Gray Goes Black - Chapter II

Gray Goes Black - Chapter II

“So, yes, there were myriad distractions that probably shifted my attention away from the black happenings in our house; and in hindsight, I probably should have been more cognitive of those indicators; but the later diagnosed “Peter Pan” complex that hovers like sunshine above my life even today, causing as much harm to relationships as good, probably started because I’ve always been easily distracted, and quick to shrug off negative, dark energy. Within a week of the snakes, another strange thing occurred that I had completely forgotten until recently.”

Chicken Pot Pie

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Cold, dreary Sunday at the end of December beckons for wood crackling in the fireplace, a good book or old movie to cuddle up to, and my take on chicken pot pie - check out this relatively easy recipe that will have your home filled with BOTH literal and metaphoric warmth.

Chicken Pot Pie

6 large chicken thighs, boneless, skinless

3 tablespoons olive oil, plus, 3 tablespoons butter

Kosher salt and black pepper

5 cups chicken stock

12 tablespoons butter

2 yellow onions, chopped

1/2 cup dry white wine

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3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup heavy cream

3 tablespoons garlic, minced

4 large carrots, chopped

2 cups frozen peas

2 cups frozen small whole onions

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

1/2 cup minced fresh parsley leaves

Crust Topping:

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 cup vegetable shortening

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1/4 pound cold unsalted butter, diced

1/2 to 2/3 cup ice water

1 egg beaten with 1 tablespoon heavy cream, for egg wash

salt and cracked black pepper

Technique -

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Rub chicken thighs with olive oil and salt and pepper; heat butter in medium sized cast iron skillet, then sear and cook thighs until golden brown. Remove thighs, allow to cool, then cut into medium sized dice.

In a small sauce pan, warm chicken stock. In the same cast iron skillet, add butter, once melted add onions and cook until translucent De-glaze with white wine, and reduce to half volume; then add flour and cook until onions are completely covered. Next add warm chicken stock, and while simmering incorporate salt, pepper, garlic, and heavy cream; allow to simmer for a couple minutes then gently add chicken, peas, carrots, frozen onions, rosemary and parsley. Allow mixture to rest.

For the crust, mix flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda in the bowl of your Kitchen-aide or food processor - add shortening and butter to flour mixture, and work with your hands until well incorporated. Using paddle or blade attachment, add ice cold water until dough forms. Remove and knead dough ball until round, shiny. Flatten, then allow to chill in fridge for about 15 minutes - longer if you can wait; I couldn’t wait.

Roll into round sheet that is just wide enough to cover skillet with filling, probably 1 to 1 1/2 inch thick - mix egg with cream, then brush atop dough until fully covered. Top with salt and pepper, then bake in 375 degree oven for about 45 minutes, or until golden brown.

Gray Goes Black - Chapter I

Chapter I: Snakes

I love to tell the story, even today; especially when the setting is just right, any situation that might be suitable for a ghost story, perhaps at a dinner party, drinking with friends, mixed company of strangers and casual acquaintances.  The topic is always easy to introduce, because frankly, almost everyone has a personal scary story, an inexplicable happening from a moment in their life.  The innocuous anecdotes are typically the ones told by the storytellers; it’s always that an object moved, a lost item was found, a voice was heard, or something trivial, safe that makes it easy for the narrator to broach the memory.  That’s the area that my story falls within, a comical, slightly spooky yarn with no real negative consequence or conclusion; however, my sister’s story is altogether different, lasting, and according to her, terrifying.

It’s almost too easy to contend that the more serious of the two varieties of stories actually haunt the storyteller, but that’s exactly what happens.  A happening that leaves such an indelible, psychic scar on the person that they find themselves either avoiding the story at all cost or inadvertently removing it from their memory altogether.  My younger sister falls somewhere helplessly suspended between both scenarios, frightened not only by the sharp, horrific images of that night, but more importantly, by what it might allow back into her safe world as a wife and mother.

