Thanksgiving At The Miller's

Thanksgiving at the Miller's

My dad was a man’s man.  He worked all week repairing tractors, combines, and irrigation motors. Cooking the Thanksgiving turkey would not fall under any of those job descriptions.

I came along late in their lives, (SURPRISE!!), so I can’t vouch for what happened earlier in his life, but this is my history thus: my dad was born in 1913, so he was from a different time.  My mom was born in 1919.  I remember them saying things like, “a child is to be seen and not heard”.  It was the tradition in that period that the men ate in the “dining room” FIRST, then the women ate in the same room, then whatever left was fed to the children in the kitchen. (As crazy as that sounds in these days of feeding the kids first, I, as one of those children then, never wanted for too much, as my current robust health testifies.) I guess you could call it “food politics”. That’s when “the woman’s place was in the home”.  With all this posturing, a “man " cooking was a bit—how should I say it--odd.  Different. 

My dad did not care.  He usually repeated this turkey-dressing feat at Christmas, but Thanksgiving was the priority. Outside of these yearly duties, breakfast was his only culinary expertise—in the mornings or sometimes for supper.   Most folks around Hartley would be surprised, my dad was not the guy  you would expect to fix a great Thanksgiving feast.   He would fix your International irrigation engine, but not dinner. Every year he tried different things.  He baked the bird in a paper bag, or he would  open roast it, basting it hourly.  It was his profound pleasure to create a moist turkey.  But it was not his turkey I am here to talk about. It is the dressing.

Thanksgiving dressing is a VERY controversial subject.  Trust me, after years in the beauty salon,  I know.  Most recipes are protected with some sort of vigilante attitude.   Bread?  Cornbread? Sage? Sausage? The arguments were never-ending, and sometimes bordered on violent! Well at our  house, it was cornbread dressing.  

My mother would bake the cornbread, stone ground cornbread from a recipe in her head that was never written down. For weeks, she would have been freezing day old bread, dinner rolls,  hamburger buns...any other bread that might be getting a little dry and could be used for this as well. Thanksgiving Eve, Daddy would begin the process of turning that bread and cornbread into dressing. When I was older, I watched to see how he did it—because it was and still is my favorite  of the Thanksgiving meal!  You can all have your pies and cakes, just give me a big heap of dressing and gravy! Daddy chopped all the vegetables, and mushed all the breads and broth with his hands until it was the proper moistness, then baked it golden brown—just right to soak up all that giblet gravy!!

He usually baked the dressing the night before because he thought it had a better flavor after sitting overnight, and he would need their one oven for the turkey and all the other goodies the next day. While he tried different cooking methods on the turkey, the dressing never changed. I have considered trying different dressing recipes through the years, but when my daughters would find out my intentions, they would blanche.  “What?  You are not making Grandaddy’s dressing???”  So, I have never tried any of those sausage or cranberry dressings. But that's ok, this one ROCKS.

Cornbread Dressing 

SERVES  15-20 PEOPLE!

1--9" X 11" cake pan of cornbread  (4 packages of cornbread mix, made per directions)

6 slices bread

3 cans chicken broth

5 raw eggs, beaten

3 stalks celery, sliced (approx 2 cups)

1 large white onion, diced (approx 2 cups)

5 boiled eggs, coarse chopped

2 Tablespoons salt

1 Tablespoon of black pepper

2 Tablespoons poultry seasoning

Place slices of bread in large pan, and cover with broth, allow to soak a few minutes.  

Crumble the cornbread with your hands. Blend into the bread and broth until well combined.

 Add beaten eggs. 

Sprinkle salt and poultry seasoning over the top of the bread. Top with onion and celery, blend in 

well with your hands. If the breads are very dry, you might add more broth if it is not wet enough.

 It should be similar to a soft mashed potato consistency--kinda gloppy. (Don't you love my 

culinary technical prowess?)

  

Add chopped boiled eggs. Fold into mixture carefully as not to break them apart too much.

 Place in greased pan, cover with foil. 

Bake 45 minutes covered at 375 degrees. Remove foil, and bake for 45 minutes uncovered.

 Check for doneness by inserting knife in the center--there should be no jiggle when shaken, and it 

should be firm, not too soft in the center.

The thickness of the dressing will determine cooking time. If you choose a slightly larger roasting pan

 like a 12" X 16", it could be done after the 1.5 hours, and I recommend lowering the temp to 350 degrees.

 If it is as deep as this pan (disposable deep lasagna pan), continue to cook in 15 minute increments

 until done. This one took 45 minutes covered at 350 degrees, and one hour uncovered at 375 degrees 

to get to this point. 

