A Jaunt in Sutter Creek; subtitle: They did WHAT to the Bread?

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of driving down to Sutter Creek in the Mother Lode Country to see a concert by Old Time Musician Bruce Molsky. I was to meet up with my daughter there and enjoy dinner together before the show. Always keeping in mind the possibility of new material for my blog!

My daughter was running late, so I took advantage of my time to visit a little wine tasting shop that carried wines for three local wineries. One nice thing about these little places is that the tasting is free, so you don’t have to worry about which ones to try or how much it will cost (thinking of Napa Valley 5 or 6 tastes for $25). I know what I like, so I went for the Chardonnay, the Zinfandel and the Cabernet Sauvignon, in that order. I ended up purchasing a very nicely complex and oaky Chardonnay and a fairly intense Zinfandel. While I was there, a younger woman and her mother came in. I knew they were in over their heads when they asked for something “sweet.” The first pour, a blush, was too “sour,” and the next, a chenin blanc was also too sour. They should head straight for the supermarket and pick up some Boone Hill or Wild Vines Peach.

With my daughter’s arrival, I stashed my bag in the truck and we walked the block to the restaurant. I had chosen “Susan’s Place.” It was totally charming. We ate in the patio, though I’m not sure if you can call it a patio, since it was at the front of the restaurant itself. All was rustic with lots of greenery and checked tablecloths and patio lights. Green market umbrellas hung from the translucent roof panels instead of sticking up on poles. At this point, the review will be divided—the food and the service.

The dinner entrees were cleverly designed. You chose the entrée itself, the sauce, and the side that the entrée would be arranged on top of. I chose an eggplant portabella entree, Mediterranean sauce, and a side of polenta slices. It was excellent. The sauce was garlicky and tangy pesto-ish and the polenta was browned on the outside and creamy on the inside. I ate every crumb. A Greek salad came with it. The dressing was another pesto-ish creation. I made a note to myself to copy it at home. Pesto, lemon juice, some sort of garlic seasoning, olive oil, white wine vinegar perhaps. As you would expect in a nice little place like this, a platter of bread and garlic butter was served while we were waiting for our food. More on the bread later…

When we went in at 6:15, the place was about half full. We were seated promptly and cheerfully by the greeter. And then waited. And waited. Now I have been in places that you are legitimately afraid that they don’t notice you, or that you have been placed to make you conveniently unnoticeable. But this wasn’t the case. It was like being at a garden party with the wait staff walking by you every time they have to do something. After about 5 minutes she came by and said she could take our orders in about 2 minutes. She forgot to add a zero, because that was how long it took. In the meantime, she served food to 2 different tables. I kept thinking, if she would just take our orders (obviously we knew what we wanted, as our menus were folded beside us) then the kitchen could get started on our meals!

She came by, with an apology for the delay, and took our orders. About 10 minutes later, the bread came. More on the bread later… With pleasant efficiency, the salad followed and then the entrée arrived. While we were eating, the most astonishing thing happened. My daughter and I were in deep discussion over a topic of personal interest, when the waitress, who had overheard a fragment of the conversation, injected herself into our talk with a mistaken impression of what we were talking about! I was speechless. My daughter managed to stammer out something like, “That’s not what we were talking about.” And then we just waited for her to leave. Now you would think that a new 17 year old waitress might make this mistake, but she was about 45. Hmm.

This particular trait of customer service-type folks to insert themselves into your purchases and your conversations really annoys me. I just had that experience at the Goodwill when a young clerk had a good look-over at the movies I was buying as she rang them up. “Oh, I saw that one, it was good.” “I haven’t seen that one yet, what’s it about?” I thought, what would she say if one of them was a sex movie? And the time I was buying a sack of groceries and the young bagger wouldn’t let up on trying to discuss all my items with me. Maybe some people like this, but I think it is unprofessional.

Anyway, back to the bread…

It was warm. It was microwaved! How do I know? Of course I know! It was chewy, darn it! Rubbery chewy, as you’d know if you ever microwaved sourdough bread! Now that is a crime, when it doesn’t take that much to pop the loaf into an oven!

So out of 5 stars, I’d give Susan’s Place a 4 in food, a 2 in service and a 1 in bread.

