As some of you know, I’m writing another book–a memoir about childhood, the women who hovered over me, and their soul-satisfying foods.

One of those wonderful women, my Aunt Wiese, died several months ago. Every time I talked to her in the months leading up to her departure, she asked how the book was coming. Said she wanted “to read the thing” before she left us.

I’m afraid I failed her. I never thought she’d die.

A few days ago, my mother, Coco, called. That was unusual. Even in this day of cell phones and unlimited minutes, Coco is reluctant to call long distance. She can’t quite believe she’s not going to have to pay something extra. “Must be 2,000 miles between here [Nashville] and Walla Walla,” she’ll say. “Gotta be some extra charge for that.”

Anyway, she called. Asked how things were at the farm. Wanted to know about Annie’s alpacas and the horses. “And how are the dogs doing?” she asked.

“Come on Coco,” I said. “What gives? You never call unless you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Well, I’m not the kind to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted,” she said. “And you know I’m not the pushy type. But I am interested.”

“So what is it, Mom?”

“Well, I’ve just been wondering…you know…not all the time, mind you…but occasionally wondering…”

“About what, Mom?”

“Well, about when that book is going to be finished. Beebe’s been asking about it. So has Irma. And of course I told ‘em it’d be done when it was ready to be done. But they’re wondering if you’ve got some estimate for us.”

Now Mom, we’ve talked about this…”

“I know. I know…”

I don’t rightly know when it’ll be finished. Most of it is in New York with the editor and…”

“Editor,” Coco snipped. “What do you mean, editor? You don’t need an editor. She’s not gonna try to change your writing, is she? You’re writing is excellent. Don’t you be letting some editor get her handprints all over it.”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “She’s helping me with the book because I asked her to and she’s got a lot of experience I don’t have. And she’ll tell me the truth. I can’t get anybody I know to tell me straight what they really think–what they like and don’t like. She won’t pull any punches.”

“You’re writing is fine, Sam. You don’t need any fancy New York editor to tell you anything. I’ve read your books. So have Irma and Beebe. They liked ‘em fine. So did Barbara.”

“Who’s Barbara?” I asked.

“My hairdresser. She liked ‘em too.”

“Coco,” I said. “I know that you and Beebe and Irma like my writing. And I’m delighted you do. But I don’t think you have the kind of objectivity my editor does.”

“Well, you listen here,” she said. “Your Aunt Wiese died without getting a chance to read the book.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“And I know I’ve always said it takes the time it takes. But it’s taking a long time and I don’t know how much longer I’ve got. And what about Irma and Beebe?” Coco asked.

“Good point, Mom. I’ll try to move it along but a lot of this is out of my hands and whatever’s meant to be will be.”

“Well,” said Coco, a bit of resignation in her voice, “Don’t you be letting any fancy New York editor mess with your writing or slow you down. You’re writing is just fine.”

“I know, Mom. Thank you. I’ll do what I can. I promise.”

Thank goodness for moms.

Yesterday, I called Airline A to book a trip from Walla Walla through Seattle to L.A., then on to Nashville, and back to Walla Walla via Dallas and Seattle. A little complicated, but not unusually so. Business travelers deal with this stuff all the time.

 I called Airline A. The lady couldn’t have been nicer. She booked me on Airline A from Walla Walla to Seattle and from Seattle to L.A. She booked me on Airline B from L.A. to Nashville, on Airline C from Nashville to Chicago and from Chicago to Seattle, and back on Airline A from Seattle to Walla Walla.

 An hour later I received my itinerary via email and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. “That was easy,” I said.

 I printed the itinerary and started to put it in my briefcase, but noticed a message in very small print, way down at the bottom of page three, notifying me that I’d have to call Airline C to get seat assignments. “Oh,no. Here we go,” I thought.

 I’m reading a book written by an old friend of mine, Gordon Peerman. It’s called Blessed Relief: What Christians Can Learn from Buddhists about Suffering. I’m enjoying it. It’s well-written and interesting. I’m about half way through it. Thus far, my friend’s telling me, among other things, that I might benefit from practicing a more positive attitude toward life.