I always bake my dressing the day or two before so the flavors can blend, and it frees up the oven on 

Turkey Day. It can be frozen, thawed, and the finish bake done later. This one is as brown as I like to

 get it on the first bake. Keep in mind you will be re-heating it, and you do not want it overcooked and

 dry. I also prefer a roasting pan so it will get a good crunchy crust, but this one will be travelling

 across Texas with me, so a disposable will have to do. 

Here you have the perfect vehicle for some delicious giblet gravy... you will never need potatoes again!

The final product with giblet gravy...do you see me kayaking through there?  

Have a wonderful, blessed Thanksgiving my friends!  Peace, Love, and DRESSING!

Happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day. It was always the time of the year that the iris bloomed.  After the winter season, it was the one of first glimpses of flowers in the yard.  We always had a big bouquet of purple and yellow blooms on the table. My mother grew up in a time where you planted things that came back year after year, usually bulbs given to you by a friend or relative. There were no greenhouse flowers, there were heritage blooms.  

Everybody loved my mom.  She was a “cool mom” before moms were cool.  Now I don’t mean she was a mom that wore teenager clothing or tried to hang out with us or be youthful, she was just herself and that was…cool.  She was older than a lot of my friend's moms, and she worked, so that meant I learned how to cook at a fairly young age. This was good, because she was a great cook and taught me many kitchen tricks. In the summers she canned a lot, and in the winters she baked. She had a self-deprecating humor, and loved to collect things.  She was never unaccompanied by my daddy, so it is almost hard for me to speak of her in the singular.  They were from a time when married couples did not do things without the other. Anyone who was in our world at the time I was growing up knows they were never far away from where I was. They were a fixture at our house after I married, at all our get-togethers, and kidnapped my girls at every occasion.  But growing up in the Miller house was different than a lot of others.

My name was chosen long before I was born.  Clif was born 13 years before me, and the name Donna (after my mother's sister) had been chosen “in case” he was a girl.  The middle name, "Lynelle", is Mother and Daddy's names combined--Lloyd and Wanelle. Jim came along a couple of years later, and the name had to wait. Well, many years and one more brother  (Ken) later, I appeared…the little princess in all their lives.  (Know that as I write this, I am laughing. They will begrudgingly agree, however.) I was a fluff of hair ribbons, lacy socks, pretty dresses and curls. I have early memories of the three of them treating me like a little doll when I was small.  When I got older, Kenny and I had our moments of war, but I was still his little sister, and he was very protective of me.

My mom was not a super attentive mother, no matter what my princess title required.  Once I was old enough to run outside, I think a “free range” parenting label would fit better. I climbed trees, made mud pies, and played trucks with the boys.  I cut Tide boxes and clipped them to my bicycle spokes with clothes pins so it would make noise.  I went to my dad’s shop and drove small tractors up and down FM 281, much to the neighbor’s horror. Most days I am sure I smelled like a boy when I came in, after a long day blowing up gourds with firecrackers, playing pirate in the old combines behind the shop, and laying in the grass looking at the stars until the mosquitoes ate me up. In my books, that was mothering at its best. 

I was blessed with my own little curtain climbers many years later.  “Mothering” had changed, but I think they will both agree I was not a helicopter mother either.  I must say though, I know for a fact that the lessons and values taught me by my mother have been passed on. Mother taught me how to sew, cook, balance a checkbook, recycle something from almost anything,  how to laugh at yourself, and most of all, how to be independent.  I know I have succeeded in passing that knowledge on to my two little monkeys, who are now the most amazing, beautiful young women I know. They are smart, funny, capable women who know how to work and achieve great things.  Mother has been gone since 1999, but her knowledge is still alive and well through them.

You know, we don’t get a manual when we have kids. We are just all out there, being the best moms we know how to be. For some that means being a helicopter. For others, that might mean not being in their child’s lives at all. But at the end of the day, IT IS OUR BEST.  Thank you, Shelly and Shana, for being everything a mother could ever ask for. I thank God constantly for his blessing of you on our life. I pray he bless you both with the same.

Happy Mother’s Day to all my friends and family. Appreciate your mom every day, whether she is still with you or not—she did her best.

And here are my little nuggets.

Peace, friends.

The Bathrobe

Anyone who knows me well will tell you I am pretty thrifty when it comes to personal belongings.  I have always stowed away my decorative items for a while, only to pull them back out and use them again in a couple of years. I have always only kept one set of sheets for each bed, I wash them and put them back on.  I have cookware that I got as wedding gifts that I still use on a daily basis. I keep clothing and wear it until it is worn out.