Lowly Onions

Coconut, peppermint and hot dogs. Squash, cooked carrots and horseradish. And onions.

There is a list somewhere that contains the things that most little kids don’t like to eat. These were my top players on that list. I still remember staying at the table overtime while my mom waited to see if I really could eat those cooked carrots. Once, I was fooled by being told that fried zucchini was really fried okra, which I loved. I still can’t believe that I bought that one.

Over time, I’ve learned to enjoy most of the foods that I used to hate. But onions stayed on my ambivalent list. Raw, they were a little overwhelming unless chopped very fine and used sparingly. Boiled in soup, they were limp and strangely textured.

While looking at recipes some time back, I started to notice some directions to “caramelize onions.” I worked around with that method, and –My! What a difference! The onions acquired a soft, buttery texture and a sweet, rich flavor along with a soft caramel brown color. I started piling these onions on top of steak and mixing them with fried potatoes and peppers. I also learned that a fried egg perched in a nest of these onions is a nice meal.

Onions are a wonderful little food to enjoy. They are usually pretty inexpensive, keep for awhile and are nutritious. Here is just a sample of what we have learned about onions:



Higher intakes of fruits and vegetables have been associated with a variety of health benefits. Research shows that onions may help guard against many chronic diseases. That's probably because onions contain generous amounts of a flavonoid called quercetin. Other sources are tea and apples, but research shows that absorption of quercetin from onions is twice that from tea and more than three times that from apples. Studies have shown that quercetin protects against cataracts, cardiovascular disease, and cancer.
In addition, onions contain a variety of other naturally occurring chemicals known as organosulfur compounds that have been linked to lowering blood pressure and cholesterol levels.

These compounds will cause crying when you cut them up, so here’s a tip to avoid that. Take your big cutting board and lay it on the top of your range. Turn the hood exhaust on high and cut away!

I have two favorite recipes where these caramelized onion star. They are simple, lowly recipes that you wouldn’t think could be so nice. But they are. And I am going to tell you how to make them. I use yellow onions.


French Onion Soup

Thinly slice 2 or 3 onions and then cross-cut once or twice. Saute them in a little olive or canola oil at a low to medium heat. Stir frequently. It will take about 10 minutes to caramelize the onions. If they start to get too dark too soon, turn the heat down. Cook them until they are soft and an even light caramel color. I like to turn up the heat at the end of this process and get just a little browning on some of the onions.

Add beef broth until you have the proportion of onions to liquid that you want. (I use “Better than Bullion” soup base paste in hot water.)





Now pour in a little white wine. I also like to squirt in a little lemon juice to add a fresh tang. Salt to taste, if you need that.





The next thing I do is not in the recipe book, but it makes the soup easier to eat. Make a little cornstarch slurry and stir it in to the simmering soup until it thickens slightly.





And the finishing touch--in the individual oven-proof bowl, lay a thick slice of crusty bread on the surface of the soup. Generously sprinkle whatever cheeses you happen to have on hand over the bread and soup. Stick under the broiler until everything is toasty and bubbly. Eat!





Onions and Tofu with Cheese





Thinly slice 2 or 3 onions. Caramelize them in a skillet. Use oil sparingly, but as needed. Meanwhile slice firm tofu into bite-size pieces. Press some of the water out with paper towels or clean cloth. Add the tofu to the onions and see if you can get a little browning on it while you finish up the onions. Add soy sauce with a generous hand and then a little sherry. ( I had Marsala wine, so I used that) Turn off the heat and spread cheese over the top to melt into the onions. You'll be amazed at the tasty vegetarian meal! With a slice of whole grain bread it covers all the food groups.

The Big Kahuna

Have you ever been invited to the perfect dinner party?

Imagine: your dinner companions are delightful company, the setting is beautiful –a grassy green park shaded by graceful trees, the repast is delicious and varied, the wine is generous, and your hosts are so pleased to enjoy your presence that toasts are offered up to you and your visiting troop. And it is the perfect time of day, that lovely hour or so before dusk when the temperature moderates and the air is softer.

But wait! That’s not all! Just when you think you are impressed enough, you approach the table of the main entrée and see…

But let’s back up a little bit.