 So, very unlike myself, I stopped. I took a breath and followed it as it swirled around in my lungs and escaped through my lips. I looked heavenward. I noticed the low hum of the heater in my office. A little brown bird came and sat on my window sill and looked at me. The world suddenly seemed a wondrous place. I said aloud, “I believe the phone call I’m about to make will go well.”

 Gordon would have been proud of me.

 First, I had to find the phone number for Airline C. I went to their website and searched high and low for a number. About 15 minutes into the mission, I came to believe that Airline C really didn’t want to talk about my seat assignments. Finally I found a phone number and called it.

 The recorded voice of a friendly-sounding fellow said, “Welcome to Airline C. If you’d like to continue in English, press one. If you’d…”

 I pressed one.

 ”Welcome to Airline C,” the voice said again. “If you’d like to make a reservation, press one. If you’d like to book hotel accommodations, press two. If you’d like to rent a car, press three. If you’d just like to pay us some money, press four. If you’d like to do anything else, hang up and go to our website at…”

 The next thing I heard was a dial-tone.

 ”What the…,” I started to say to myself, and then I stopped. I took a breath and noticed it as went into my lungs, rattled around, and escaped from my lips. I looked heavenward, heard the hum, saw the bird, and thought: the world is a wondrous place. I’ll try that call again. It’ll go better this time because I have a very positive outlook on life at the moment and deserve better.

 I went back to Airline C’s website. After 10 minutes or so-I was getting better at this-I found a web page I’d not seen. There were at least 30 different numbers there. I looked for the one that said, “For the seat assignments that should have been on your itinerary, but weren’t, call [insert number].”

 I couldn’t find that number, so I called the general number at the top of the page-a number different from the one I’d called some thirty minutes earlier.

 The recorded voice of a friendly-but-familiar-sounding fellow said, “Welcome to Airline C. If you’d like to continue in English, press one. If you’d…”

 I pressed one.

 ”Welcome to Airline C,” the voice said again. “If you’d like to make a reservation, press one. If you’d like to book hotel accommodations, press two. If you’d like to rent a car, press three. If you’d just like to pay us some money, press four. If you’d like to do anything else, hang up and go to our website at…”

 The next thing I heard was a dial-tone.

 That made me mad. I slammed the receiver back into its cradle. The receiver cracked along its plastic spine and the mouthpiece fell to the floor. My breathing quickened. My heart rate sky-rocketed. The sound of blood coursing through the arteries in my neck blocked out the hum of my heater. I looked heavenward and noticed a big crack in the ceiling that I’d never seen before. I looked for the little brown bird, but he was gone. The world looked dark and sinister. I tossed the phone into the trash can, picked up my wallet and keys, and headed out to buy a new phone, so I could call Airline C and feed them an earful.

 When I got back to the farm last night, I picked up Gordon’s book and started reading where I’d left off.

 He thinks I may need more practice.

When Annie and I decided to get back to nature and move to Detour Farm, my thoughts turned to food. Unfortunately, that’s not unusual. Mention most any subject and my thoughts will turn to food.

Thoughts of food led me to consider food storage and thoughts of food storage led me to consider a root cellar. My thinking went like this: if we’re going to live off the land and harvest the fruits of our labor, we’d better have a place to store the fruits.

Unfortunately, that’s where the good thinking stopped.

 The French-speaking pioneers who settled our land-more than 150 years ago–built a root cellar at the base of the ancient locust tree behind our barn. We know it’s there. You can take a stick and jab it into the ground between exposed tree roots and you’ll hear a rumbling, tomb-like echo.

 Someday (not today), we’ll dig it out to see what’s there–maybe some stuff that’ll have historical significance or some incredibly valuable treasure or just some broken jars and petrified carrots. Annie’s crossing her fingers and hoping for treasure. But the historical record suggests petrified carrots. The folks who settled our place were not prosperous people.

 About three years ago, I set about studying root cellars and selected a site at the edge of a short rise several hundred yards to the east of our house-a spot that now appears to be nearer the horizon. You may be asking why we didn’t go dig out the existing root cellar and freshen it up–the one that’s 20 yards from the house, the one where for some 150 years our predecessors had a fully functioning root cellar. If you’re asking that question, you are, unlike me, an intelligent and thoughtful person.