This brings up my bathrobe. Just how worn out is worn out?  It is still a very plush blue velour, and is very snuggly (which is the most important requirement for a bathrobe). The only sign of wear is at the neck—from being hung on a hook in my closet. For over 35 years. Ok, ok, I realize this might strike you as a bit odd, to keep something for that long—but I have to reiterate—it is still good!  It has always been able to perform its bathrobe duties-- covered me when I was cold, dried me when I was wet—it worked.  Since the styles don’t really change, I had not really put much thought into a new one. I ordered it from J.C. Penny’s in Dalhart from the catalog counter because I could get a “tall”, and I knew the sleeves would be long enough. I can’t remember the exact date, but I think around 1976. It’s a wonder it wasn’t avocado green instead of blue. Or had peace sign  or “Keep On Truckin” patches sewn on it.

So I start thinking about what this bathrobe has been through. It wrapped me as a newlywed on a cold winter’s night. It tried to cover all of me during my two pregnancies, but my baby belly peeped out the front.  It was a welcome comfort home after a couple of surgeries.  It has been dripped on, drug through, and dipped in almost everything imaginable. It has ventured outside on a few occasions, but I can honestly say it never took a car ride (I never was that robe-wearing mom driving her kids to school). It’s had a million food items on it—syrup, bacon grease, mayo, mustard, and for some odd reason, I always ended up with pancake batter on the sleeves. And yes, I dipped the belt in the toilet water more than once.

So I decided it was time to retire the old girl. She has stood with me, and done everything I have asked. I have replaced her with a cheery pink one, but it doesn’t feel as soft. The hubby said, “Now, you ARE going to get rid of the old one, aren’t you?” and I honestly had to take a breath before I said yes.  I am not a keeper, I donate pretty much anything I am not using, but I think he knew I would have a difficult time letting go of this old girl. How long will the pink one last? Who knows, but my money is on the fact that it will not even touch how long the blue one lasted. And yes, my money is also on the fact that the belt will get baptized in the toilet water.  

TIME FOR A REVIEW. THERE WILL BE A TEST, CLASS....

I haven’t blogged in forever. It’s not that I gave it up, it’s just that life happens. We get caught up in the daily grind. I am a spontaneous writer—when I get an idea, I have to write it then, or it is lost. I have done some deep thinking this week as we have lost Chuck’s sister very unexpectedly with a brain aneursym. A little "life review", as it were.  First we lost his Dad, Ted, in August, then our brother-in-law Tom in October. They were both ill, which doesn’t make it any easier, but I had a little time to prepare myself for their passing. Christie’s passing was a shock. She was my age (which I prefer to think is not all that old), and in a blink she was gone. Looking back at her life made me look back at mine. What have I done in this life? Am I where I want to be? If I go tomorrow, what is my legacy?  With that in mind, I am laying out what I feel is important:

Love one another. Don’t judge one another. We are all just slogging along, trying to get through this life the best way we know how. And yes, there are those out there who don’t share your beliefs, morals, hygiene, or (Lord help us) fashion sense.  Jesus tells us over and over to love them anyway, and it’s not your job to judge them. For the most part, it is useless to try to change anyone’s mind.  Just love them.

Smile. Be kind. You never know when that grouchy hateful person might just need one.  Help people who need helping. Open doors, carry a bag, whatever. Throw a wink in with that smile. Maybe that person will pass your kindness on. Or the smile.

Be accountable. I struggle with this one. There are always excuses,”the sun was in my eyes”,“the dog ate my homework” or“I was going to come over, but the ShamWow infomercial came on TV and I lost track of time”. If you screw up, own it.

Tell those closest to you that you care. Why is it that we tend to not tell our husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, children, parents, etc, that we love and treasure them? Like they should just know it? Does the fact that we are still hanging around picking up their shoes and cooking a meal once in awhile mean that we love them?  We all like to hear we are loved and valued.

Reach out to people. As you all know, I am a social networking fan. Facebook sucks up more of my time than it should, but I enjoy keeping up with friends. I don’t accept friend requests from someone I have not met. While I may not chat with all of them often, I love to look at their photos of their kids, grandkids, cats, dogs, and goofy videos.  I read their comments, "like" their posts, and watch their journey through life. I laugh at them, pray with them, and poke them occasionally. I post what is going on my end, and post all my random silly pictures and jokes in the hopes of giving away a few smiles—if I can make a couple of people laugh, I have done my job. Not everyone shares my twisted, wacky sense of humor, and if they get tired of my posts, they are welcome to unfollow me. If they disagree with my beliefs and lifestyle, they are welcome to unfriend me. Mostly, I have found people just like to complain about it, but they are still on Facebook looking at my crap.

Don't sweat the small stuff. Ask yourself, "will I remember this in 5 years?" If the answer is no, cut it loose. Mop up the mess, wipe yourself off, and get back to it. Life's too short to nitpick.

