The Jan/Feb 2016 issue of Blue Ridge Country magazine has hit the streets and it is bigger than usual. It’s the travel issue, telling you all about wonderful places to visit in our area. Call it our vacation planner issue. Anyway, my travel-themed column is ready for you online and I hope you enjoy it. It includes a recipe, a first for me. Of course, it’s a pie recipe. Y’all know me. Here’s the link.
http://blueridgecountry.com/newsstand/mill-creek-stories/the-car-wants-to-go-to-north-carolina/
A brand, spanking new column is up at the Blue Ridge Country magazine web site. It’s entitled “This Old House.” I am tickled pink with this one, as it gives y’all a fairly accurate peek into our life here in the Valley. It’s less Country Living and more Psychology Today than you might guess. As always, your comments are welcomed both here and at the magazine site, where they’re constantly evaluating my popularity and/or law suit potential. Love y’all.
My Grandpa Buck did not cook. He was up at dawn and out in the fields or the barn early and didn’t come back to the house until he smelled dinner or it started getting dark. As far as food was concerned, it was just something that magically appeared twice a day when Grandpa sat down at the kitchen table.
Every summer though, my Grandpa would pick buckets of peaches from the trees on the farm and make ice cream. He’s do the whole thing, start to finish, from the peeling to the churning without any help from Grandma at all. That was the only time I’d ever see Grandma eat more than one helping of anything. She always had at least two bowls and they weren’t delicate, tiny, lady-like bowls either. Everyone loved peach ice cream, but no one enjoyed it more than Grandma. It simply was not summer in our family until you’d had a bowl of Grandpa’s peach ice cream.
Like most of my favorite foods from my childhood, the peach ice cream recipe eluded me. I simply could not get a version that satisfied my nostalgia, no matter what concoction I tried. I blamed the lack of my own dairy cow, or a different variety of peach, or growing conditions, or pasteurization, or newfangled ice cream makers on the lack of peachy perfection. What was I doing wrong?
I still don’t know why Grandpa’s ice cream was so much better than mine, other than it was made by someone who loved me and always made time for me. That goes a long way towards making food delicious. I will fondly remember an expired tin of Spam if it was shared with someone who deeply loves me. Love is the ultimate seasoning, and don’t you forget it.
As far as the holy grail of peach ice cream goes, I have finally had my eureka moment. The good folks over at http://www.seriouseats.com put out a recipe for strawberry ice cream that I modified and it is completely wonderful. It honestly does my Grandpa Buck proud. I offer it to you so your summer can be complete. Go make your own wonderful memories. Life’s too short not to eat the ice cream.
Grandpa Buck’s Peach Ice Cream, Updated
Ingredients:
1 farm stand sack of fresh peaches, approximately a quart or 2- 1/2 pounds, does not have to be exact
2 Cups half and half
1-1/4 Cups sugar, divided into 1/2 Cup and 3/4 Cup
1/2 Cup light corn syrup
4 Tablespoons liquor, no more than 80 proof, vodka, bourbon, amaretto, or my favorite for this application, Cointreau, which pairs well with and enhances fruits
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, or more to taste
1/2 teaspoon of fresh lemon juice, if needed to counter sweetness
Directions:
Preparation:
Peel the peaches, remove pits, then slice enough into thin slices or small cubes to make 1 Cup. You need these to be small to avoid forming ice crystals which are definitely not fruitalicious.
Combine the tiny peach pieces in a bowl with 1/2 Cup sugar and the booze and let sit in the fridge for a minimum of two hours. I left them overnight. This is where the science happens. The alcohol prevents the fruit from becoming icy, hard, shards in the finished ice cream. You’ll thank me later.
Take the remaining peach chunks and puree in a blender at high speed until smooth. If you are using a different fruit, you may need to strain the mixture to remove seeds or fibers. The peaches did not need straining.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the remaining sugar, corn syrup, half and half, and peach slurry. Whisk until married. Taste mix and adjust with the salt and lemon juice as needed. Cover and chill in the fridge until very cold. I left mine overnight.
Making Ice Cream:
Take the chilled blended peach base (not the small bits) and churn according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.
When the mix is just about finished, take the peach bits out of the fridge and drain off the syrup but do not throw it away. The syrup is fabulous in iced tea, lemonade, margaritas, or daiquiris. Add the peach bits to the ice cream and churn no more than a minute.
Transfer ice cream to an airtight container and put it in the freezer for at least four hours to harden. I know, I know, that’s almost impossible for those of us who have impulse control issues, but it is important for the finished product. You’ve gone to all this effort, don’t slack off now.
Cook’s Notes:
Strawberries and mangoes also work well with this recipe. Have fun with it.
Also, don’t freak out about the corn syrup. It improves the texture. Calm down about the high-fructose whatever, you’re making ice cream, the best ice cream you’ve had in forever. Let it go.