 The answer to your question: I have no earthly idea.

 For reasons that escape me now, I decided to reinvent the wheel and put in a root cellar that requires a canteen and daypack full of provisions to get to and return from. And after three years and countless dollars, it still does not work. Go in there on a cold winter day and you’ll freeze to death. Crack an egg on the hand-laid basalt rock in summer and it’ll fry sunny-side-up while you count to sixty.

 Now, I may not be very bright, but I am stubborn. The weather will start to warm up around here over the next few weeks. I’m already thinking about additional improvements to the root cellar and soon I’ll start a search for a reliable guide who can lead me there and back.

Based on the emails I’m getting, the recipes are about the most popular feature of this blog. So here’s another family favorite…and a request for help.

 My Grandmother Jolley (on my mother’ side) made chicken and dumplings for Sunday dinner-every Sunday. I loved chicken and dumplings. Still do.

 My new book includes a story about this dish and I’ll likely include the recipe. Just one minor problem: my grandmother never wrote down the recipe as far as anybody knows. So, I’ve been working on it. A chef friend has been working on it. Two cousins and an aunt have worked on it.

 I think this recipe produces a darned good pot of chicken and dumplings, but we all agree we’re not quite there yet. So, if you’d like to try your hand and send along your suggestions, I’d be most grateful.

 GRANDMOTHER JOLLEY’S CHICKEN & DUMPLINGS

Serves 4

 Ingredients

 For the chicken:

 1 whole chicken, quartered

2 celery stalks, cut into 3-inch pieces

2 carrots, cut into 3-inch pieces

1 medium onion, quartered

1 bay leaf

4 cups chicken broth

4 cups water

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

 For the dumplings:

 2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon kosher salt

½ cup Crisco

½ cup milk

reserved chicken stock

 For the gravy:

 4 tablespoons butter

4 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups reserved chicken stock

1 tablespoon flat-leaf parsley, chopped fine

⅛ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

 Prepare the chicken:

 Place the chicken pieces in a large pot, and add the celery, carrots, onion, bay leaf, chicken broth, water, pepper and salt. The chicken should be covered by the liquid. If it’s not, add enough water to cover. Cover the pot and bring to a simmer. Simmer gently for 2 hours, skimming foam from surface periodically.

 Remove the chicken from the pot and set aside to cool. Strain the stock and skim the fat from the stock’s surface. Rinse the pot. Return the chicken stock to the pot and keep warm over low heat.

 Once the chicken has cooled, remove the bones and skin and cut into bite-sized pieces.

 Prepare the dumplings:

 While the chicken is cooling, prepare the dumpling dough. In a medium-sized bowl, mix the dry ingredients. Add the Crisco and mix quickly with a fork or pastry blender until the flour resembles a coarse meal. (Do not substitute butter for the Crisco.) Add the milk and knead just enough to bring the dough together. Form the dough into a ball. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and allow to rest while you make the gravy.

 Prepare the gravy:

 In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Stir in the flour and cook over medium heat for about two minutes, stirring constantly. While stirring, slowly add 2 cups of the reserved chicken stock. Bring to a simmer and cook until thickened, about 10 minutes. Add the parsley, nutmeg, salt, pepper, and chicken pieces.

 Finish the dumplings:

 While the chicken is warming in the gravy, finish the dumplings. Bring the remaining reserved chicken stock to a simmer. Roll out the dumpling dough to a ⅛ inch thickness (very thin). Cut the dough into strips, 1-inch wide by 3-inches long. Drop the strips into the simmering stock one at a time. Do not overcrowd the pot. Cover and cook at a simmer, without removing the lid, for 8 - 10 minutes. Remove the dumplings with a slotted spoon and add to the chicken and gravy.

 Serve warm and enjoy!

From my office window, I watch Main Street traffic, sidewalk strollers, and the storefronts of several businesses here in downtown Walla Walla. During the day, I spend a lot more time on the phone than I’d like, but talking doesn’t impair my study of local retail activity. Evidence of an economy in distress stares back at me-very few people on the street and the few are mostly window-shopping, not buying.

