Lundi: Recipes

I've featured recipes by the incomparable Leon E. Soniat, Jr. here at HQ before. I like to mess around with recipes, too, and fit an existing recipe to the taste of those I cook for. Chef Soniat's Creole style recipes are a great base to take off from and today's omelet recipe is a good example.

The original appeared in La Bouche Creole II as the Potato-Onion Supper Omelet. My kids aren't big on onions but they do like potatoes and are very fond of rosemary potatoes. Voila! Soniat's supper omelet went from Potato-Onion to Potato-Rosemary just like that.  I don't much trouble to make it an omelet either (no folding over, etc.) Here's the recipe; enough for four hungry people.

6 to 8 tbsps olive oil
2 potatoes, washed and cubed (you can peel the potato if your family prefers, by all means)
2 tbsps butter
8 eggs, lightly beaten (add a little milk if this is how you usually scramble eggs)
1 to 2 tsps dry rosemary or a few sprigs of fresh rosemary, leaves peeled off the stalk and coarsely chopped
Salt
Black pepper
Tabasco

Heat the oil in a large skillet. Add the potatoes and cook them over medium heat until golden brown and crisp, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove the potatoes to a paper towel to drain.

Pour off a bit of the oil, leaving about 2 tablespoons, and add the butter. When it foams, return the potatoes to the skillet and add the eggs and rosemary. Stir in the salt and pepper to taste and a few dashes of Tabasco. Continue to stir for a minute or two more then - and this is the hardest part - leave the omelet alone. Let it cook for another one or two minutes, or until the eggs are done to your liking.

Serve immediately with some warm rolls or a fresh baguette. This is a delightful winter meal and can be tweaked with any herb that particularly appeals to you and yours. Bon appetite ~

Header: Egg by Edward B. Lintott via Old Paint

Dimanch: Swimming

A Day at the Beach by Elanor Colburn via American Gallery

Samedi: Ghost Stories

Today's story comes to us from the Arkansas. Yes, I am duty bound by familial ties to speak of it the way my ancestors would have when their associate and then spy for Spain Jean Laffite went off into its wilds to map out the U.S. settlements there abouts circa 1816. My Aunt Bette used to only refer to the state above Louisiana as "the" Arkansas, and that with a disparaging tint to her voice. Sorry Razor Back fans; I can only say that it's in the blood.

In many rural areas along the Mississippi River, Arkansas for instance, the landscape is dotted with hunting shacks. These are used only during "the season", at least for the most part, and to a large degree they are not furnished with the finest amenities. They are "shacks" more than cabins or homes, meant to be used for a brief time and then closed up to the next round.

This is the case in my adoptive home as well. Here in Alaska, hunting shacks are not unusual out in what locals call "the bush." While they may be hundreds of miles from one another, they are not all that uncommon and, in some cases, are literally open to all who happen upon them. In these instances they are as spare as they probably sound, but they are better than sleeping out in the raw environment of hunting season which encompasses the short, cold months of September and October. It's not January, of course, but it can be pretty bleak.

All that said, this story translates beautifully to Alaska. What happens in the bush stays in the bush for the most part. And none of what happens in this story would make an "old timer" do much more than shake his or her head...

Around the night fire the talk turned to the cabin by the lake. It had been there for ages as far as anyone knew, its timbers gray and its moss-covered roof sagging. No sane hunter had the gumption to go inside, even though it was in sight of the fire. The stories of men driven mad by the screams and wails of long dead souls were too numerous to ignore. The ancient cabin was haunted; everyone said so. No one wanted to challenge the idea if they could possibly avoid it.

No one, that is, but the grizzled hunter known as Old Pete. Pete had come up from Montana ten years ago and had soon put his tracking talents to good use showing greenhorns the best place to find a slow bull moose. He had a good reputation as a guide but a bad reputation as a companion. Old Pete was obnoxious, and when talk around the fire turned to the shack he spoke up right away.

"I'll stay up there all night," Pete said, standing up and planting his feet wide. "But I'll need money to do it."

