a “dream come true” more than a few dozen times.

I don’t take this lightly.

No better phrase describes the process of watching my life’s work suddenly coming together the same way flour and oil magically smooth into a thick brown roux after what feels like an eternity of unrewarded stirring.

I’m well aware that I’m just in the beginning stage of what promises to be a complicated recipe.

But just for the moment, I’ve stepped back from the stove to admire this amazing roux for which I had almost lost hope.

So what’s ahead? I don’t know.

Everyone is welcome to scroll through these pages for a big family feast where we honor our ancestors, preserve memories for our children and continue the tradition of sharing delicious recipes.

I’m writing this today to remind anyone stirring a dream that may at this moment seem impossible not to give up before the miracle comes.

Just remember, before Pausch passed away the July after the lecture, he gave great advice about making dreams come true…

”You can’t get there alone.”

I know this to be true because I just experienced it. Everyone reading BlackAmericaCooks.com during the launch has helped in some way….including clicking to this page. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

________________________________

Click here to bookmark “The Last Lecture” on YouTube.