One of my hobbies is Civil War reenacting. One year ago this month, I volunteered for the temporary-soon-to-be-permanent job of Camp Cook. Our unit is the 3rd US Artillery, a mounted artillery unit which participates in Civil War reenactments and Living History demonstrations up and down the state of California. In many of the military units, the soldiers cook for themselves or create small “messes” to share the job of meal preparation. But because so many of our members are busy caring for and tacking up the horses during an event, the 3rd US is one of the units to provide a provisioner, or cook, for the benefit of our group.

After I had agreed to cook for the upcoming reenactment at Gibson Ranch Civil War Days 2009 in Sacramento, I discovered that our captain had invited the James River Squadron from the Confederate camp to dine with us. So instead of 25, I was to prepare for 50. Eeek! I knew our Captain was counting on me to make him proud of us, so I took extra care in considering the menu and the details. Everything went very well. (For an example of a cooking weekend for me, see Cooking for the Third.) At that time the James River reciprocated and invited us to dine with them at Gibson Ranch 2010.

Our captain was very happy with the success of our “dinner party.” He and I both wondered, what will the James River cook up for us? Will it be like ours? I wondered if it would be more elegant, more elaborate. I was already considering 2011, when I would likely be planning their return engagement to the Union Camp. What new delicacies could I call up when it was my turn?

Saturday evening rolled around, and we all gussied up for the long trek to Confederate camp. We combed our hair, straightened our caps and pulled on our navy blue shell jackets. As a group, heel plates clicking on the paved road, we marched (ok, so the artillery doesn’t really “march” well; remember most of us prefer to let the horse march while carrying the soldier), let’s say we strode into Confederateville, finding protection from the slurs and barbs of the lounging Rebels by the very size of our troop.


Our captain greets one of our lovely hostesses.

The James River Squadron greeted us with genuine friendship and affection. The ladies were dressed in their hoop-skirted finery and the men in their naval uniforms. ( I would use the word “charming” to describe the uniforms, but dare not.) Cloth table linen, candles, bottles of wine decorating the table, dutch ovens that held warm peach cobbler, refreshing salads, women standing ready to wash our dishes –all were bracketed with white canvas tents and green lawn. The setting sun sent beams of light on the pastoral party.

And then, remember I promised you more. And there it was. The Big Kahuna, the Top Dog, the Coup d’état, the Big Pig.

It was absolutely Glorious. It was big, very big. And golden and crispy. Steaming and tender cuts were carved from the Beast and laid on our plates. The server cut a nice piece of crackling skin with it to keep the meat company.

We ate until we groaned. The dessert was served; cobbler with whipped cream and cookies. We ate some more. And then a jug of homemade applejack was passed up and down the table. We found common ground and shared geography with our tablemates and chatted through the evening. Their commander stood on a chair and offered a toast to the friendship between our units. Hear! Hear! Our captain stood and offered a toast back.

I was one of the last to take my leave. As the captain and I left, shaking hands and reiterating our pleasure at being able to host the James River next year, their man looked at me and said sincerely, “Keep it simple.”

I had been thinking, “What can I possibly do to match this? A whole pig, for goodness sakes!” Pondering the evening on the walk back to camp, I came to this conclusion. As stunning as the Pig was, as delectable as the cobbler was, as well-laid as the table was, it was not the food that made the evening so delightful. It was the welcome, the hospitality and the friendship that made the evening special. This is no competition between cooks, this is the pleasure of hosting friends and breaking bread together.

So I’m not planning my dinner next year yet. I’ll wait and see what comes to me. And I hope it is good. But I’m not stressing over it.

Bullwinkle and Waffles

Who taught you to cook? Was it your mom or dad, or some other family member? Did you read a lot of cookbooks or maybe figure it out from trial and error? Or were you in school when there were lots of homemaking classes available to teach you? Maybe you were lucky like me and learned from all three.

My mom is a great cook. I was fascinated to watch how she made cornbread. Scoop in some flour and yellow cornmeal with a pinch of salt, a pinch of baking soda. An egg, some oil or grease or something. Tip in some buttermilk. Stir it up, dump it in a pan. When it looks done, it is. How could someone just “know” how much of everything to put in, what temperature, and how long to cook it?