In her adult life, my sister doesn’t take shit from anybody; a seasoned business woman, fearless in almost every part of her life, with the exception of this strange, inexplicable memory of a night from almost thirty years ago.  She’s been running from it her entire life; sleeping on my bedroom floor for nearly a year after the incident, until the family disbanded, moving from the house in quiet relief; in her high school days, demanding that everyone address her by her middle name, rather than her first (to this day, I’m one of only a few people that still call her Holly, much to her dismay); and even today, when she leaves the table after dinner if she thinks it even remotely possible that I will bring it up.  Running, protecting herself like a strong woman should; running, protecting her family from a memory that is so scary that she dare not even mention it even as a joke or as passing fancy; running, protecting her older brother from things that perhaps he doesn’t remember accurately about that night, because if he did recall it correctly, he wouldn’t be so eager to talk about it. 

Regardless, there are two occurrences in this story, but only one person who touched, experienced both, and that person, for better or worse, was me.  I was fifteen years old, it was summertime in Texas in the late 1980s, adorned with spiked bleached hair, bangles, and tons of misplaced attitude.  My mother and step-father bought a house on Lake Granbury the year before; a modest two story, home set against a rocky bluff face that stretched down to idyllic Lake Granbury, teeming with kids skiing, wake boarding to escape the suffocating Texas heat.  The house included a small boat dock that set at the base of a winding, stone path that my step-father was perpetually repairing.  In fact, part of our daily regiment when heading down to ski, swim, sun bathe was to carry an arm load of bricks down to whatever area he was working on – a practice both my sister and I resented.

Still, we did it, mostly out of respect for our young mother, who was love struck with her newly acquired husband, who wasn’t a bad guy necessarily, or at least not during this period of their marriage; a few years after the happening, he broke her heart completely after a scandalous affair at his workplace.  Dick.

Our summers were fun, hours listening to music on that boat dock with both friends and family; as well as countless moments of early morning, late evening skiing behind the Mastercraft that cut beautiful foam lines across the glass like surface of the lake.  That summer my skin turned coco brown, hair white, and legs and arms muscular from the hours of slalom skiing and knee boarding.  It was also the first year I was allowed to take the boat out on my own with friends, which meant opportunities to get into all kinds of trouble.  Drinking beer, smoking pot, chasing teenage girls; all the things healthy, first world boys did in a suburb of Fort Worth back then, and probably even now.  My mother wasn’t stupid, and my occasional slip up would lead to a week without privileges, but as long as my infractions were seemingly innocuous then I was allowed to climb back on the horse of adolescence in all its meaningful glory. 

It was an important, action packed period of time; my sister and I more than ever sensing the age gap, awkward teenage brother preoccupied with girls, music, and smoking pot, juxtaposed with pre-adolescent sister who was strong, but still innocent in only a way a girl at that age can be.  She was spirited even then, the squeaky wheel of the family that demanded attention regardless of whether it was in a negative or positive light, she was perpetually at odds with our mother, quarreling over things like clothing, make up, and jewelry.  That summer, she covertly purchased a single set of bright pink earrings resembling two large fishing lures that proved to be a particular source of tearful deliberation throughout the summer.  Gaudy, tacky and utterly inappropriate for anyone other than a pro bass member, she sported them whenever our mother wasn’t around, bouncing up and down the path to and from the dock, whirly gigs hanging, twisting, and shining from beneath her tangled, dish-water hair.  There’s a photograph somewhere in a dusty shoebox of her standing in a bathing suit, sans smile with hands on hips and those fluorescent ear rings suspended just an inch from the crest of her tanned, freckled shoulder.  Defiant, not taking shit from anybody.