I have been quiet for a month or so and I apologize for that. I do have a legitimate excuse. I have adopted two young dogs within the last month and they are running me ragged, but in a good way.
Mosey is a 14-month old Great Dane who was available through an ad on Craig’s List. It was my first Craig’s List experience and to tell the truth, I half expected it to be the kind of experience that gets made into a cautionary TV movie, or even worse, an America’s Most Wanted special. Naturally, I took my husband Gruff with me. It all turned out beautifully and now I have an adolescent, 100-pound Great Dane pup.
If you’ve ever raised a puppy, you know how relentless they are in exploring. Now, imagine that same mischievous pup being tall enough to rest her chin on the kitchen counter, stand up and nose the upper cabinets open, and grab the dirty dishes out of the sink and take them off to lick them, preferably while reclining on something upholstered. How many times a day do I ask myself, “What was I thinking?”
The second pup is a seven-month old Belgian Malinois, a super intelligent and high energy breed that is favored by the military, police departments, and border patrol. A movie is coming out this summer, entitled Max, about a Malinois. I really hope this movie shows how much training and work is necessary to make these dogs into happy, productive dogs because you don’t want an intelligent dog bored and frustrated in your house. That doesn’t end well for anyone.
It would break my heart if this breed suffers from the “101 Dalmatians” syndrome. That’s an actual thing, where everyone enjoys a movie featuring a breed of dog and rushes out to get one, not understanding its exercise or training needs. One year later, the shelters are overrun with those dogs. If you marry the wrong person, you divorce them. If you get the wrong dog for your lifestyle and can’t make the effort to make it work, they end up in rescue, shelters, or worse. Don’t go through doggie divorce. Save yourself the guilt and pain.
Hold up, you say. Molly, you’re not exactly an athlete. You don’t even like to sweat. Why would you ever take on a Malinois after what you’ve just said? Good point. One, I have owned a Belgian breed before, a Belgian Tervuren. It was a great experience though he was an adult when I got him out of rescue and then spent lots of money and time training him properly. Two, I am training this dog as a service dog for myself so I needed a working breed. Thankfully, I work from home so I can spend several hours a day putting this pup through its paces. Between the training, and the Great Dane chasing her through the house and yard, she is exhausted. An exhausted dog is a well-mannered dog.
So this will forever be known in my diary as the Summer of the Pup. Wish me luck. I will need it. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
P.S. A great big shout out to my husband, Gruff, who suggested we get these two dogs. This man loves me, not in a flashy dozens of roses way, but in a more meaningful, everyday, makes me happy way. There is no one else for me than this man, who thinks of me, my comfort, and contentment constantly. I will love you always.
My latest column is on the streets now in the May/June 2015 issue of Blue Ridge Country magazine. It is also online in the digital version. This column is entitled “It Takes A Village” and once again, I was lucky enough to get Joseph Mackereth to provide a lovely illustration to support the piece. The link to the column is:
http://blueridgecountry.com/newsstand/mill-creek-stories/it-takes-a-village/
Well, it’s officially summer. I know this because I have received twenty catalogues in the last month whose covers feature gloriously happy women wearing swim suits. I bet you missed the most important part of that sentence. I’ll run it by you again. Featuring happy women wearing swim suits.
You think I’m going to moan and whine about the awful pressure to get your jiggly parts firmed up to be trotted out at the community pool. Nope. Wrong. So very wrong. I recognize that a lot of people are nowhere near comfortable in their own bodies. A lot of people would rather eat a bowl of dirt than be seen in a bathing suit. I hope to change that.
During my adult life, I have worn swim suits ranging from a tiny size six to a robust size 28 and everything in between. Right now, I’m hovering around a size 20 and I’m totally cool with that. My point is that no matter what size I am, I have never been the thinnest chick at the beach and I’m never the fattest one either. I’m just part of the crowd that comes to the sea to have fun. We’re there to play with friends and family. We’re there to eat boardwalk fries and get sand in awkward places. On that note, I once complained to a friend about my thighs getting chafed from sand. She said, and this answer tells you everything you need to know about this woman, “Awww, my thighs rubbing just means I’m becoming a mermaid. I can’t wait.”
I know some of you are thinking, “But what if someone says something mean about me? I’ll just die!” No, you won’t. Here’s some perspective. I had more dim-witted comments slung my way when I wore a size six bikini then I do now. Being thin doesn’t protect you. Being slim doesn’t make stupidity dissipate. There is no force field for assholery. Some people are simply hateful and your size really doesn’t have much to do with that. Their problem, not yours.
When I was single, I used to consider taunts a useful early warning indicator. Thank you for publicly announcing to every female out here that you are undateable. Thanks dude, for saving us the time and trouble of getting to know you before realizing that you’re a huge waste of oxygen. We all, every last woman out here, appreciate the public service announcement. Very thoughtful of you to warn us off by yelling something repugnant in our presence. Bravo. Continue reading
Less Than Ladylike 