We chickened out of the bacon grease

My grandmothers were bakers, one a city gal and the other a mountain matriarch. Grandma Fey matched earrings to her stylish pantsuits and took day trips to Pogue's Department Store in downtown Cincinnati. Her specialties were peach pie and chocolate cake. Grandma Jay preferred housecoats, hot tea and front porch gossip. Her specialties were walnut rolls and apricot cookies. They shared a fierce love of family, a tendency toward shyness and a fondness for fried food.
Grandma Fey made good ole southern fried chicken. Grandma Jay fried tender veal cutlets. We channeled both of them yesterday when we made ourselves a crispy batch of fried chicken.
I know they'd be a little disdainful of the adjustments we made. Grandma Fey used bacon grease to fry her chicken and Grandma Jay, I'm sure, had no use for Panko bread crumbs.
For Molly and me, though, whose arteries were still recovering from our buttery Thanksgiving, these ingredients proved to be a happy compromise.
In the coming weeks, we'll share with you some of my grandmothers' wonderful recipes. For today, though, we're posting Molly's soon-to-be-famous fried chicken, which could only have been more delicious with a little bacon grease.

Molly's Fried Chicken

One box Panko bread Crumbs

Two Eggs
1/4 cup milk
1/2 cup Flour
Salt
Pepper
4 boneless chicken breasts
Canola Oil

Cut chicken breasts in half, season with salt and pepper and pound with a meat tenderizer hammer.
In one bowl, beat eggs with milk. Pour bread crumbs in a second bowl and flour in a third.
Dip chicken in flour, then eggs, then bread crumbs.
Pou about a half inch of canola oil in frying pan and heat on high. Add breaded chicken. Turn heat to medium high and fry chicken approximately five to 8 minutes on each side. Remove from heat and drain chicken pieces on paper towels.

Here are your ingredients. We only used a half box of bread crumbs.

Our favorite part is pounding the chicken with the meat tenderizer
hammer. Here Molly is using a garlic press because her older sister
borrowed our hammer and we haven't seen it since.

Whisk the milk into the eggs.

Dunk the floured chicken piece into the egg mixture.

Coat the floured, egged breast in the bread crumbs.

There she sits, ready to be fried.

We suggest completing the breading process before you fry.

It's canola oil. If you have bacon grease on hand....

This is what they should look like when you flip them.

Here they are, ready from some baked potatoes,
crisp salad and corn on the cob

Cheers to the bookends

The last task of a busy Thanksgiving weekend fell to our bookends. Charlie, 24-years old and soon to leave for his home in New York, and Molly, 13, faced off across the wishbone.
So similar are these two, with their left handedness, stubborn streaks and complete recall of obscure information, that the standoff could have continued indefinitely. They both understood that the surest way to win the wishbone war is to hold still. The tugger is the loser every time.
And so they stood.
Eventually, impatient and anxious to return to her sixth consecutive episode of Lost, Molly sacrificed her wish and yanked.
Charlie scored the wish.
As I snapped pictures of the annual rite, I thought about these two who had been nothing but kind to each other their whole lives.
Shortly after Molly was born, I asked Charlie if he'd hold her for a little while so I could run on our basement treadmill.
"Sure," he said and settled himself with her in our family room. I ran and then popped upstairs to check on them. She had fallen asleep on his chest.
"Can I take a quick shower?" I asked Charlie.
"Sure, go ahead," he said.
At some point, I completely forgot about them. I showered, dressed and wandered into the kitchen to start dinner. I was at the stove when I heard the faint voice.
"Mom?"
I poked my head in the family room. There sat Charlie, pinned by the sleeping baby.
"Can you take her now because I really have to go to the bathroom?"
It had been more than two hours.
I can't tell you what Charlie wished for yesterday (true wishers never tell), but I can tell you this: as they both make their way out into this old world, their mother is so very pleased that they have each other.

11-year old Charlie works around seven-month old Molly.

The stubborn standoff might have continued indefinitely
but for the lure of Netflix.