 There is, however, one bright spot in my window-aptly named Bright’s Candies. “Since 1934″ the window says. “Fine chocolates, ice cream, fresh fudge, gourmet candies, popcorn, caramelcorn, jelly bellys.” (Sounds inviting, doesn’t it?)

 I watch Paul, the owner, making fudge in the front window. Popcorn pops in the old-time popcorn machine. A fairly steady stream of people passes under the metal awning and through the double doors all day long. Crowds peak predictably after lunch and again in the late afternoon–just like last year and the year before, and probably the year before that, all the way back to 1934. Rain or shine, summer heat or winter chill, good economy or bad.

 Regulars head straight in, no hesitation. They know what they want and they’re going in to get it. The occasional customer will stop at the door, wondering whether she (or he) “should” go in. Then she (or he) almost always does.

 Thinking may slow folks down but it rarely stops anybody. There’s chocolate inside.

 So this has got me thinking I’ll wander across the street and get a box of popcorn-just a little box.

 Or maybe the large box.

 I had a light lunch.

When Annie and I first moved to Walla Walla, our daughter Jolie was a senior at Whitman College here in town. She worked part-time as a teacher’s assistant in a local kindergarten classroom and invited me to visit her class one September day. I arrived in time for lunch which was served at 10:30am if I remember correctly.

Joel was my guide to all things kindergarten. He had a lot to say, but went quiet as we made our way through the cafeteria line, approaching the lady serving the hamburgers. She wore clear plastic gloves and an institutional-green hair net and asked whether we wanted onions on our burgers. That’s when Joel held up his hand to stop me from answering. He said he’d handle it.

He turned back to the lady and asked, “Are they Walla Walla Sweets?” ’Cause we only eats Walla Walla Sweets.”

Little Joel–a five year-old boy who ate onions. That was a wonder. But a five-year-old boy who only ate Walla Walla Sweet onions? Well, that was special.

My kindergarten cafeteria experience caused me to think back on my own childhood. Rummaging through some dusty files at the back of my brain, I remembered that I too ate onions at five years of age, but I only ate them one way—on cheese and onion sandwiches made by my mother, Coco.

My brothers and I lined up at the oven door for these. No kidding! So give ’em a try. And don’t forget Coco’s rule: if you haven’t got something nice to say about the food, don’t say anything at all…

COCO’S CHEESE & ONION SANDWICHES

Makes 4 sandwiches

Ingredients

½ cup minced sweet onion (preferably Walla Walla Sweet onion)
2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, freshly grated
1/4 cup mayonnaise
8 slices white bread

Combine onion, grated cheese and mayonnaise in a medium mixing bowl. Spread onto four of the bread slices and put the other bread slices on top. Cut the sandwiches into quarters. Place the sandwiches on a baking sheet and run up under the broiler until toasted on one side. Flip sandwiches and toast on the other side.

Enjoy!

Chloe and her mom, Maryann, came by the farm last night. Chloe’s five-going-on-fifteen. She told me that herself. Like most five year olds, she soaks up everything around her.

Annie and Maryann were talking about Chloe’s great aunt who died a few days ago at the age of 93. She was something of a planner. She bought her burial plot—a double—about 20 years ago. By “double” she meant a single burial plot that allowed for the burial of one occupant above another. Cheaper than two “side-by-side singles.” She figured her sister would “go” first and many years later she’d “follow” and be buried “on top.” It all turned out the way she’d planned it.

Good story.

In the course of the story, Maryann mentioned that the aunt had been cremated. Chloe, who’d been listening to every word while eating a sugar cookie and singing a song about a frog, jumped in to ask what “cremated” meant. Being a good mom, Maryann patiently explained.

A few minutes later, Chloe piped up and said she didn’t want to be cremated. She wanted everybody to know. She wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of being set afire. And I told her not to worry about it. I’d make sure folks knew her wishes when she passed on.

She gave me a quizzical look, but didn’t say anything.

The three ladies headed to the barn to see the new baby alpaca. They were gone 15 or 20 minutes. I sat at our dining table typing away on my new book. Chloe came running through the door. Came over and stood by my chair while her mom called after her, “Chloe, come on honey. We’ve got to get on home and fix some supper.”