How much money was settled on quickly - fifty dollars seemed reasonable - and the men laid out their cash. Pete also took a slab of good bacon and six cans of beer and, shouldering his pack, he hiked the short distance to the shack.

"Haunted," he mused, standing in front of the dark, low lump that would be his home for the night. "I'm more haunted than you are." And then he went in.

With his flashlight Pete could see that the place wasn't much. There were a couple of chairs and sleeping ledges built of pine. He smiled when he saw a stone hearth already laid with kindling and wood. Someone had been here and failed to light a fire; Pete wouldn't be so foolish.

When the fire was crackling, Pete unfurled his sleeping bag and put his little cast iron pot on the flames. "Time for bacon," he said and he threw the slab in the pot. Settling back in a chair, he cracked a can of beer and smiled. It was a quiet night, and not too cold. "Dinner and then to bed. Fifty dollars easy."

As Pete relaxed, he heard a shuffling sound along one wall. He didn't think too much of it; shrews and voles loved to hole up in places like this for the winter. Hell, he'd even run into a raven in a place like this once. He took a long swig of his beer, and turned the sweet smelling bacon with his fork.

The shuffling noise grew louder but Pete was comfortable. He opened another beer and thought how glad he was not to be a rodent. As he settled further back he heard something else; something like a voice...

"Smells good, Mister."

Pete sat up. "What?" He called out: "Is that you, Len?"

"Ain't Len," the voice whispered. Hissed, really. "Smells good, Mister."

The voice made Pete's skin crawl. It was like a snake or a roach, dry and sneaky. "This isn't funny," Pete called. "Len; this isn't - "

Pete saw a shadow, dark and small, move from a corner and jump - he swore later it jumped - right into his cast iron pot. The bacon let out a hiss and some steam and then he heard that voice again. But this time it came right out of the fire. "Thanks for dinner, Pete."

Old Pete looked carefully at his pot and he saw two eyes staring back at him over the rim. They were as red as the hot fire and as he looked, unable to move or blink, he heard that voice again: "My friends and I are grateful."

Suddenly a howling, squealing, groaning and screaming came right out of the wood that the shack was built from. It was as if a hurricane raged outside, but the night remained calm. Pete clapped his hands over his ears as the sound pummeled him like punches. He screamed right back, loud and long. All the same he couldn't hear himself. These noises would drive a sane man crazy.

Pete jumped up, grabbed his pack and, leaving his pot and sleeping bag behind, burst out of that old shack and ran toward his companions' fire.

When he reached them they stood up, shocked by Pete's sudden return and riveted by his appearance: from head to toe Pete was as pale as new fog - even his brown hair had turned white.

"Holy Hell, Pete;" Len asked. "What - "

"Here," Pete threw the money at his friends. "You keep it. I'm goin' home. Don't go in there. Don't none of you ever go in there!"

Old Pete left the hunt, called for the plane and paid the extra for the unexpected lift. He went to work on the North Slope and never went back to hunting ever again.

Header The Old Hunting Shack by Les Kouba via Alliance Art Publishing

Vendredi: Chthonian Histories

As Hallowe'en draws nearer, our thoughts turn to ghoulies and ghosties and witches in pointy hats. My thoughts personally turn to the real "witches" of yesterday and today who were and are tortured, persecuted and either killed or driven to kill themselves. Imagined or real, these "servants of Satan" most typically come with female bodies and the fact that such persecution continues to this day all around the world is a sad commentary on just how far "civilization" hasn't come.

In honor of those who have lost and will lose everything to religious zealots, the next few installments of Chthonian Histories will be dedicated to the true story of a simple German girl who was given up by her unfortunate family, questioned, tortured and murdered in 1600.

Agnes was the daughter of a poor miller and his unfortunately ugly wife. They ran what was known as "the convent mill" in the village of Tettenwing in Lower Bavaria. Their mill did not thrive as it was considered haunted. Stories flew about their village that linked the mill itself, the miller and his family to everything from the sending of nightmares to causing plague. It was only travelers that patronized the mill and a traveler with grain to grind was an unusual occurrence in depressed times. The mill fell into disrepair. Local gossips whispered that the miller's wife was an ogress. And a witch.

