Remembering New Orleans - Palace Cafe Crabmeat Cheesecake

It's impossible to visit New Orleans and not eat well.  This, however, was probably my favorite meal.

Crabmeat Cheesecake
Palace Café
Serves 8

Palace Cafe's Crabmeat Cheesecake

Pecan Crust

• 1/4 cup pecans
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 5 tablespoons butter, cold
• 3 tablespoons ice water

Filling

• 1/2 cup onion, small diced
• 1 tablespoons butter
• 4 oz crabmeat
• 8 oz cream cheese, room temperature
• 1/3 cup Creole cream cheese or sour cream
• 2 each eggs
• 1 tablespoons hot pepper sauce (we use Crystal brand hot sauce)
• Kosher salt and white pepper to taste

Meuniere Sauce

• 1 each lemon, peeled and quartered
• 1/2 cup Worcestershire sauce
• 1/2 cup hot pepper sauce
• 1/4 cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 lb Butter, cold, cut into small cubes
• Kosher salt and white pepper to taste

Garnish

• 2 cup sliced mixed wild mushrooms
• 3 tablespoons butter, softened
• 24 each crab claw fingers
• Kosher salt and cracked black pepper to taste

Preparing the Pecan Crust

Preheat oven to 350°. Finely grind pecans in a food processor. Add flour and salt. Mix well. Transfer to a large mixing bowl and cut in butter, working butter into flour with two knives until dough is in crumbs the size of small peas. Add ice water and evenly incorporate into the mixture, which should remain fairly crumbly. Roll out dough to an 1/8" thickness on a lightly floured surface. Press dough into a lightly greased 9" tart pan, starting with the sides and then the bottom. Bake crust for 20 minutes or until golden. Note: dough can be made ahead of time. If doing so, wrap dough tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate. Allow dough to come to room temperature before rolling out.

Preparing the Filling

Sauté onion in butter until translucent. Add crabmeat and cook just until heated through, then remove from heat. Blend cream cheese until smooth in a mixer fitted with a paddle or by hand using a wooden spoon. Add Creole cream cheese and mix well. Mix in eggs one at a time. Gently fold in crabmeat mixture. Stir in hot sauce and season to taste with salt and white pepper. Spoon filling into prepared crust. Bake at 300° for 30-40 minutes or until firm to the touch.

Preparing the Meuniere Sauce and Garnish

Combine lemon, Worcestershire sauce and hot sauce in a heavy saucepot. Reduce over medium heat, stirring constantly with a wire whisk until mixture becomes thick and syrupy. Whisk in heavy whipping cream. Reduce heat to low and slowly blend in butter one cube at a time, adding additional butter only after previously added butter has completely incorporated into the sauce. This process is called "mounting the butter." Remove from heat and continue to stir. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Strain through a fine strainer and keep warm. Sauté mushrooms in 2 tablespoons butter until tender and all moisture has cooked off. Excess water from the mushrooms may break your sauce if it isn't cooked off. Stir mushrooms into meuniere sauce. Melt 1 tablespoon butter in a saute pan and warm crab claws over low heat.

To Serve

Slice cheesecake and top each piece with warm meuniere sauce and three crab claws.

Photograph From September 11 - Poem by Wislawa Szymborska

They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There's enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins

to fall from pockets.

They're still within the air's reach,

within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.


by Wislawa Szymborska
Translated By: Clare Cavanagh And Stanislaw Baranczak

Happy Birthday, Mary Oliver

My friend Lesa, knowing I love the work of Mary Oliver, shared this essay with me this morning.  https://bookriot.com/?p=136011 ,  written by Laura Sackton and lovingly tells how Mary Oliver changed her life.  

Laura says all the things so perfectly that Ms. Oliver has given so many of us.  Words we wish we had written, but that we deeply felt.

Happy Birthday, Mary Oliver, 

and thank you.

First peony bloom in our garden

Peonies: A Poem by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

from New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver 

Some Annabelle. Just 'cause

Don Williams R.I.P.

This has broken my heart - how many times can one heart be broken in a day? 

I can thank Don Barley for introducing me to Don Williams' music many, many years ago. 

We saw him in Asheville in 2012 - http://www.meanderingsandmuses.com/search?q=Don+Williams. 

I remember sitting in the audience listening to the soft sweetness of his voice, being moved to tears by the words and just being in his presence.

