Last year, round about this time of year, I wrote about my cranberry pear pie. It was so much fun writing about that pie. I've been hoping to recruit the cosy comfort I got out of writing about pie last year. A gal in Denmark (or somewhere Nordic) actually wrote to me and said she was going to make that pie with her kids, although she was going to substitute something for the cranberries. Her favorite part of my recipe was loving the assistant chefs/children. I don't think any berry would be a good sub for a cranberry. A cranberry's tartness is special but what the heck. I hope she succeeded with lingonberries or something else red.
I have just remembered another pie I used to prepare. Cheese, tomato and onion pie. Sometimes when I served it, people suggested it was a quiche. If it does qualify as quiche, my cheese, tomato and onion pie would be the only quiche I've ever made cause I've never made one intentionally. Isn't this fascinating, me writing about nothing but still me having fun? Entertaining myself. There are lots of eggs in this pie.
So you make a pie crust. You don't need a top crust for this one.
Slice up a whole bunch of onions. A lot. If you can get a variety of onions, go for it. Use at least a pound of onions. Slice them as thin as you can. Well, if you are looking for interesting texture, you could vary the slices, some thick, some super thin. That could be interesting. Then you saute all the sliced onion in butter until the onions become translucent. If you don't know what I mean, keep sauting. Once the translucence occurs, you will know.
Drain the buttery yumness of those onions. It is nice to keep all the butter but resist this urge. If you keep all the butter, your pie will be messy, which is okay, I guess but if you are presenting this to honored guests, it is nice to fuss about appearance. Dump all the onions on your pie crust.
Oh, it is a good idea to prebake the crust, just for a few minutes at 350 degrees. This is a soggy pie. Bake the crust to keep it dry. Dry-ish. This is a gooey mess of a pie, it will be messy but prebake in hope.
Next, take all your evenly sliced tomatoes, lots of tomatoes, upwards of a pound, and layer them like bricks over the onions. If you like, you can hold back a bit of onion and put onion on top of the tomato but I prefer to end with tomatos on top. Later, then the cheese bakes, the tomatos peek through the cheesiness beautifully but you lost the peek-a-boo effect of the red tomatos under the cheese if you finish with onions. Try it both ways, find out what you like.
Then you take some milk (cream if you are feeling decadent and why not, you are already larded up with butter in the crust and butter in the onions, prudence no longer applies, go for the cream), about a cup of milk. One cup of grated gruyere cheese, one cup of swiss cheese. You could use other cheese, but stick with white ones, sharp white ones are best. Also hard cheese is good. I hate to keep dwelling on the gooeyness of this pie but the onions dripping with butter make for a wet wet dish. Hard cheese helps holds things together.
Beat the milk and cheese with a couple eggs. I haven't made this pie in a long time. I forget how many eggs. Actually, I am making up all the amounts given here, from ancient memory. I got this pie from one of Anna Thomas's Vegetarian Gourmet cookbooks. She called it 'savory cheese and onion pie' but I have always felt the tomatos deserved billing. If you care about quanitites, look for her recipe.
Sprinkle some parsley or chives over everything, just a little tiny bit. The green can be pretty.
I haven't made this pie in years. I stopped making it cause people would grouse about the cholesterol. It is no fun serving yummy comfort food just to hear whines about cholesterol. Itis particularly irritating to watch the whiners scarf this extremely delicious concoction down after their ungracious plaint. I used to want to snatch the forks out of their hands and take back this hot, creamy, cheesey, tomato-y delight.
A friend of mine told me a story awhile aback about the time he made a bunch of onion pizzas for a party. He said his guests scarfed down his pie. I bet they did. In my humble opinion, not enough people know how fabulous it is to combine hot cheese and onions.
One time, my sister, her husband and my niece went on a prepaid tour of China, the kind of tour where all your meals are part of a set package price. They were living in Korea when they decided to visit China over their Christmas holiday. I guess it is pretty cheap to get to China from S. Korea. The tour was going to take them to some rural areas, places where restaurants were no common. they were advised to take a tour with meals because in some places, it would otherwise be hard to find something to eat. So they signed up for some package. They spent two weeks crawling over rural China on a crowded bus, staying in farm houses. They had a good time. How could you not have a good time, traveling around China? The newness of everything would be awesome. One meal on this trip was particularly memorable. The meal consisted of onions and rice. As they gathered for their dinner and realized onions and rice was all they were going to get, their hostess explained to them that they were eating three kinds of onion.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
meow
In June, I flew to Chicago to see my family, sister, brothers, nieces, nephews, mom. I had last seen them in February 2006, before I had lost any weight. By the time I saw them in June, I had lost seventy pounds. Yes, even with seventy pounds gone, I still had a lot to lose. And now, in November, yes, I've lost more and yes, I still have plenty more fat to unload. And I will. But still, seventy pounds is a big change.