Being a novice, I plugged away with cookbooks and directions. After awhile, I started to realize that years of measuring ingredients would give me the magical touch of proportions and estimations of ingredients and eventually I would be able to cook like my mom.

Title 9. I didn’t understand its significance much at the time. I wasn’t interested in high school woodshop class or boy’s sports. But with this new law, now girls were no longer excluded from classes or sports just because of their gender, and boys could make a claim to classes that historically belonged to girls. In my sophomore year, the biggest impact I felt was the first day of homemaking class when four boys showed up in the middle of a room full of girls. No soft milquetoast fellows could have pulled it off. These were jocks. Popular guys who played football AND basketball. They stuck together, probably for protection, and the four got their own “kitchen” to themselves.

In general, it was hugely entertaining. They flirted, we flirted. They cracked jokes and made funny mistakes; we felt smug at times. But we couldn’t feel too superior because most of their stuff turned out fine. And they never burned out the disposal by leaving it running all night, or set a dishtowel on fire like one of the girls did. It was rumored during the “brownies” lesson that they had put pot leaves in theirs, but I never did find out if it was true.

My husband never took homemaking classes. When I married him, he knew how to fry eggs, sort of. But that was fine, because I was prepared and experienced enough for the both of us. And eventually, I was full-time cook to the six of us. But somewhere around kid #4, I could feel the reserves draining away. It was tough to cook dinner seven nights a week, and it was even tougher to THINK of what to cook seven nights a week.

Even though my husband couldn’t cook, he was very agreeable. When baby #4 was born, I felt like I just couldn’t manage the dishes all the time anymore. (just to keep from maligning him, my husband was studying engineering full time at UC Davis and supporting us with 3 different part time jobs) So I made him the offer: He and my 8 year old could now take responsibility for the dinner dishes, or… he could buy me a dishwasher. The next day we were at the appliance store with a credit card.

So I repeated the process.

“I am not going to cook on Sunday nights anymore. From now on, you are responsible for what we have on that night.”

He got the deer-in-the-headlights look.

Taking pity, I told him, “However you want to do it; order something, have the kids make something, cook something…Only, I don’t want to have to think it up myself.”

He started getting a better expression on his face, but it wasn’t because he could foist it off on someone else. No, it was because he apparently started to feel his creative ability surge up within him.

The first Sunday night started off optimistically. “We’re having waffles,” he announced. I left the kitchen to enjoy my new freedom and so that I wouldn’t be tempted to jump up and interfere. The kids went in to keep him company. “The directions are on the box,” I called out. But men are apparently more likely to discover and follow directions if they are encrypted by a secret society and buried in a vault at the Vatican than if they are printed on the box under the title “Directions.”

He used the whole box.

“Well, I stirred up some batter, but it didn’t look stiff enough, so I put some more mix in, but it didn’t look like it would make enough, so I added some more milk and an egg but then it seemed thin, so I added more mix, and it’s a little doughy, but it makes the waffles nice and thick?” He had all three of my waffle irons going at once, trying to get them all cooked in time for dinner. At least no one went hungry.

The next Sunday rolled around. Obviously, he was most comfortable with “breakfast food.”

“I’m going to start with hash browns and then add some stuff.” As before, I ducked out. This one took a little longer. He shredded the potatoes, lots of them, and fried/steamed/ browned them in the cast iron skillet. Then he took out one of my pint jars of home canned beef and stirred it in to cook with it. There was some reaction to his ingredients that made everything have a sort of blackish cast to it. It didn’t taste that bad, but it LOOKED terrible. The kids managed, mostly, to get past the appearance and eat some. We asked him, “What is it, what do you call it?”

He said, with an unsmiling face, “ I call it “Bullwinkle.” We let it rest.

After that, we discovered Papa Murphy’s You Bake pizza and became one of their steady customers. Nowadays, my husband has become pretty serviceable with spaghetti. I sit at the counter with a glass of wine and watch him make it. Except for his heavy hand with the garlic, I can’t complain. It’s hugely entertaining. He flirts, I flirt. Sometimes I feel smug. And I try not to feel superior because most of his stuff turns out quite well. But mostly I am very grateful and appreciative of his good humor and willingness to do this very nice thing for me.