The perfect pastoral Thanksgiving starts with pigskin

With a nod to the ancestors who inspired this holiday, we spent Thanksgiving in a cabin this year.
Should you ever be so inclined, we're including these tips. Tuck them into the blaze orange jacket you'll require and keep them handy for next year.
1) Print off all of your recipes because there is no Internet at the cabin and you only cook some of this food once a year. If you're like me, you'll then leave the printed copies on your kitchen counter at home and have to wing the entire meal.
2) Mentally prepare yourself for the pre-Thanksgiving Hearts game, a sweet family tradition passed down from your in-laws. Then, when you have the option to lay the Queen of Spades on your youngest daughter effectively ending the game and making you champion, buck up and do it. You'll be heckled from all corners for this choice but hold your head high (and then gratefully lay it on your pillow. Tomorrow starts early.)
3) Understand what the holiday is all about -- football.
All food prep should be complete, desserts baked, turkey in the oven and stuffing in the crock pot by 11:30, which just happens to be kick-off. If you turn on TV just a few minutes late you will miss the muffing of the national anthem, which will be good news for your appetite.
Relax and enjoy the first half of the Packer game. Then, you have exactly 15 minutes to execute the first half of the family touch football game. This timing is precise and there is no room for error. Just for the record, it is not wrong for you to fire the first pass to your oldest daughter's boyfriend. This is the proper way to vet the suitors.
Return to the cabin to watch your Packers beat Detroit to go 11-0 on the season. Take your turkey out of the oven, shove the biscuits in and then hustle back out to the field for the second half of the family football game.
4) Enjoy your meal and be very grateful that all of your children have made it home to celebrate with you…and that you just trounced three of them on the football field.

What you see here is the winning team.
Molly's got her game face on. She scored the go-ahead touchdown.
Note: Katherine's boyfriend Santiago caught the pass, in traffic, to
launch to opening drive. He can stay.

They're cute but they lost. Katherine has the
best game face though.

And, oh yeah, there was a meal too.

We weren't kidding about the blaze orange.
Here we are on a post-meal walk through the
woods.

The butcher botched the turkey and made a delicious memory

My grandfather raised cain and two lovely daughters in his red brick house on North Bend Road.
A Renaissance man with a sweet tenor voice, he sang on a Cincinnati radio station and tooled around town in his own cool car from the age of 16.
He worked hard as a butcher in his parent's grocery store and, with my Grandma, lived specifically. They ate haddock and American spaghetti on Fridays, drank Kesslers and club soda in a tall glass with ice during cocktail hour and socialized on Saturday nights.
I found them both sweet and glamorous and, as such, somewhat unlikely players in the great turkey incident of 1976.
As I recall, the bulk of us lounged in our family room watching football and waiting to be called for dinner when a loud shriek and then a thud sent us running to the kitchen. We arrived just in time to see our Thanksgiving turkey, buttered up and semi-cooked, skidding down the length of the kitchen floor. My mother stood on one side of the open oven door wearing her my-parents-are-visiting apron, my grandma stood on the other side of the door, her oven mitted hands held to her face.
Apparently, Grandpa the butcher had suggested they flip the turkey halfway through cooking to ensure the bird cooked evenly. Heavy, hot and slippery, the turkey sprung loose.
Having been shooed from the room along with the rest of the family, I can't say for sure how they managed to scoop that turkey back up, rinse it off and shove it back in the oven.  I can tell you, though, that it was delicious.
And my grandfather, who had started all the trouble, dined as if nothing had happened.
"Well, my goodness, Peggy," he said to my mother. "I think this is your moistest turkey yet."
Happy Thanksgiving from Molly and Me.

