True Stories

I have been re-editing my cookbook. See, when I was a cute, little newlywed I decided I was going to make my own cookbook with all my family recipes in it—so that "other people (like Bruce and my kids—when I have any) could make them too."  And it worked; all my kids cook. Even Bruce does! And they do use my cookbook.

The last time I edited my book was just before I started school. Apparently I edited lots of stupid mistakes into it—mistakes like "Heat oven to 35 degrees." Hm. Plus it's only printed on regular printer paper and stuffed into a three-ring binder, so it's falling to pieces. It's time for a new cookbook. But this time I am going to actually print it and bind it with the same company that I have bind my blog-books every year. (Or a different, less expensive company if I can find one that does the same quality work.) Loralee's Cookbook  will look just like any 300-page cookbook that you'd buy at the store!

Well, anyway, here are some true stories that I want to put in (to fill up some blank spaces):

Loralee Yields
(originally titled "Loralee Yields to her Husband" —but is that too weirdly suggestive?)

One day when Bruce was looking through my cookbook, trying to figure out what we were going to feed the family, he said it would be really helpful if I would include the yield (servings per recipe) for each recipe. 

>sigh<

I had intentionally not included yields because I think how many servings per recipe depends on how hungry you are (starved or munchy?), or how big you make your cookies (is it one GIANT cookie, or 300 dime-sized cookies?). I also know from years of experience that on some days cooking 2 cups of rice doesn't come close to feeding my family, but on other days preparing 2 cups of rice leaves me with 1½  cups of leftover rice. And, besides all that, figuring out recipe yields meant I'd have to cook every. single. recipe, and measure out the whole thing to see how many cups it made, and then decide how many cups constituted a single serving before I could really know an exact yield. This could be a monumental pain! I just wasn't going to do it.

But then a funny thing happened: Bruce was making Chicken & Broccoli which I've learned—and told Bruce—is a recipe we need to triple to feed our family. So as he made the recipe he crossed out the original amounts of each ingredient and wrote in the tripled amounts.  Several months later Bruce was making Chicken & Broccoli again. He knew that if I made it I'd probably at least double the recipe, so that's what he did. Only he doubled the triple amounts that he'd written in. We had lots of Chicken & Broccoli that night!

Well, at last I could see the real value of including yields, but I'm not patient enough to go through the afore-mentioned process. Instead [This is the important part—pay attention!] . . .

Instead I just looked up portion sizes for different ingredients as I re-edited my cookbook. I learned things like:  2 oz. uncooked pasta = 1 serving, and ¼ cup of uncooked rice = 1 serving, and 4 oz. meat = 1 serving. Then I perused my recipes; if a recipe called for 12 oz. pasta, I wrote that it made 6 servings. See how I got there? (Of course, 12 oz. pasta mixed with a couple pounds of veggies and a pound of meat might make 6 really big servings—or maybe 8-10 smaller servings.)

So you need to realize [Hmmm. Maybe this is the important part] . . . You need to realize that the yields (servings per recipe) are more like guidelines than cold, hard facts.

And now that you have that in mind, good luck figuring out how much food to make!

Next story:

Well I'll Be Frittered!

When I was little my mom often made us Rice Freeters (you'll see the recipe in this section). Spicy little deep-fried Brasilian dumplings with rice in them—we loved them! Sometimes she made us banana freeters too. Yum!

One day, when I was probably six or seven, my mom was rearranging her bedroom and I was sitting in her chair reading Disney's version of Johnny Appleseed. In the story, as Johnny went across the USA sowing apple seeds he sang this song:

"Apple pies and apple fritters,
Apple cores to feed the critters,
Tasty apple cider in a glass,
Apples baked and boiled and frizzled,
Taffy apples hot and sizzled,
And there's always good old apple sass."


"Fritters?" 

I thought about that. "Fritters?"  What in the world were fritters? He was talking about food—could he mean "freeters?" Was F•R•I•T•T•E•R•S the correct way to spell freeters? That didn't make any sense. And anyway, freeters didn't rhyme with critters. Hmmm. I finally decided it was kind of a silly thing—they just used "fritters" instead of "freeters" so that it could rhyme with "critters" . . . in the same way they said "sass" instead of "sauce" to make it rhyme. I was a very smart little girl.

Fast-forward to the time I was dating Bruce: We went to a store bakery to get some donuts and the like. I don't remember what I got, but Bruce ordered an apple  fritter. And then it dawned on me—it really was fritters (rhyming with critters).  And fritters were the same thing as freeters! I finally realized that it was just my mom's Brasilian accent shining through. I always knew that she said "tree" for "three," and "gaz" for "gas," but it hadn't occurred to me that "freeters" were really "fritters" until a good ten or more years after I read that little rhyme.

Nevertheless, those tasty rice dumplings always have been and always will be "Rice Freeters!"

Story three:

The Legend of the Green Jello

When I was about nine years old I took a keen interest in cooking. I started out by sneaking out of bed early one morning to fry some eggs (I had to sneak because I was sure my mom—and my grandma—wouldn't let me use the stove. But I'd seen my mom fry eggs, and figured I knew how. And I did a fine job!) Another time I made some kind of dessert concoction with canned peaches, whipped cream and maraschino cherries. I was in to this cooking thing.

One day I decided to make green jello. I carefully measured the water to boil; I mixed the jello powder into the boiled water; I added the cold water and put it into the refrigerator to set up. I was very pleased with myself. After dinner Mom got the jello out and brought it to the table; I was so proud!

But there was something terribly wrong with the jello. It had this thin, gritty, rubbery layer on the bottom while the rest of it was the consistency of runny nose. Nevertheless, Dad served some up in little dessert dishes for everyone and they all bravely—and politely—dug in. And there we sat around the dining room table, all ten of us eating our "treat" in miserable silence. Finally Mark said, "Mmmmm. This is good!" And Melanie lost it. She started laughing—hard—and inhaled some of her snot-textured jello, and then she started coughing, gasping and wheezing. Then Mom lost it.

"She's shoking!" (choking—said in Mom's Brasilian accent) . . .

"Orlin, she's shoking!" Then she started issuing orders. To Melanie: "Put your hands up!" To anyone who would do it: "Slap her on the back!" and "Get her some water!" And all of Mom's panic just made the situation funnier, so Melanie couldn't stop the coughing fit.  Finally, just as she was able to gasp for breath, Mom cried out, "Orlin! Take her outside and squirt her with the hose!!" And Melanie cracked up, and started hacking and gagging on that awful green jello again!

Well, eventually Melanie did catch her breath. She survived to tell the tale. And so did I.

Just like every great tale, this one has a lesson: When making jello, be sure the gelatin is completely dissolved before putting it in the refrigerator!

Well, those are the stories. I'll have to come up with a couple more (still thinking on that).What do you think? Do they belong in my cookbook? Are they written so that you know what I'm even trying to say?