A Trip Down Cookie Lane

While growing up, cookies were the other food group. If there weren’t cookies in the house, it was either because we had already eaten the last ones up, or we hadn’t bought or made the next ones yet. My mother liked cookies, so that made it very nice for the rest of us, since she couldn’t eat a whole bag herself, or at least until we had all had a go at it.

Although I make most all the cookies we eat today, back then, we seemed to buy more than we made from scratch. Since Mom’s favorites were all crunchy ones, that’s what we always had around. Which was perfectly fine with me!

When I think nostalgically about cookies of bygone era (bygone because I will never again be able to eat cookies with the impunity I did as an active, normal-weight kid) I think first of the bag of odd little cookies called Hey-Days. They were based on a crispy wafer and had caramel, coconut and chocolate coating drizzled over them. Sort of a candy/cookie. Since I haven’t seen them for decades, I’d guess they are gone-gone.

When we would stop by the market to pick up snacks for working in the bee yard, we would usually grab a package of cookies. Even then, I craved variety. I especially liked the “Mother’s” assortment that had five types in the tray. Not because I was crazy about any of them, but it was because they were all different. We often got Nilla Wafers, vanilla or lemon sandwich crèmes, those hard, flat oatmeal cookies, Lorna Doon shortbreads, Vienna Fingers, Windmill cookies, and Fig Newtons, the only soft cookie available.

Once in a great while, just to be nice to us, Mom would buy those pink and white coated animal cookies with the sprinkles. Not that you could tell what animal it used to be before they encased it in that strange waxy mixture, but it was fun guessing.

We had our home-made favorites too. Toll House recipe chocolate chip, Quaker’s oatmeal cookies, Nola’s No-Bake cookies, pineapple squares from the old Blue Ribbon cookbook, and peanut butter cookies, though we never stayed consistent on the recipe for that.

My kids are going to have their nostalgic cookies too. The recipes I have used most often have now been transferred to them, and have become a standby in another generation. We like Molasses Crinkles, from an old 1950’s Gold Medal flour cookbook, and Sugar Cookies, fondly called “One-Half Sugar Cookies,” due to the peculiar measurements of one-half this and one-half that. For special occasions, we make my grandmother’s special persimmon cookies.

I am interested in seeing what cookie recipes my kids all come up with that are true keepers. Let them experiment away, trying out the oddly flavored and textured ones until that true gem appears. And please, let me in on some of the experiments!

The Mystery of the Lost Rider

This post is in honor of Shar, who compliments me by enjoying my blog, even though she finds food boring.






The Old-Timer patted the dusty, sweaty neck of Tucker and leaned forward, wearily, almost whispering into his horse’s ear, “There, Old Fella, that flat grassy space. Just a little further, and then we’ll rest awhile.”

Tucker’s ear swiveled back, and almost as if he understood what the man said, the little Arab quickened his pace as if to reach the small, verdant glen sooner than his previous plodding would have done. Old-Timer winced. Tucker wasn’t limping any more, but the man wanted his horse to take it as easy as possible, just in case the old stone bruise wasn’t completely healed up.

As they reached the small glade, Old-Timer slid off Tucker’s back. His legs held him up just long enough to check his horse’s feet, and then, satisfied, slumped down into the long, green grasses, just to set a spell. Tucker pulled up a mouthful of the green stems, and then, his nostrils flaring, found what else he was looking for beneath the trickle on a granite exposure of the hillside.

“So old Tuck’s found himself a water hole.” The man chuckled. He pondered on this latest good luck. “I guess we may as well stay here a day or two. Rest up, see if we can figure a way out of this God-forsaken country.” Old-Timer was used to conversing with Tucker. Sometimes using words, sometimes not. But they always understood each other. Tucker nickered, and then paid some more attention to the water hole.