Listen to some music. Whatever your preference is, it soothes us, lifts our mood, and for me, takes me to places only music can. Get up and dance once in a while. It is a real stress reliever, and in my case, provides comic relief to anyone close by.

Take care of yourself. Remember that we are not bodies that have souls, we are souls that have bodies. Our body has to carry us through this life, and our soul carries on through the next one. Nourish both.

For me, I try to approach life like I do driving--with reckless abandon.  Peace, friends.

"MY STYLE"

I got pulled down that black hole known as Pinterest a couple of years ago.  For creative, crafty, painting-sewing-photo taking furniture refurbisher like me, it is simply idea heaven.  But the bigger aspect of Pinterest is that there are virtually hundreds of subjects covered--travel, food, business, and even things on the risqué side. (Don’t ask me how I know that. Well, it was a mistake, I just saw this photo, clicked on it, and before I knew it I was on the wrong side of town.)

Anyway, for those of you who are not familiar with Pinterest, it is an online pinboard site that you can “pin” links to webpages, photos, etc  on your own “boards”. That allows you to go back to that web page by clicking on the “pin” and access it. When you first begin, they have created a few boards for you and pre-named them. One of the boards was named “MY STYLE”. I giggled and deleted it, thinking to myself, “Style is not something I have. Delete.”

You see, I have style challenges. I am not a girly-girl, but I like some girly stuff. I see those gals out there with the big hair and the big nails and the big purse and the big rhinestone outfits, and while I think it is cute, I would just....no. Not working that hard at it, I guess. Maybe I should call my style "LAZY".

I love that Youtube about the difference between the way men and women shower.  The woman takes in a minimum of 17 products, shampoos, scrubs, loofahs, pumices, and conditioners and after 40 minutes, walks out smelling like a flower shop.  The man walks in, washes everything with bar soap, including his hair, and leaves, dropping wet towels along the way. Me, I fall somewhere in the middle, but everything in my shower smells more like laundry soap than flowers.  My home décor is nowhere close to Pottery Barn, but is not quite Motel 6, either. I don’t like to spend a lot of money on clothes, mainly because it offends me that someone thinks I want to pay a hundred bucks for a pair of pants that looks like they were run over by a freight train. All 200 cars. I know there are more washings in that $40.00 pair without all the holes, anyway.  So, I guess I should call my style “PRACTICAL”.

When looking at the “Women’s Fashions” section in Pinterest, I realize there are a lot of options out there, but a lot of them are not made for a woman of my stature. My brother said it well once, quote-

“The guy who designed us had just got a promotion. His previous job was designing fire hydrants.”-–Ken Miller 

And as silly as it sounds, he is pretty close.  Growing up in the ’50’s when 36-24-36 was the desirable measurements for a woman, rolling in at 36-36-36 made it hard to find clothes. I have to smile when I think about my Grandmother Clifton in Dalhart. She had sets of matching shoes, purse, and hat—bone and white for summer, black for winter, and navy was for anytime, I guess. But she was adamant you could not wear the bone or white colored shoes before Easter or after Labor Day. She wore hosiery,  a hat, and gloves to church. Her earrings and necklace matched. While that was the norm for women in the '50's, I am glad those days have gone by. 

“Ain’t nobody got time for dat!”  —Sweet Brown

Then, you add in that I am now a “woman of a certain age” (which is just nicey-nice talk saying a woman is no longer young but is not REALLY old YET) and it becomes a real labrynth to find “my style”. Let’s be honest, some body parts just should not see the light of day after 50. That means short shorts are out, and we have to reel the neckline up on the tank tops. An armhole that stops that upper arm from looking like a spare parachute is nice, too. On the legs, factor in my 4 knee surgeries and waaay too many hours in the sun, and I am safe to just put on pants and call it a day.

I have actually gone back and created a style board for myself, and I have found a few things to pin. Mostly sporty looking stuff, that I will girly up by carrying my girly phone cover. Or maybe a fussy necklace.  On the Grammys the other night, they had a “shoe cam” where they had the celebrities show off their ridiculously expensive bunion makers. Chuck asked me at one point, “Did you see ANY shoes you liked” I just laughed at him. I have never seen anyone be able to walk with any grace at all in platform spikes-they all lurch along like Frankenstein.  The allure of them is lost on me.  But show me a cool pair of boots or running shoes, and I am all “ooooohhhhh, yeah”.

And so it is with a lot of “fashion”. My criteria is quite different than most women.  Does it fit?  Is it comfortable? Am I willing to pay that for it? Does this keep my muffin top from looking like a whole loaf?  If it meets these, it’s “my style”.  What's yours?