The one bright spot around the mill was the miller's only surviving child: Agnes. Unlike her parents, Agnes was beautiful. At somewhere around the age of 16 in 1600, Agnes was the object of many a local farm boy's affection. Much to their mothers' dismay, these local sons brought Agnes gifts and got into brawls over her. Every now and then the sheriff would stop by to tell the miller to keep his daughter "in line." As if her beauty was something she could control. As if she put a spell on all the farm boys.

One summer day the sheriff came again, but this time he came with unfamiliar and well dressed men on horseback. They had come to search the house, they told the miller, for signs of "witchery". He and his family had been accused of practicing the dark arts for "these thirty years and more." That included his ogress wife and his enchantress daughter.

The miller protested, of course, but to no avail. It did not take long for the thugs that came along with the fine gentlemen to find a second hearth, built under the kitchen stairs. It was concealed behind a door and on it was a "pot containing a stiff paste, a congealed liquid, or something of the kind. That was no doubt witches' ointment."

The pot was confiscated, the miller and his family put in chains, and Agnes, along with her aging mother and father, was on her way to the notorious Falcon Tower in Munich.

The local judges went to work right away, subjecting Agnes to long, verbal interrogations but finding her "recalcitrant" and unwilling to confess to any knowledge of witchcraft or the devil. She informed the head judge, Wangereck, that she knew people called her parents ogres. All the same, the accusation was unjust and "would never be shown to be true of her, either."

Wangereck, intuiting what would truly break the young woman's spirit, put her in a dank cell for two months while he worked her parents over. The miller died after several rounds of the torture known as strappado (illustrated above). His wife, Anna, was also subjected to the heinous dislocation of various joints. Like her husband, she endured not only the horrible position of hanging from her wrists with her arms behind her back, but she also suffered the misery of having weights tied to her ankles to pull her knees and hips loose.

Anna confessed in a stream of wild babbling. She was returned to her cell where her swollen joints made it impossible to move from the straw bedding.

Meanwhile, Wangereck returned to lovely, recalcitrant Agnes...

(The tale of Agnes the miller's daughter continues next Friday. The majority of my research is indebted to the book High Road to the Stake: A Tale of Witchcraft by Michael Kunze, translated from German by William E. Yuill)

Header: Interrogation by Bessonov Nicolay via InquisitionArt (please note that Nicolay's art, while brilliant, is very realistic and very graphic; viewer discretion is advised)

Jeudi: Root Work

I know it's only October but the holidays will be here sooner than we think and that usually means just one thing for root workers and wise women: requests for love potions. No one wants to feel like Evangeline up there during the darkest months of the year. Although I tend to counsel people against too much manipulation, the reality is that a little insurance for a good relationship (not one that's on the fence and especially not one that's abusive) never hurts.

The term "love potion number nine" is thrown around a lot in our culture. There's even a song about it, I think. This fabled drink may actually have originated in hoodoo. Different root workers have different recipes for the love potion, which actually amounts to a simple tea made from nine different ingredients. The caveat with most of these mixtures is that rose petals, catnip and cinnamon must be used in the mixture.

Fresh or dried herbs work equally well so it is entirely up to the person making the tea which way they want to go. The idea of the tea is to draw love or, if it is shared with the loved one, strengthen the bond. Whether the loved one knows what the maker of the tea is up to is entirely open for discussion.

Here's my recipe for the fabled love potion:

A small piece of apple
A small piece of ginger
One rose petal and a pinch each of:
Catnip
Cinnamon
Dill
Rue
Sugar

Wrap all of these ingredients in a square of muslin and tie it up with a long piece of twine to form a teabag. Place your teabag in a cup and pour hot water over it. Add a drop of vanilla or whiskey (your choice, but not both). While you pray/infuse the tea with your intention, allow the mixture to steep for nine minutes.

Remove the teabag and drink the cup down, preferable in nine sips. You should continue to focus on your wish for love while you drink. Dispose of your teabag as you will need to make a new one the next day.