With a groan, Old-Timer rose to his feet and reached out to his horse, loosening straps and buckles, pulling off the saddle and bridle. He laid them together on a flat, lichen-covered boulder near the water hole. After making sure there was enough water to spare, he pulled a tattered sponge loose from the saddle clip and dipped it into the little runoff culvert and stroked it over the sweaty, dusty shoulders, neck and legs. Only then did he dip his hands into the cool depths and splash his own hot, browned face. He sat down and leaned against the cool, shaded rock face, stretching his legs out in front of him. The man chuckled with real humor as he noticed the most recent rips and shredded areas in his faded black riding tights. He was almost ready to fashion a loincloth from a section of Tucker’s horse blanket. But the thought quickly made his expression serious again as he imagined how he might arrange his clothing and still be comfortable while riding.

The man pulled the small plastic bag from his pack and reverently opened it, unfolding a wrinkled and weather-stained sheet of paper. Forty-nine small tick marks decorated the edge of the crudely drawn map. With the stub of a pencil, Old-Timer put another mark. Now, that’s fifty, he thought. Fifty days, lost in this wilderness, this trail-crazed wilderness, a maze of trails that joined up with other trails, only to peter out, trails that had been made by off-road vehicles, only to dead end into rivers and creeks, game trails, cattle trails, and finally, his own trails, made when he was still frantically chasing his own tail up and down the canyons and hillsides. The only trail he never found was the one he was looking for, the one marked with the blue ribbons.

Now that Tucker had settled himself down to some serious eating, Old-Timer felt that he could finally satisfy his own stomach-growlings. The granola bars were long gone. The Slim Jims were just a greasy patch in the fabric of his pack. He had even licked up the crumbs from the pretzels he’d thrown in his shirt pocket that morning so long ago, back when he was innocent and believed in accurate maps and well-marked trails. He’d learned, after that, to make do for himself.

Pulling a few more threads from the hem of his shortening cotton shirt, he fluffed the material and arranged it carefully in a small, protected rock clef. He gathered small tinder and larger sticks and set them by to feed the fire that he was so adept at making by now. He pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle from his pack and unfolded it, revealing a shaped chunk of rock and a horseshoe. Taking the flint in one hand and the horseshoe in the other, he struck at it with the rock, sending a shower of sparks onto the threads, starting them to glowing. He blew air on the precious coal, carefully, and set bits of dry, splintered wood on it to catch fire.

Once the crackling fire was stable enough to satisfy the man, he turned to the next task—making his dinner. Some time back, probably twenty tick marks ago, he had managed to break his aluminum water bottle in half. Since he already had a couple of plastic bottles for water, and his pressing need was for a soup pot, he’d decided to sacrifice this one. He now filled it up to its ragged edge with water from the little rivulet and set it on three stones within the fire to come to a boil.

When the man had lain down in the grass, he had thought that he’d smelled a familiar odor. Now he went looking for that and found it, a patch of wild onion stems. He smiled, feeling the saliva rise, just from thinking about the flavor of wild onion soup. The soil was moist and gave up its white pearls with just a bit of tugging. He washed and peeled them, and then set them into the simmering water. He rummaged around in his bag again. This time he pulled out a folded white card. The scores dutifully written by the ride vets were now not as important as the treasure folded up within. He opened it flat and tipped out the dried sage leaves he had come across a week or so ago. Old-Timer smiled.

“Ok, Tuck. I need you now for this part.” Old-Timer approached his little horse with a fresh bit of cloth. He dipped it into the stream, and then stroked it over the cleanest part of the brown hide he could find, and then rinsed it in his gray plastic water bottle. After letting the sediments settle, he poured the slightly bitter, salty liquid into the bubbling soup. “Never could stand a soup without salt,” he said. Just before the soup was done, he threw in a handful of nettles to thicken the broth and add some more nutrition.

Finally he settled down with his meal. This wouldn’t do for very long, he knew. Not nearly enough calories. But maybe tomorrow, he’d catch a fish, or maybe scare a buzzard off a kill that was fresh enough to do for a man. The onions were really a find; he’d pull a handful, lay them on a rock to dry out in the hot afternoon sun and pack them for next time.

