Caramelized Onions

I’ve put a new item on my Thanksgiving menu this year.

Big Announcement:  Caramelized Onions are going to replace Creamed Onions.

I added creamed onions to my Thanksgiving Day menu when I began hosting T-day on my own back in Danbury, Connecticut.   I pulled the recipe from my go-to bible of traditional foods, The Joy of Cooking.  They were pretty simple - make a cream sauce, add onions and shredded Swiss cheese, bake, and don’t forget about them.  The dish did spend a year or two in the back of my oven on Harrington Court and I believe in the back of the fridge or possibly even in the freezer other years.  But I always made them and someone, even though it may have been after dessert, always remembered them.

I changed the menu this year for two reasons.  First, I’ve noticed over the past few Thanksgivings that the creamed onion leftover container has been pretty full at the end of the day.  Granted, a few creamed onions go a long way next to a plateful of stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, but still, why deal with the fuss of making that white sauce if I’m the only who is going to eat them?

My second reason for the switch is Nick Strauss. Nick has in the past few years discovered onions – specifically onions that are sautéed in oil (Philly cheese-steak style) or dipped in batter and deep-fried (Outback’s Bloomin’ Onion comes to mind).  He claims he’ll add them to anything, and I do admit that since Jake and Sam have been away I will throw together a pan full just for Nick on those night that he and I dine together. 

The recipe for caramelized onions is straightforward:  heat equal parts butter and olive oil in a pan, add onions and salt. The onions aren’t truly caramelized until they break down over low heat, so it takes at least an hour or two, not of constant hovering over the stove, but of walking by and giving them a friendly toss every now and again until they are fragrant and brown.

I think Nick will like the new recipe.  And I know that he will enthusiastically spoon a heaping portion of them next to his turkey and gravy – even though he may not eat a single one (sometimes foods with mushy consistencies get to him).  But I’m feeling that the change is going to be good.  

I may even try that green bean casserole dish that everyone raves about – I believe it involves onions as well.  Just please don’t tell my family about the Cream of Mushroom soup – it gives them the willies. 

Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving!

Marseilles

I post this poem in memory of my mom, Laura Visser.  I've been working it over the past two years and will probably continue to add to and refine it every time I come back to read it.  I find writing poetry such an efficient way to pull together images, words and phrases that may not  make any sense in a narrative.  The images here are of a poem that my mom became enamored with during her last year called "The Hound of Heaven," her wake and funeral, and the cruise to France that we took shortly after her death -- all this two years ago this June.  


Special thanks to Rachel who just yesterday encouraged me to keep blogging and to Beverly who asked about my blog in her birthday wish to me.  And to Nick, my faithful reader, who isn't really into poetry.


There we stood (orderly) in front of the ancient stone wall,

Shining pink bougainvillea in the midst of our hair,

Framed by the shade of the high reaching Cyprus trees

That lined the coast in the afternoon sun of the Cote d Azur.

We carefully arranged ourselves, 
The result now to set upon the mantel next to all of the others.

We followed, followed, followed;

Listed like every one thing to accomplish and check off.

The children standing by with strong smiles,

Beautiful in flip-flops and oddly pressed light shirts.

We set our new sunglasses preciously on our foreheads

And the bright jewel of the day burned deep lines into our dark brown eyes.

We kept quietly to ourselves, the labyrinth a pleasure to unwind

As we faithfully perched on the rocky cliffs, confounding sea below.

And then it came to us, as if we should have known,

As if someone had planned exactly how it would all fall together,

The shock of it taking us by storm, the road absurdly over flowing with

The mammoth effort of your place and time,

Keenly defeated by your simplicity and grace. 

We took the easy road (for good reason),

And your clear breath released us into the ferocious arms

Of the strong and screaming Mistral winds.

“Behind the Mistral is the beauty of Provence.

Its fierceness blows away clouds and grime and doubt,

Leaving colors the depth of dreams

And a freshness that can come only after the Mistral's scouring. Provence needs the Mistral or it ceases to be the Provence of my dreams.

I need the Mistral to cut through those dreams to truth - beauty comes after the wind.” 
Kamiah A. Walker

Marseilles, France

July 4, 2009

A New Box

There's one thing I enjoy more than putting up the Christmas decorations, and that is taking them down.  I'm not sure why, but I feel a huge sense of relief when the tree is out the door, the garland is off the stairway and every last pointsetta is in it's own black trash bag next to the recycling bin.

Getting rid of the holiday clutter brings me sweet relief...possibly it's that my introverted brain is relieved that all of the red is gone and that soft, colorless January has brought back visual tranquility to my surroundings.  My mantels and my countertops are clear again, and I am renewed.  Have you noticed the colors of this blog?  The calm fish swimming above?  The birds in flight? Bland some may say, but peaceful to me.

And this year, throwing out the Christmas tree inspired me further...to go through closets, my kitchen pantry and the basement storage areas. Out boxes of books that we moved from Chicago to Danbury to Harrington Court to Apple Brook Lane that are covered with a funky smelling mold.  Out Chocolate Fountain that I bought years ago at a silent auction and that I will never have the inspiration or energy to set up.  Out sports coats and collered shirts that no husband or son of mine will ever fit into again. Out empty dvd cases, vhs movies (even though many of them were Disney favorites of days gone by), and the Lord of the Ring water glasses dated December, 2001.  (OK, I couldn't throw these out because in reading them one says Strider and the other Gandalf and for some reason this almost made me cry. . .but I put them into the "Save for Jake's Apartment" box that has replaced the moldy books).

So my living space is orderly again after the Christmas fun and excess.  The boys are back in school, Al is traveling and I can order myself into a new year of activity.  I'll start a couple of grad glasses at GMU (more on these later), go back to helping with the ESL program Tuesday nights, try my hand at substitute teaching, and stay away from the January sales racks. For now, the living room mantel is empty except for the Christmas angel San Miguel, who I've read is traditionally recognized as the protector of Christians against evil powers.  He stays, along with all of my best intensions and plans and prayers to bring calm and productivity to the small piece of this world that I have been given.