Every time I write the word chrysanthemum I hear Anne of Green Gables spelling down Gilbert Blythe with a look of disdain :
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Start with two cups ground pecans -- or, if you're like me and don't want to fuss with cleaning a food processor for a measly 2 cups of ground pecans (even if you did own one), just smash up the bag of pecans with a hammer and measure out two cups of the resulting smaller bits.
Add a cup of bread crumbs,
two cups of grated cheese (monty jack in today's batch, but I've used parm, motz, etc. before with good results too)
two tablespoons or so dry minced onion
and roughly a half teaspoon of oregano flakes.
Mix that all together, and then add two eggs and a quarter cup of milk, mixing to form a doughy texture.
On my original recipe card I have just the list of ingredients followed by only three words of instruction: "Mix, Ball, Fry." Mix we have already covered. Ball and fry come next.
Form the mixture into balls about an inch, or an inch and a half roughly in size. I use a small frying pan and a little safflower oil to pan-fry in batches, because I think that's a bit healthier than deep frying. (Though you'll get a more even color with a deep fry.) Get a nice crispy outside, the darker side of golden, then let them rest, draining over paper towels.
And they're ready to serve. Enjoy.
Friday, October 15, 2010
"Civilization has run on ahead of the soul of man, and is producing faster than he can think and give thanks." -- Chesterton
"Oh give thanks to the LORD; call upon His name; make known His deeds among the peoples! Sing to Him; sing praises to Him; tell of all His wondrous works!" -- 1 Chronicals 16:8-9
"Great truths can only be forgotten and can never be falsified." -- Chesterton
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Every so often a house glares, crisp and starched, from between its overgrown and faded neighbors and occasionally the road is patched with lines of tar so new and black the old paving looks white. Bleached with the same sun that turns monarch wings into dancing bits of stained glass.
Interstate engines filter through trees grown old enough to be the size for hugging, for hanging swings, for leaning against and learning wisdom. For looking up through leaves. Heard like this the tractor trailers become muffled, a distorted ocean roar. Soothing in their way.
Airplanes pass over, mark the highway, and bank right or left. Crows watch the grass grow. Today the wind whirled maple wings until the only sound was rushing air, like memories pressing to reach the sky. And yesterday the golden needles of a tamarack made a path to walk.