Repeat this ritual nine days/nights in a row, if possible at around the same time each day. Toujours l'amour ~

Header: Evangeline by Christian Schussele via American Gallery

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

Though probably not technically an "herb", that's how we are going to treat kelp and that odd form of seaweed know as agar today here at HQ. The stuff is certainly in demand for magickal workings both in Wicca and hoodoo regardless of any semantics issues.

Sea kelp, which can be found in fresh and dried form on just about any saltwater beach, is sometimes still called bladderwrack for its diuretic properties. In the past, the home nurse and/or local wise woman would keep the stuff handy to help out when frequent urination was called for as a form of purge.

In Wicca, kelp is often utilized as a way to connect with the spirits of the sea. Mermaids and other potentially helpful water sprites are thought to be drawn to the stuff. According to Scott Cunningham, one should stand in the water and toss kelp that has washed ashore back into the waves while calling to the sea spirits and asking them for their help. Be careful though; like fairy folk, sea spirits can do just as much harm as they can good.

Old wives told that carrying seaweed while one was at sea was a must for protection. This practice has expanded in our modern age and it is now considered protective to carry a piece of seaweed while traveling by plane as well as by ship. This particularly if the plane is crossing the water.

Another old wives tale - or perhaps it is an old sailor's tale - adds kelp to improve the efficacy of "whistling up the wind." The story goes that standing on the shore while waving an arm of kelp over ones head, in a clockwise motion, and whistling will stir up a good wind.

In hoodoo, kelp is boiled into a tea which is then strained and used as a floor wash to keep a steady stream of business coming in to any sort of establishment. In the home, a bit is bottled up in a jar to which whiskey is added. The jar is then sealed tight and placed near the stove or in a sunny kitchen window. It is said that this trick will ensure that the family is never caught penniless.

Agar, or agar-agar as it is sometimes called, is best known as that semi-gelatinous medium in which bacteria are grown in a lab. In hoodoo, the same stuff is used in a powder form which is often called sea spirit. It is said that carrying a bit in your pocket can make you recede from view in a crowd as long as you are careful and quiet. A pinch of the powder sprinkled in a glass of water that is then kept next to one's bed at night is thought to ward off bad dreams and malicious sendings.

Bingo players also wash their hands in a tea made with chamomile and sea spirit before going out to play their chosen game of chance. This is said to increase anyone's chances of winning at the game. Bonne chance ~

Header: Mermaid by Henry Clive via American Gallery

Lundi: Recipes

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a member of the Who Dat Nation. I saw my first Saints game when I was five and, though I went through a weird Seahawks thing in my youth (my family lived in Seattle when the team first appeared) I got over it. I rejoiced when the Saints won the Super Bowl and I am as low as any football fan can be now.

Even my daughter is a Saints fan. She knows the players, wears her Pierre Thomas jersey on game days and cried, down right bawled, yesterday at the end of that sad, sad loss to the Packers.

Thanks to Roger Goodell, my child understands that there ain't never gonna be nothing fair. And she's not the only one. I wouldn't want your karma even with your salary, sir.

Tears aside, I'm old enough to seek solace in an adult beverage. So here's a recipe for a delicious Bloody Mary straight out of another institution that is being "phased out" due to greed and ignorance: The Times-Picayune. Make two pitchers and have some friends over. Misery loves company.

4 cups tomato juice
1 tsp salt
1 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp celery salt
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
10 to 12 drops of Tabasco sauce (more or less to taste)
2 tsps fresh lime juice
7 ounces vodka of choice
Lime wedges and celery stalks for garnish

Combine all ingredients but garnish in a glass pitcher and chill for at least an hour. Stir before serving. Pour into four ice-filled glasses and garnish as noted.

You might also like to add prepared horseradish for an extra kick.

Not feeling up to making your own - and who can blame you given the circumstances? I recommend Tabasco's own brand of Bloody Mary mix. It's delicious and a great pick me up without the vodka, too. Bon appetite ~

Header: Family: Because no matter what the outcome, we always love them via New Orleans Ladder