When I meditate, reflect hard on that summer I’m astounded that I didn’t, don’t think about it more often; a missing cat, the family dog barking at a wall, mysterious voices, horrific middle of the night happenings, inexplicable daylight occurrences, and snakes in the fireplace.  Tiny, soot covered baby snakes tap, tap, tap tapping on the glass door with their flat noses, waving tiny black forked tongues.  The fireplace was in the downstairs living room that separated our bedrooms, adjacent to a mud room and shared bathroom; with our own private entrance that spilled onto a back porch that led down to the dock.  For two days I noticed, misinterpreted the micro vipers for a trick of light, reflection against the glass door.  Finally, on the third evening while watching Late Night with David Letterman, I recognized the same familiar flash, but thought it strange since there was no sunlight to cast a reflection.  Squinting, I crawled off the couch to get a better look, pressing my face inches from the glass, then, tap, tap; a tiny, triangular head with diamond eyes rose from the gray ashes to scare the living shit out of me.  I screamed, recoiling across the room as fast as I could crabwalk backwards into the glow of the television.  “Fuck” I gasped, goosebumps waving across my body.  Nothing in the world scared me more than snakes. Nothing. 

I didn’t sleep that night; still respectful enough not to wake my mother and step-father, but not equipped or adult enough to deal with removing them myself.  Instead, I fled to my bedroom, carefully stuffing punk rock t-shirts into the gap beneath my door, then climbing into the cool sanctuary of my waterbed; watching, listening intently; and just as I was about to drift off, hearing the dark tap, tap, tapping of scale on glass that ultimately prevented my slumber. 

All summer long, the baby gray snakes were removed, but after a day or so there would be more to take their place. My mother and her husband were perplexed; where were they coming from? Perhaps the trees that hung over the house; unlikely. Maybe the exterior door that was used to remove ash and soot; probably not since it was ascended from the ground several feet. The only other explanation was that they were entering from inside the house; from the confines of the downstairs living area that I shared with my sister. I was mortified; and although the snakes made their way into one other area of the house that summer, their presence was by far not the scariest, or most terrifying part of this story. The snakes were just the beginning.

Don't Take Me for POMEGRANATE This Christmas

I love cocktails that are fizzy, simple, and almost savory in profile - especially during the Holiday season, when it seems that every party or gathering I attend is chock full of overly sweet eggnog or cranberry based drinks that are only good for ensuring a hangover the next day. So, I’ve devised the perfect holiday cocktail that is not only pretty, color appropriate, but is also clean, delicious, and high in antioxidants to help ensure a morning after sans headache. This “Don’t Take Me for POMEGRANATE This Christmas” cocktail falls under the category pf CLEAR & BRIGHT - Something light, effervescent that is the perfect aperitif before dinner, and particularly pretty, delicious to hold while mingling at a party.

Don’t Take Me for Pomegranate This Christmas 

(Clear, Bright)

2 oz Rock Town Distillery small batch vodka

3 basil leaves

Ice

1 squeeze fresh lemon

1 oz. Mountain Valley sparkling water

Garnish of 12 pomegranate seeds

 

Technique –

Clear Collins Glass – layer vodka, basil, ice, lemon, sparkling water, pomegranate seeds, stir 12 times

Be sure to watch me make this beautiful cocktail Christmas Eve on Good Day NWA at 12:30pm - Cheers!

Be sure to watch me make this beautiful cocktail Christmas Eve on Good Day NWA at 12:30pm - Cheers!

Chocolate Christmas Cuddle in a Cup

When imbibing with friends, family during the Holidays, I like to consider TWO categories of cocktails; so check out this simple party planning idea that is certain to help make this the best Holiday ever!

1)      Clear & Bright – Something light, effervescent as the perfect aperitif before dinner; or that will be pretty, delicious to hold while mingling at a party

2)      Warm & Cozy – Something hot, rich as a welcoming warm up as guests arrive; or that will be ideal for cuddling up with that special someone in front of a fire or to watch an old holiday favorite movie.

Chocolate Christmas Cuddle in a Cup

(Warm & Cozy)

2 oz Rock Town Distillery Arkansas bourbon whiskey

2 oz. Markham & Fitz drinking chocolate

2 shakes orange bitters

Marshmallow - Toasted

Garnish of chocolate shaving, orange zest, nutmeg

 

Technique –

Handled glass or mug – layer bourbon, drinking chocolate, bitters, marshmallow; then top with shavings, orange zest, nutmeg

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Chocolate Christmas Cuddle in a Cup - Be Sure to watch how we make this drink on Christmas Eve at 12:30pm on Good Day NWA!

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