Molly and her Great Grandpa Fey, Thanksgiving 1999

Here's to the middle of the Pack

Aaron Rodgers is a middle child.
Maybe that's not the most impressive statistic for a man with a quarterback rating of 130.7, but for the purposes of our weekend, it suited nicely.
An offhand observation during our family's pre-game festivities, which began Saturday night, set the theme for us. We had prepared a ridiculously indulgent meal for what we thought was absolutely no reason at all. In fact, we felt a little foolish when we sat down to our meal of tenderloin, fresh/frozen garden vegetables and oven crisped potatoes and realized that, thanks to deer hunting season, an extended class field trip and an out-of-state job, there were just three of us at the table. "Hey," said my second son. "We're all middle children."
So we raised our glasses to, well, to ourselves and we toasted the middle child.
When's the last time someone did that?
We met my sister Kathy, a true middle child, at Lambeau Field the next day. I've enjoyed going to Packer games with my sister for more than 25 years and, along the way, we've racked up some pretty good stories. We've gone to three Super Bowls together, ducked at the last minute when Eugene Robinson intercepted a pass and Lambeau Leaped right at us in 1996, and blinked icicles off our eye lashes during the bitter cold Giants game in 2007, Brett Favre's last game as a Packer.
For a brief time, Kathy, my husband Vince (also a middle child) and I were all memorialized on the Packer Hall of Fame wallpaper (along with several thousand other fans).
Sunday, Kathy attended the game with her fiancé Keith, also a middle child, and his two sons. I brought my daughter Katherine (middle child) son Vinnie (middle child) and his girlfriend Kenzie (middle child).
With apologies to the young lady (and youngest child) whose name heads this column; let's hear it for the middle child! At least one of us is a perfect 10-0.
Editor's note: I should take a moment to explain the Eugene Robinson Lambeau Leap and why we (and by "we" I mean just "I") ducked. When LeRoy Butler first Lambeau Leaped back in 1993, he did it after he intercepted a pass and scored a touchdown in the end zone. And that's where every Packer player since has leaped. Except Eugene Robinson. Carried away by an admirable amount enthusiasm and an intimidating level of momentum, he hurled himself at us on the sidelines. I stood with everyone else and encouraged him as he headed our way following the exciting play. Then, as he left his feet and flew toward us (he didn't have to jump up at that time, mostly just at) I panicked. Just before he hit, I bent down and he landed squarely on my husband and sister. Judge me if you must (I would), but ask yourself how you'd react if a fully padded and helmeted NFL player hurled himself at you!
We sit a little further up in the stadium now.
Go Pack Go!

Seven of our group of eight are middle children!

In the middle of the crowd.

77 was my dad's number, also a middle child!

Family hug!

And now a moment of silence

I flew solo yesterday, waking up to a crisp, quiet dawn with no husband, children, car or toothpaste. I lent my oldest daughter my car for the week, saw my husband off to deer camp and Molly off to a four-day field trip in Bemidji, Minnesota and, apparently, tucked our last two tubes of toothpaste in with them.

Baking soda, incidentally, tastes terrible but makes an excellent paste in oral hygiene emergencies.
I chuckled about my situation with a neighbor as I walked to work. She chided me, clearly appalled.
"I will drive you anywhere you need to go and there will be a tube of toothpaste on your front porch by the time you get home from work today," she said sternly.
I waved her off. The truth is, I am really enjoying this period of quiet solitude and forced ingenuity.
I puttered around the house, clearing cluttered and singing the entire soundtrack of Kris Kristofferson's Me and Bobby McGee. I walked to get my favorite sausage and mushroom pizza for dinner and I made granola.
By Wednesday my entire family will be home for Thanksgiving and I will revel in the happy chaos. This morning, though, I am savoring the peace…and a big bowl of tasty granola.

Ingredients

 

• 8 cups rolled oats
• 1 cup sunflower seeds
• 1 cup finely chopped almonds
• 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1 cup honey
• 1 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 1 cup dried cherries chopped
• 1 cup dried apricots chopped

Directions

1.      Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Line two large baking sheets with foil.

2.      Combine the oats, sunflower seeds and almonds in a large bowl. Let stand.

3.      Stir together the salt, brown sugar, honey, oil, cinnamon, and vanilla in a saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then pour over the dry ingredients, and stir to coat. Spread the mixture out evenly on the baking sheets.

4.      Bake in the preheated oven until crispy and toasted, about 20 minutes. Stir once halfway through. Cool, then stir in the apricots and cherries. The granola will crisp as it cools. Store in airtight container.