Chloe yelled back, “I’m coming, mom.”

Then she turned to me and said, “Sam, I think I’ll find somebody else to tell folks I don’t want to be cremated…if it’s all the same to you.”

And then she ran off.

Smart girl.

Dear President-elect Obama,

The economic news has been pretty bad lately. (I know you already know this, but I had to start somewhere.)

Don’t know about you, but I’m scared to death. So are most of my friends. And while it may not be the best thing for the economy, we’re all cutting back.

I’ve cut the thermostat down to 65º. My wife, Annie–who is one of your biggest fans—has quit driving our Dodge Ram Super-Hemi 3500 truck. I only go to Starbucks once a day now and I order a tall-drip-with-room-for-cream instead of my regular double-short-nonfat-latte, thereby saving at least $4.00 a day. Oh, and we ate leftovers again last night.

That’s not all, but you don’t want to hear the rest of it.

Drinking less coffee has made me cranky. For example, I hope those fat-cats at AIG got an earful and have put an end to those ridiculously expensive retreats. And I hope the big-wig automotive CEO’s have given up their private jetting-around. They may have good reasons for flying around in corporate planes, but as a member of Congress pointed out to them at those hearings week before last, appearances matter at times like these.

Now, that gets me around to the reason I’m writing this letter. (Sorry it took awhile.) You seem like a smart, thoughtful guy. And you’re all about change. You’ve probably already thought long and hard about this, but if not, I thought I’d throw in my one cent. (Used to be two cents, but I seem to have lost one of them.)

You’ve got a big inauguration coming up. In the past, presidential inaugurations have been humongous shindigs and, unless I’m mistaken, have cost us taxpayers a bundle–limos everywhere, security guys on rooftops with fancy guns, helicopters flying hither and yon, grandstands, policemen at every corner, the military on alert, and on and on. It all adds up, doesn’t it?

So, I was thinking that instead of having an all-out inauguration, maybe you’d like to have a small one—just family and a few friends in the Rose Garden, a Supreme Court Justice to administer the oath, and just enough media to get your speech on TV, radio, and the internet. If it rains, you could easily move the whole thing onto one of the porches. And afterwards, instead of riding around in a limo to parties all over town, maybe you could just go up to the Oval Office and get to work. We need you. And as just one of your taxpaying constituents, I’d feel better about saving the money. We could use it to create some of those 2.5 million jobs.

Now I know there’ll be a bunch of belly-aching. Some of the ladies have already bought their fru-fru dresses. They’ll be miffed. And the tux shops will cry foul. The limo companies won’t be happy. The hotels will scream bloody murder.

Some will say we need to put on a show for all the world to see—prove to our allies and enemies alike that we can still put on a Super-Bowl-of-an-Inauguration and dazzle them with glitz. Show ‘em we can still fiddle and drink bubbly stuff while our economy goes down the tubes. But there’s nothing original in all of that, Rome did it a long time ago and look where it got them.

Folks will come up with all kinds of arguments about why this inauguration needs to be a blow-out. But maybe right now it’s more important to demonstrate that you really are different, that you can tighten your belt too, that you really do get it, and sit down after your inauguration to a dinner of meatloaf, and mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans, and rolls from the can, just like the rest of us.

If recent events have shown us anything, appearances do matter. We’re taking our cues from you.

I’m already catching some grief about not putting up a recipe. So here’s one of my new favorites.

Back in October, I attended the Southern Foodways Alliance Symposium in Oxford, MS. I’ll write more about that trip I’m sure, but while I was there I met Mark who works for Lodge Cast Iron in South Pittsburgh, TN where they make their cast iron skillets, pots, griddles, and such. He gave me a cookbook and a crash course on curing my new cast iron pot.

Well, lately I’ve been fiddling with this recipe for Italian Bread Soup, which is actually more like a casserole than a soup if you want my opinion. I cook it in my Lodge deep skillet. Folks rave about it. So, I sent Mark the recipe as a thank you for the cookbook. And it occurs to me that you might want to try it too.