Don Williams

May 27, 1939 – September 8, 2017

Gregg Allman's final album, "Southern Blood," drops today

My heart broke on May 27th, 2017 when I heard the news about Gregg Allman's death.

Today it breaks again as I listen to the last album he recorded, knowing it would be his last.




"My Only True Friend"
written by Gregg Allman and Scott Sharrard

You and I both know this river will surely flow to an end
Keep me in your heart keep your soul on the mend

I hope you're haunted by the music of my soul
When I'm gone
Please don't fly away and find you a new love
I can't face living this life alone
I can't bear to think this might be the end
But you and I both know the road is my only true friend

Another night alone but I see you in my dreams sometimes
No matter where I go lord knows
You were always on my mind

I hope you're haunted by the music of my soul
When I'm gone
Please don't fly away and find you a new love
I just can't face living this life alone
I can't bear to think this might be the end
But you and I both know the road is my only true friend

Still on and on I run it feels like home is just around the bend
I got so much left to give
But I'm running out of time, my friend

I hope you're haunted by the music of my soul
When I'm gone
Please don't fly away and find you a new love
I just can't face living this life alone
I can't bear to think this might be the end
But you and I both know the road is my only true friend
You and I both know the road is my only true friend


You can read the story behind "Southern Blood" here at "The Bitter Southerner."


This is a re-post of the piece I wrote after seeing him in concert in Charlotte in July, 2016 - - - 

There's not much Donald and I enjoy more than live music.

We have seen a wealth of great musicians and it's always a thrill.

Tuesday we saw Gregg Allman and Peter Frampton in Charlotte at The Amphitheater.  (It  keeps changing names and I have no idea what its name is today - the Metro Credit Union Amphitheater, maybe . . . )


We've both seen Gregg Allman numerous times over the years.  And although he may be walking and moving a little slower than he once did, his voice is as strong and clear and true as it ever was.


Neither of us had seen Peter Frampton before.

What a pixie-like ball of energy he is!  Adorable.

And his band members glow with pride when he steps up to play next to one of them

We had front row seats and I was as giddy as a kid.



We were outside and it was hot.


I can't even tell you how hot, but it was hot.


My hair was soaking wet in no time.


And our clothes were sticking to us by the time we left.


It was supposed to rain, but that never happened.


Because it was supposed to rain, we left good cameras at home and took one of the old ones - so excuse the quality of the pics.


But you know what?


It didn't matter that it was hot.

It wouldn't have mattered if it had rained.

It was a great night.

Watching two legends make music, listening to them sing their music live.

It doesn't get much better.

Apple Pound Cake for Labor Day

A neighbor is hosting a neighborhood Labor Day get-together this afternoon. 

My contribution will be an Apple Pound Cake. This is one of my favorite "go to" recipes, one I've been baking for years. It's from one of my favorite cook-books - an oldie but goodie. 


The cookbook is SOMETHIN'S COOKIN' IN THE MOUNTAINS, A Cookbook Guidebook to Northeast Georgia it is a delight.


It's one Donald and I picked up on one of our trips to the North Georgia mountains while we were still living in Atlanta, and loved taking weekend get-away trips to the mountains.

The editors were Cathy and Jay Bucek who owned a wonderful little spot called "Mark of the Potter." 

It's a delightful cookbook, and so much more. It's a terrific guidebook to the N. Georgia mountains and contains several hand drawn maps along with drawings of landmarks and places of interest, like this one of the upside-down bridge. The Mark of the Potter is still there and still lovely, but sadly, Jay is no longer with us. 





The recipes were submitted by local restaurants, businesses and local folk. Every one I've tried has been a winner.

Here's the Apple Pound Cake recipe from Bruce Mitchell of Nacoochee Mound, a large Indian mound in White County. Although I no longer follow this recipe as written, I'm including it beneath my photos as Bruce wrote it with notations relating to my changes. You, of course, could either follow it to the letter . . . or not.

Apple Pound Cake

Ingredients:
2 cups of sugar
1 1/2 cups of cooking oil
3 eggs
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
3/4 cup coconut (I do not use the coconut)
3 cups tart apples, peeled, cored, and diced (I do not peel the apples)
1 cup pecans, chopped (I usually do not use the pecans)


Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine the sugar and oil. Beat with an electric mixer until well blended. Add the eggs one at a time and beat until fluffy. Combine the flour, baking soda and salt. Add to the sugar mixture and blend well. Beat in the vanilla and coconut. Fold in the apples and nuts. Pour into a greased 9-inch tube pan (I usually use a Bundt pan). Bake for 80 minutes, or until the cake tests done (may not take 80 minutes). Turn onto a wire rack to cool. (this recipe does not call for leaving the cake in the pan to cool before turning it out, but I do that.  For about 15 minutes.)