I'm pretty proud of myself for remembering to gather and
photograph all of my ingredients before I started. I'd have been
prouder if I'd remembered to chop my apricots in time.

I love this picture as much as I love the word Bemidji. Here
are your dry ingredients just taking a breather.

Big old clump of brown sugar goes right in the saucepan.

Add honey after you add the oil to make it easier to pour.
I don't want to brag or anything, but I am pouring honey
here and shooting pictures and my camera seems to have survived.

A tablespoon of cinnamon sounds like a lot but it's just perfect.

Someone needs a manicure. A tablespoon of vanilla goes in too.

Bring to a boil and remove from heat.

Pour over your dry ingredients.

Spread the mixture out on your pans.

These little guys can't join the fun until after the stuff comes out
of the oven. Nobody likes a crunchy apricot.

Here is your lovely granola. Admire it while it cools.

Yeah, I'm going to need some help eating this.

Do you hear the people sing?

We have been Les Miserables fans since Grandpa Vince first took us to see the show in Chicago back in 1993.
For years afterward we had to step carefully in our house because our oldest daughter Katherine, who was only four-years old when she saw the show the first time, believed she was born to play Little Cosette on Broadway. At frequent intervals she would grab a rag, drop to the floor and sing "Castle on a Cloud." This habit annoyed her brothers, amused our neighbors and kept the hardwood floors in the first little house we owned well dusted.
We all loved the show and listened to the cast recording endlessly. A quick trip to Blockbuster Video turned into one of those moments of high amusement and utter mortification common only to parents when our oldest son Charlie, then six-years old, burst into song. "I smell women, smell 'em in the air. Think I'll drop my anchor in that harbor over there." Charlie has always been blessed with good, strong lungs.
Last night, Vince took Molly and me to our local Performing Arts Center for opening night of the New 25th Anniversary Production of Les Miserables. I'm sure by now we've seen that show a dozen times, counting all of the high school productions. That's peanuts, though, compared to J. Mark McVey, who played the lead role of Jean Valjean for us and more than 2,900 other audiences in his impressive career. His magnificent performance truly moved us and we noted with delight that the actor shared the stage with his tiny daughter, an ensemble cast member.
We're very grateful to live in a community that supports the Arts as passionately as it supports its Packers. We're especially fierce about promoting live theater for its tangible ability to both enrich lives and inspire dreams.
And the little girl in our house who would only clean her room if she could wear a costume and sing? She lives in Chicago now and is working hard… as an actress.

Forgive the awkward angle. I shot this lovely picture myself.

Here we are with the Thenardiers proving once again that we
are quite tall. They were very good sports though.

Here is our Little Cosette, circa 1995.

Here's a Packer hero you may not know

It's game day in Titletown and I'll be one of the 70,000 pumped up Packer fans streaming into Lambeau Field tonight. Whether you're joining me, or watching the game on TV tonight, I'm asking you to pay special attention to one of the names displayed on the inside rim of the stadium.
Henry Jordan was inducted into the Professional Football Hall of Fame in 1995 and lucky I got to attend the induction ceremony as a guest of the Jordan family. With the invitation came a red button that identified me as a "Guest of Henry Jordan." I treasure both the button and the memories it inspires of a thrilling weekend in Canton, a charming family whose beautiful matriarch both intimidates me and makes me smile, and an intelligent man whose premature death at age 42 stunned us all.
Today when I look up at Henry's name, I will be sending a prayer for his widow, Olive Jordan Frey, who recently was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease.
Henry Jordan was my dad Ron Kostelnik's best friend on the storied Packer team of the 1960's. Sadly, both men and their teammate on the defensive line, Lionel Aldridge, suffered fatal heart attacks and died young.
As much as Henry mentored my Dad both on and off the football field, so too did Olive mentor my mom. Olive, a vivacious and generous woman, happily assumed the role of team social director, according to my mom.
Olive organized family dinners for the single players and taught an eclectic group of very young Packer wives, most of whom had never heard of Green Bay, Wisconsin, how to conduct themselves with style in the increasing glare of the spotlight.
In the 44 years since the Packers won the first Super Bowl, Olive has cheerfully maintained that role. At my own wedding in 1987, Olive arrived and kindly offered to organize our wedding party and she stayed in the back of the church to pace them through the opening march.
Six years later she proved to be an invaluable resource at a far sadder occasion, guiding us through the grim process of organizing a funeral following my dad's sudden death.
Today, Olive could use some help in her battle with a brutal disease.
Please join me in praying for her and, if details regarding any other way you can help her become available to me, I will pass them along.
Go Pack Go!