The original recipe came from a Jamie at Home episode on The Food Network. I’ve made a few changes over time. And now I’ve got something I like a lot. It’s easy. You can make it ahead and refrigerate it until you’re ready to cook it. And it’s a whole meal in one easy-to-clean bowl.

You’ll need a 3 ½ to 4 quart cast iron pot or Dutch oven. This recipe will serve 6 hungry people.

Ingredients

1 large Napa cabbage
1 large bunch collards, turnip greens or mustard greens
2 cups chicken stock
Extra virgin olive oil
1 pound Merguez (or Hot Italian) sausage
1 large loaf sourdough or Italian bread
1 garlic clove, peeled and halved
2 cans Cannellini beans, drained
2 tablespoons fresh, finely chopped rosemary
8 oz. Fontina cheese, grated
8 oz. good quality parmesan cheese, grated
Salt and pepper to taste

Cut the Savoy cabbage and greens into bite sized pieces. Place in your pot. Pour in the chicken stock. Cover, bring to a simmer, and cook until soft. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Set greens and liquid aside in a big bowl and wipe out your pot.

Cut the sausage into bite-sized pieces, put in your pot, add a bit of olive oil, and brown the sausage over medium high heat. Set aside in another bowl and wipe out your pot.

Cut the bread into 4 or 5-inch rounds about an inch thick. You’ll need 10 to 12 slices. Place the slices of bread on a sheet pan. Drizzle with olive oil. Sprinkle on a bit of salt. And bake in a 400° oven until toasted. About 20 minutes. Remove from oven. Rub the toast with the garlic clove to flavor it and discard the garlic. Set the toast aside. Leave the oven on at 400°.

Okay, now you’re ready to “assemble” the soup. Rub your pot generously with olive oil. Using tongs or a slotted spoon, add about half of the cabbage/greens to layer the bottom of the pot (reserving the stock you cooked the greens in). Sprinkle on about half of the sausage. Add one can of the beans in a layer. Sprinkle on one tablespoon of the rosemary. Put in a layer of the bread. Sprinkle on about half of the Fontina. Then half of the parmesan.

Now repeat the layering from the previous paragraph—greens, sausage, beans, rosemary, bread, Fontina and parmesan.

Add just enough of the chicken stock you cooked the greens in to soak what’s in the pot (so chicken stock moistens the cheese on top of the “soup” but doesn’t cover it).

Bake uncovered in the oven for 30 to 45 minutes (until bubbling and the cheese is browned on top).

Serve hot in big bowls with a drizzle of olive oil.

Hope you like it.

Hi. My name’s Sam.

Well actually it’s not really Sam, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I’m a writer now. “Sam McLeod” is my pen name.

Creative writing affords me a bit of freedom. I find that I’m a more interesting person if I don’t worry too much about getting my facts straight. I’ve been known to exaggerate from time to time. I call it “embellishing.” My wife, Annie, calls it “lying.” She can be a little blunt sometimes.

By the way, “Annie” is not my wife’s real name. She said if I was going to take a pen name, she wanted a fake name too. She picked “Annie.” So now who’s playing a little fast and loose with the facts?

Anyway, forewarned is forearmed.

Now, just so you don’t doubt everything you’re reading, here are a few truths. Annie and I live on a farm we call “Detour Farm”–160 acres on the Walla Walla River west of Walla Walla, Washington. We’ve carved out 16 acres for our house, barn, dogs, cat, alpacas, horses, and a root cellar that doesn’t work very well. The rest is for native plants and wildlife.

Creating new habitat for wildlife is a big part of what we’re about. There’s a lot to be done, including stream bank improvements, developing new riparian areas along the river, soil enhancements, and plantings of native grasses, shrubs and trees.

I’m hoping you’ll stop by when you can and enjoy what you read here. I plan to post a new blog every few days. There’ll be a lot about the trials, tribulations and joys of creating new habitat, but I’ll also be writing on family, farm life, writing, cooking, travel, folks Annie and I meet along the way, and anything else that comes up. And we’ll have a guest blogger from time to time (when a topic requires actual knowledge).

And just so you know, I do much of my writing while sitting here in my chair on the porch. Thus the name “View from the Porch.”

So, enough already! Let’s get on with more interesting things…