Old-Timer hadn’t given up hope completely yet. If he did that, he may as well just lay down and die! No, for Tucker’s sake if not his own. He knew that he had lost any chance of winning a prize for finishing, and that disappointed him. But getting out of this labyrinth would at least meet one of his personal goals. He snickered to himself. If he ever got out, he was going to rip off his bumper-sticker that said “To finish is to win,” and replace it with one that said, “To get out alive is to win.”

The tired man tied Tucker’s lead rope to a nearby tree branch and then wrapped himself up in the hairy horse blanket, glad for the warmth, not minding its rank odor. As he drifted off to sleep, he prayed for release from his recurring nightmare, but relief did not come. All night long, in his sleep, callous mountain bike riders were pulling yards of blue trail marker ribbons off and letting them blow away in the breeze.

P-O-T-L-U-C-K

I always like to create menus. I like to think, What is the perfect meal for this or that occasion? I make, in my mind, each component; I lay it out on the plate, I admire it, I serve it. Once I asked my husband, “What are your favorite foods? What would be your favorite meal?”

In my mind, I had already prepared my favorite: For the meat, Ham. That’s Ham with a capital “H.” The kind that comes with a bone in it and is cooked long and slow and carves loose in big sloppy savory slices. For the bread, sourdough loaves, generously slathered with butter and garlic and baked until it’s a bit crispy at the edges. For the vegetable, corn on the cob, not doubt about it. Buttered until it’s dripping off, and well salted. For my dessert, I chose strawberry shortcake. The whipped cream isn’t all that important, but the good quality vanilla ice-cream is. The shortcake is like my mother always made, a sweet biscuit glazed in sugar, split and served still warm with ice-cream and lots of sugared strawberries inside and on top. In answer to my question, my husband thought a bit and answered, “Roasted lamb, Ham, pork chops, and a great big T-bone steak!”

I think it’s a guy thing.

So recently, I was thinking again about what my favorite menu was. And I came to the conclusion that it was… Potluck! Yes, potluck dinner is my favorite menu. I’ve always thrived on variety, and that’s just what you get. Especially when the instructions are random, like, “Bring what you would want to eat, and we’ll trust that we get a good spread.” Sometimes that works out, but sometimes that means a whole table full of iced lemon cake, brownies, Mrs. Smith’s apple pies, ambrosia, chocolate chip cookies and a lone bucket of fried chicken.

There are some foods that I think were just invented for potlucks. They always show up, but I’m not sure they are real food, since they are never on a regular dinner table. And they taste too good to be real food, sort of like potato chips. I’m thinking of something called “company potatoes.” I ate this at a potluck dinner and could hardly restrain myself. From what I could tell, the main ingredients were grease, starch, and dairy product. Inquiring more closely, I discovered it was composed of frozen hash browns, condensed cream of mushroom soup, sour cream, and cheddar cheese. Mmmm….

In a good potluck spread, you’ll see the same beloved friends. Bucket of fried chicken, lasagna, enchilada casserole. Chicken casserole with broccoli and creamy cheese stuff, a crock-pot full of beans. Meatballs. Green salad, potato salad, macaroni salad (at least two versions) and Chinese chicken salad. Rolls and butter. At least one Jello dish. Chips and French onion dip. A veggie tray. For dessert, see above.

Even though a potluck is sort of a chancy thing, you will find a certain predictability. Sometimes a party is held as a potluck. But most of the time, a hostess will want more control over the victuals, and that’s when she plans her own menu. So what would be the perfect menu for a Bluegrass Jam party?

Let’s plan that most of the attendees will be playing and singing. For that reason, I’m going to skip the tortilla chips and nuts. There is nothing worse that trying to sing while little particles of chips and nuts are tickling your throat. Oily finger food is also a no-no. Who wants to get greasy paw-prints on their vintage Gibson Mastertone? Fussy items like soufflés are out. Why would anyone want to spend any more time messing around in the kitchen with something fancy when good music is being enjoyed by other people, and you’re stuck at the oven?

So I think I would put some pulled pork in a crock-pot, a few foil-wrapped sourdough loaves, very lightly buttered and heated, out beside it, accompanied by a veggie tray and a couple of dips. Sodas and beer in a well iced chest, and apple pie at the side.

What’s your perfect menu for your favorite kind of party? Or do you prefer to trust to potluck?