Henry and my dad take a breather. At left
is a scanned paper napkin. At dinner one
night, a bored Henry sketched my dad. Not
a bad likeness, right? My dad kept that napkin
for the rest of his life.

Here Olive spruces up one of our groomsmen, Dennis Fitzgerald
prior to sending him down the aisle.

This is my dad and Lionel Aldridge at my wedding in 1987.
The Aldridge family could use your prayers today too.

A toast to the heroes next door

It's easy to recognize a hero, especially today. They walk tall in pressed uniforms and shiny shoes. They volunteer for hard tasks and run toward things we avoid. Last night, we had dinner with a guy like that, an army veteran and quiet recipient of a bronze star and an oak leaf cluster.
Our next-door neighbor Doug doesn't speak much about his days as a member of General Patton's army. Instead, he conducts his life with the quiet dignity extolled by so many members of his generation.
At 88-years old, he remains constantly busy. He keeps his house and yard immaculate and works very hard to make sure the grass is greener on the other side of the fence as well, which is nice for us because we live on the other side of his fence.
Doug and his stylish wife Janet, with whom he recently celebrated a 60th wedding anniversary, intimidate us with their never-a-complaint nor-a-hair-out-of-place way of life. Their days begin early and, by proximity, ours do too.
Let other people snooze in on snow days. Here in our neighborhood, we rise with the Octogenarians. 
For many years, whatever the season, mornings would begin with a whir indicating Doug had yanked out his snow blower, lawn blower or leaf blower and gone to work. In the darkness I'd open one eye, gauge the sound waves and then yank the covers off the guy sleeping next to me.
"Vince, get up!" I'd yell. "Doug is blowing us out again."
Pride compelled us to get up then and go out to help him.
During one particularly nasty blizzard when Vince was out of town, Molly and I hauled ourselves outside to clear our driveway. Pelting snow stung my eyes as I looked over and saw them, Janet in a cute matching pink coat, hat and gloves and Doug with a jaunty cap pulled over his forehead.
"For the love of God," I yelled. "Go inside before you hurt yourself. We'll take care of the sidewalk."
They laughed and continued on their merry way.
We have so much to be grateful for today -- a free country and the brave people who help us keep it that way, a holiday that gives us an opportunity to thank them, and a couple of neighbors like Doug and Janet.

Molly poses between our neighbors Janet and Doug, neither of
whom looks a day over 60.

In a time honored family tradition, Molly brands her
Styrofoam leftover container.

Presumably, this will keep late night snackers away.

A Happy Veteran's Day cupcake for the man
of the hour.

Chicken Soup for the Whole…week

You know the weird relative that asks for the ham bone after holiday meals? That's me. I take it for my bean soup.

Soup happens to be one of my specialties. I love that I can get most of the meal finished before I leave for work in the morning and that when I come home the house smells like a properly cooked dinner. I love that I can dump all of my leftover vegetables in a big pot of soup and people will neither notice nor complain. I love that good soup tastes even better the second day.
For 12 of her 13 years Molly was right with me on the Souper-di-duper bandwagon. Then Vinnie moved out, leaving her an only child. The first time I made chicken soup for our post Vinnie family, we had Chicken Matzo Ball soup on Monday. On Tuesday we had Chicken Tortellini Soup and on Wednesday we ate Chicken Rice Soup. Same pot of soup, I just switched up the starch. And that wasn't the first time this fall Molly ate the same meal three nights in a row. (Don't even get her started on my husband's recent wild hog extravaganza). A few weeks ago, Molly launched a campaign to get me to adjust my portions. I couldn't do it. The lure of the leftover proved too powerful. This business of cooking once and covering three dinners is new to me and I am, you should pardon the phrase, eating it up.
Last night I made a thick chicken tortellini soup and appeased Molly by serving it with her favorite  Foccacia from Great Harvest Bread. I know she'll enjoy it even more tonight.