So my sis picks me up at Midway and we saunter down to the baggage claim area. I had chattered, at length, to my sister, over the phone about my weight loss, my exercise, the changes in my eating habits. It was a big deal to me, right? And it should be a big deal. Losing seventy pounds is something I was rightfully proud of. I expected my sister to not just notice the big change in me (it has, ahem, been a year and a half since I had seen her, and seventy pounds!) but she said nothing. She fretted about the speed of the luggage arrival. She vented a bit about her recent week-long visit with our mother. She spoke of her children. I was like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. I engaged in polite chit chat but inside myself I was straining for the weight loss compliments. Finally, I brought it up myself, a little crestfallen that she had not said anything on her own.
"Well, let me take a look," she said, scanning her eyes up and down, scrutinizing me. She put her hand under her chin, with the forefinger pointed up, the gesture emphasizing that she was having to look hard to see the change in me. She had her arms crossed, resting the raised hand in the palm of the other arm. Her gestures were broad, as if she were intentionally emphasizing how hard she had to look to see a change. Her eyes went up and down the length of me a few times. Me, I'm a little kid inside myself, waiting for her approval, waiting for an extra scoop of ice cream. Please love me, sister mine. "Now that you have pointed it out, yes, I can say that I see a change in you. Before you looked very fat, you know?" She paused, signaling that she was measuring her words carefully, bending over backwards to find something nice to say. "Now you still look fat but you look ordinary fat. Before, it was grossly fat. Now you look good, you look like an ordinary fat person."
I swear to goddess that this is very close to what she actually said.
The visit that ensued between us was a disaster. I don't think she will be speaking to me again for a long, long time, probably not until I win a big lottery or something and she wants to hit me up for moolah. I'm serious. Her husband actually hit me near the end, hard enough to give me a bruise (which is not saying all that much, cause I do bruise like an overripe peach but still, he hauled off and socked me, he really did. Nobody has hit me since I was married and that wasn't okay either.)
At one point during the week, while I was driving, my sister in the passenger seat and my niece behind us, my niece said "Mom, if Aunt Therese is wearing size sixteens now, what size are you?" My sister evaded the query. But I can tell you what size she was wearing. She was also wearing a few sixteens. My sister has never been morbidly obese, as I used to be. And she is much bigger than me in general. She is much taller, more broadly built. As she has pointed out to me many times, Marilyn Monroe was a size sixteen. My sister is a Marilyn Monroe kind of size sixteen. Like all the women in our clan, she has a full bosom. She is very beautiful and not small. She likes to be down at size twelve, she is content at fourteen, she chafes at sixteens but at any of these sizes, my sister is gorgeous. Plus she is catnip to men. She has a voluptuous, sensual beauty that I didn't get. When my niece asked her mother what size she wears, I could have answered for her but I said nothing. My sister has a right to feel beautiful and to keep any secrets of vanity that she chooses. Isabelle, my niece, does not have our body type. Well, we'll have to see what her breasts do. Yes, Isbee buds have begun to bloom but it is too soon to see if hers will be humongous. Mine were humongous from day one. I swear that my first bra was a 36C. It aint easy being a 36C in the sixth grade, I can tell you. My daughter, she got the family bosom. Even when Katie was a size zero (and she was, when she was sick), she had a full bosom. It used to amaze everyone, that she could look like a skeleton and still have a full bosom. I wonder what Katie's body looks like these days. When last I saw her, she was very voluptuous and I am not using the word voluptuous to imply that she was plump. Not a bit. She was sensuously curvy and thin, with full bosom and hips. Until I saw my daughter evolve into a sensuous, voluptuous woman, I never really understood how some women were just naturally hot, giving off a ripe heat without trying. Katie has that kind of beauty. She was a hot, voluptuous woman the last time I saw her and I am sure she is even hotter and more beautiful now. And so does my sister. Is, we have to wait and see.
Well, I'm nattering aimlessly. The point here is that I am writing this with my brand new pair of size fourteen jeans on. True, I have a couple pairs of size sixteens that fit me just fine. It's also true that I can only stuff myself into one particular brand of size fourteen pants. But, oh my gosh, my fourteens are making me happy. I feel hot. I feel gorgeous. I feel beautiful. I feel young.
And I am dying to tell my sister about the size fourteen.