And - - 


ta da!


Here's a picture of the finished product.




Note:  If it doesn't come out of your pan nicely, tear it apart and throw the pieces into a pretty trifle bowl.  Call it Apple Crumb Cake Trifle. Serve with ice cream or whipped cream on top.  (yes - it has happened . . . )

First Sunday of the Month

I'm at Jungle Red today, chatting about Paris - ooh la la!

I hope you'll stop by for a visit  -  http://www.jungleredwriters.com/

Annabelle Barley

Annabelle Barley.

What can I say about Annabelle Barley.


Well.


I can say this . . . 


She is THE most mischievous dog I have ever known, let alone, have living with me.


Truth.


And then she can roll those eyes up and look so innocent that, yes, all is forgiven.


I am a total pushover.


Donald's no better.


I'm going to miss this rug in the living room that we're going to have to throw away.


It was bad enough that three of four corners were chewed off, but the large hole she very quietly managed to chew out yesterday makes it official. 


But not right away. 


Not until we know she's beyond the "lemme chew a hole in this rug" stage.

So, living with it for now and trying not to look at it.


Bitter Apple?   HA!  


Bitter Yuck?  HA!


She's not going to let that stuff hold her back.


It may keep some dogs from chewing things up, but not Annabelle.


When the girl wants to chew a hole in the living room rug, she's going to chew a hole in the living room rug.

But, then  . . .



"Mama. I told you. I do not know who ate that hole in the area rug in the living room. Why do I get blamed for EVERYTHING?"

And then there are "sticks" (or, as I would refer to this one, limbs) . . . 


This is what I have to listen to,

"Mama. It's MY stick. I captured it. Why CAN'T I bring it inside?!"

  

I have never had a dog quite like Annabelle.

And, yes, she owns us.  Heart and soul.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 by W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Glass Houses by Louise Penny

Release Date:   August 29, 2017

I have, most of my life, had a list of authors I've considered my "auto-buy" authors. 

Slowly, over the years, the list has changed, and it has dwindled. 

There is now a very small group of outstanding writers remaining on that list. Louise Penny has been there, at the top, since I happened upon Still Life. 

Honestly, I do not think there's anyone writing today who is writing as well as she. 

She has taken pen to page and created a group of people her readers have grown to love. Some have stories we're still waiting to learn. Some have broken our hearts. Ms. Penny takes the pieces of broken hearts, puts them back together and raises them high - to the light. And she does it fearlessly. 

She's able to write about tough topics, as she does in Glass Houses, with a deft and sure hand. Helps us remember that even when we're doubting the world we live in, there is goodness. 

Glass Houses kept me on my toes. It had some surprises that made me think. And, as always, there was the irreverence and subtle humor that have become a Louise Penny signature. 

I loved Glass Houses. 

I want to stumble into Three Pines and never leave.

Note:  I received an advance reading copy from the publisher with no discussion regarding whether or not I would review the book.

On Writing

I love to write.

But, I hate to write while telling myself I need to be doing it.


So, I guess, like Dorothy Parker, " . . .  I love having written."


Here's the thing.

I am proud of "Whimsey: A Novel."  

SO proud


I recently picked it up to re-read.  Something I thought I'd never do because I was tired of Whimsey by the time I finished writing (and rewriting, and rewriting, and rewriting) it.

And then, after the writing . . .

Well, then came all the ups and downs that come with putting out a book - especially a debut novel.

First of all, I had no idea what I was doing.

Secondly, I was "self-publishing," which brings its own set of words whispered behind a raised hand.

Although not as bad as it once was, and even much more "accepted" now than it was in 2013 when Whimsey was published, there was that stigma of "self-published." 

More ups and downs that came with all this were on a more personal level, and truth be told - I'm not sure I'm really tough enough to go through all that again.

Writers say you cannot be thin skinned if you want to be a writer.  Boy Howdy, that is the damned truth.


Anyway.


After re-reading my Whimsey, I'm going to say this.

I like it.

I like it well enough that I would recommend it to friends if I hadn't written it.

I like that it made me smile, and I liked that it made me cry.

It's the book I wanted, for a long time, to write.

I'm proud of the book, I'm proud I'm the author who wrote it.