Chicken Tortellini Soup

1 whole chicken

Water to cover

2 cups chopped carrots

2 cups chopped potatoes

2 cups chopped celery

2 cups chopped onion

1 teaspoon salt

1 can diced tomatoes

1 can stewed tomatoes (Molly would like me to mention that she really does not like stewed tomatoes and she suggests you leave them out. I agreed once to leave them out but I thought it left the soup a little too flat. You decide.)

1 can corn (drained)

1 can chicken broth

1 large package fresh tortellini

Fresh grated parmesan cheese

Rinse chicken and place in large pot. Cover with water and add salt. Heat to boiling. Turn temperature to low. Add carrots, potatoes, celery and onion. Cover and simmer several hours. Carefully remove cooked chicken from pot and set on plate to cool. Meanwhile, add both cans of tomatoes, corn and canned chicken broth to the pot. Remove skin from chicken and debone. Cut chicken into cubes. Return cubed chicken to the pot and allow soup to simmer. Just before serving, add tortellini directly to soup. Cook 7 to 10 minutes until tortellini is tender.
Ladle soup into your bowl and sprinkle with fresh parmesan cheese.

Here's my lonely chicken, salted nicely and just a little mortified
to be photographed all raw and in the buff.

I keep the carrots kind of chunky and I add several because
they're pretty and they taste good.

I chop the potatoes chunky too because I don't want the
carrots to feel bad.

Keep the onions and celery fat and happy too.

The trick is to lift the chicken out firmly but gently after it's cooked.
It's a fragile little poultry and if you aren't careful it will fall apart in
 the water and your children will have to pick bones out of their soup.

You should be very impressed. I am cooking and snapping
pictures at the same time here.

And here's your Tortellini Soup, all dressed up for dinner. 

PBS: Pizza Bufala Style

My husband's television habits continue to confound us.
Last week, though, they directly resulted in our thorough enjoyment of a Neapolitan style pizza, so we're not going to complain. Much.

His truly gifted mastery of the remote control combined with the expanding network of available programs brought to us by digital cable means television shows and commercials whiz by those of us still willing to watch TV with him (me and, only on a very slow day in her life, Molly). We end up craving Dramamine. This TV ADD, I'm told, is not uncommon in the less-fair sex.
What makes the experience uniquely Vince, though, is when his hyperactive thumb pauses. Of course he has his go-to stations (anything beginning with ESPN), but Vince also enjoys Paranormal Activity, John Edward Cross Country, Antique Roadshow and, most recently, Wisconsin Foodie. Odd, right?
But we're not going to complain.
If some of those shows have given us the opportunity to make sport (and this from a woman who once lost an embarrassing chunk of time to a Real Housewives of Orange County Marathon), others have added to the general enjoyment of our lives.
Wisconsin Foodie, for example, led us to an impressive little trio of restaurants in Sheboygan, Wisconsin that champion the farm to fork movement.  On Saturday we went to one of them, a pizza joint called Il Ritrovo, for a delicious lunch.
We took notes and hope to recreate the Bufalina Bianca pizza we enjoyed, although we're going to have a little trouble reconstructing the 800 degree wood fired oven.

We don't know these people and we don't write restaurant reviews
but this bread, baked on the premises, is both fantastic and free.

We want to make this at home. Arugula we can find, Bufala
 Mozzarella maybe not. Also, we're a little afraid of yeast. But,
this was so good we're going to give it a whirl.

Here's Molly enjoying a little pre-Pizza house salad.

Two months into the blog and he finally appears
(albeit back-lit and sadly hazy)! Here's Vince
 using his well-conditioned right thumb to dig
 into a bowl of pre-pizza pumpkin squash soup.