She is having Thanksgiving dinner with my dolly Dave tomorrow, my baby brother. I have called him each day this week to remind him about the size fourteens, to be sure he remembers to tell her.
Meow.
So my sis picks me up at Midway and we saunter down to the baggage claim area. I had chattered, at length, to my sister, over the phone about my weight loss, my exercise, the changes in my eating habits. It was a big deal to me, right? And it should be a big deal. Losing seventy pounds is something I was rightfully proud of. I expected my sister to not just notice the big change in me (it has, ahem, been a year and a half since I had seen her, and seventy pounds!) but she said nothing. She fretted about the speed of the luggage arrival. She vented a bit about her recent week-long visit with our mother. She spoke of her children. I was like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. I engaged in polite chit chat but inside myself I was straining for the weight loss compliments. Finally, I brought it up myself, a little crestfallen that she had not said anything on her own.
"Well, let me take a look," she said, scanning her eyes up and down, scrutinizing me. She put her hand under her chin, with the forefinger pointed up, the gesture emphasizing that she was having to look hard to see the change in me. She had her arms crossed, resting the raised hand in the palm of the other arm. Her gestures were broad, as if she were intentionally emphasizing how hard she had to look to see a change. Her eyes went up and down the length of me a few times. Me, I'm a little kid inside myself, waiting for her approval, waiting for an extra scoop of ice cream. Please love me, sister mine. "Now that you have pointed it out, yes, I can say that I see a change in you. Before you looked very fat, you know?" She paused, signaling that she was measuring her words carefully, bending over backwards to find something nice to say. "Now you still look fat but you look ordinary fat. Before, it was grossly fat. Now you look good, you look like an ordinary fat person."
I swear to goddess that this is very close to what she actually said.
The visit that ensued between us was a disaster. I don't think she will be speaking to me again for a long, long time, probably not until I win a big lottery or something and she wants to hit me up for moolah. I'm serious. Her husband actually hit me near the end, hard enough to give me a bruise (which is not saying all that much, cause I do bruise like an overripe peach but still, he hauled off and socked me, he really did. Nobody has hit me since I was married and that wasn't okay either.)
At one point during the week, while I was driving, my sister in the passenger seat and my niece behind us, my niece said "Mom, if Aunt Therese is wearing size sixteens now, what size are you?" My sister evaded the query. But I can tell you what size she was wearing. She was also wearing a few sixteens. My sister has never been morbidly obese, as I used to be. And she is much bigger than me in general. She is much taller, more broadly built. As she has pointed out to me many times, Marilyn Monroe was a size sixteen. My sister is a Marilyn Monroe kind of size sixteen. Like all the women in our clan, she has a full bosom. She is very beautiful and not small. She likes to be down at size twelve, she is content at fourteen, she chafes at sixteens but at any of these sizes, my sister is gorgeous. Plus she is catnip to men. She has a voluptuous, sensual beauty that I didn't get. When my niece asked her mother what size she wears, I could have answered for her but I said nothing. My sister has a right to feel beautiful and to keep any secrets of vanity that she chooses. Isabelle, my niece, does not have our body type. Well, we'll have to see what her breasts do. Yes, Isbee buds have begun to bloom but it is too soon to see if hers will be humongous. Mine were humongous from day one. I swear that my first bra was a 36C. It aint easy being a 36C in the sixth grade, I can tell you. My daughter, she got the family bosom. Even when Katie was a size zero (and she was, when she was sick), she had a full bosom. It used to amaze everyone, that she could look like a skeleton and still have a full bosom. I wonder what Katie's body looks like these days. When last I saw her, she was very voluptuous and I am not using the word voluptuous to imply that she was plump. Not a bit. She was sensuously curvy and thin, with full bosom and hips. Until I saw my daughter evolve into a sensuous, voluptuous woman, I never really understood how some women were just naturally hot, giving off a ripe heat without trying. Katie has that kind of beauty. She was a hot, voluptuous woman the last time I saw her and I am sure she is even hotter and more beautiful now. And so does my sister. Is, we have to wait and see.
Well, I'm nattering aimlessly. The point here is that I am writing this with my brand new pair of size fourteen jeans on. True, I have a couple pairs of size sixteens that fit me just fine. It's also true that I can only stuff myself into one particular brand of size fourteen pants. But, oh my gosh, my fourteens are making me happy. I feel hot. I feel gorgeous. I feel beautiful. I feel young.
And I am dying to tell my sister about the size fourteen.
She is having Thanksgiving dinner with my dolly Dave tomorrow, my baby brother. I have called him each day this week to remind him about the size fourteens, to be sure he remembers to tell her.
Meow.