Then, after reading it, I did something I haven't done in awhile.

I went to Amazon to look at reviews.

There are 71 reviews, which is, I think, a pretty darn fair amount of reviews for a debut novel, self-published.  One with the only promotion coming from me, along with a hearty group of bloggers who were willing to give Whimsey a read and some print.

The reviews I got from well-respected on-line reviewers were very good to pretty good - and I was happy with that.

The reviews on Amazon range from one-star to five stars.  Not unusual.  And, of course, those five star reviews are way more fun to read.

The over-all ranking is 4.1 out of 5 stars - not bad, not bad at all.

What's really fun is knowing that most of the people leaving reviews are people I don't know, never met, never heard of and yet they somehow found my book.  Isn't that amazing?  

I'm truly astonished by this until I remember that I'm a reader who has picked up books by authors I've never heard of and, like many, have loved some of them, while others - not so much.

It just never occurs to me to go to Amazon and leave a negative review, while I can't wait to go and leave a happy little comment for a book I enjoyed.  You won't find the comments I leave under my real name.  Not being a reviewer, I feel silly thinking anyone might give two figs what Kaye Barley might think about a book.  Mainly, I'm just hoping the author will appreciate that there's a reader out there who enjoyed his/her work.

'Course, to the woman who spent $2.00 for a box of 25 books at a yard sale and read 10 pages of Whimsey and hated it - really, really hated it.  Bless your heart.  I hope your $2.00 brought you some joy in the other 24 books.  


What prompted this blog today is the fact that Whimsey is going to be on the shelves of WHSmith Books in Paris.

I sent them a note that I was going to be there next month, would be in their bookstore the evening of their Cara Black event and asked if they would consider stocking a copy or two.

I sent them the "sell sheet" Luan Stauss, owner of Laurel Book Store in Oakland, CA helped me work up when Whimsey was published. Luan was there for me every step of the way - first reader, supporter, a wealth of information on how to do the millions of things that needed to be done - ISBN, distributors, etc.  She ordered and stocked copies.  Every author needs a Luan, especially a first time author.

SIBA was also indispensable.  Through them I was able to send that sell sheet to hundreds of booksellers.  Many of whom agreed to stock my book by either ordering through Ingram, or on consignment.  And practically all of them list it in their on-line ordering inventory.  

Anyway.

Back to WHSmith.

They wrote back within just a couple of hours that they had ordered copies of Whimsey, and were happy to do so.  More than just a couple of copies.

It was a big boost to my ego, and it's what prompted me to pick Whimsey up for a re-read.


A few people have become friends through Facebook because they read and enjoyed Whimsey.  

Samantha Baldwin and Vicki Smith Mitchell, in particular.

They ask, often, how Whimsey #2 is coming.

Well, it's in manuscript form about, I think, maybe at the half way point to being written in its first draft (did I mention I am not a fast writer??!).  

But. 

I don't like it. 

And I have re-worked and re-written the damned thing so many times I have to just put it away. 

Often.  

But it always finds its way back out.  I write a few words, get sick of it and put it away again.  And so it goes.

It's not working out like I thought, and often sounds like Whimsey #1 all over again.  Or, in some places sounds like words just tossed out in a stew of nothing much to brag about.  Ugh.  

So.

WILL there be a Whimsey #2?  No idea.

Except.

I do have an idea that means a totally different point of view which means combing through page by page (again), sentence by sentence (again) and reworking what I've already written (again).  But, I like this idea, and you know, it may be worth it.  Maybe.  I won't know until I try.

And there's a second manuscript in the works.  This one I like.  It takes place in the mountains rather than on the coast.  It's a little darker.  A little sexier.  I need to get back to work on it.


What's keeping me from working on the novels?


Well, truth be told - I like writing "creative non-fiction" better.

Thank you Jungle Red for inviting me to write about anything I want once a month!


I like little memoir type pieces.



I like writing "rants."  (It's good to have your own blog to rant at!).


I like writing about my feelings.  Especially right now when I'm feeling so much.


The feelings are not happy feelings at this stage - they're anger, hurt, fear, and astonishment at our government and where this new guy in our White House is taking us.


Truth of the matter is, if I didn't write out those feelings, I'm not sure I'd be able to get out of bed in the mornings.  


So, maybe I'm not meant to write fiction.  Or maybe I should stick to the short stories I've had some luck finding homes for.  Who knows?


But I do know I will continue writing.  


It's one of the things I do.