Author Archives: Janell

Shrimp Fry

01 Sunday Mar 2009

Posted by in In the Kitchen, Life at Home

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We had an unexpected treat last night because Kyle came home to visit.

Being a college man living in an apartment, he’s always ready for a home-cooked meal and tonight it was fried shrimp.  Frying shrimp is our version of killing the fatted calf for Kyle.   Everyone of our children has their own special dish and this is one of Kyle’s.

But he’s not alone.  Our entire family enjoys this meal though we don’t believe all fried shrimp are created equal — especially this far north of the ocean.  So here’s my confession–we’re a proud bunch of seafood snobs.  We’ve found nothing in OKC to compare to the melt-in-your mouth seafood so plentiful on the Texas Gulf Coast where fried shrimp is a menu staple — from the humblest of fish shacks to nationally acclaimed 4 star dining establishments.

If you’re ever near Surfside, Texas, treat yourself to either of these — Inn on the River on 2nd Street in downtown Freeport, or my personal favorite — owned by Greeks who serve a Greek salad that’s a meal in itself — Red Snapper Inn on the Blue Water Highway.  There are too many to list, but these all sit within a few miles of Surfside.  And if you’ve eaten you’re way through this list and find yourself craving more — any local will be glad to point you in the direction of their favorite place.

So what do seafood snobs do if living in land-locked OKC?   Well, if they want the best, they stay home and cook like we do.  And thanks to my good friend Wynona, whose aunt once owned her own seafood place, we gratefully use this recipe to make our own mouth-watering  fried shrimp.

The secret is the batter and having hot oil to fry the shrimp quick — it takes at least two inches of oil in a deep skillet.  We serve it with french fries and usually some cole slaw and cornbread.  Living up to its name, it’s as easy as one- two-three.

1-2-3 Shrimp Fry Batter

1 Pint Buttermilk

2 t. baking powder

3 T. white vinegar

Soak cleaned shrimp in mixture for 15 mins.  Dredge in flour.  Fry in hot oil — three to five minutes until shrimp are pink on the inside, golden on the out.

The Greek Gods

26 Thursday Feb 2009

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For as long as I remember, my Greek grandfather made his living cooking for others.  But on his days off he cooked for us.  This arrangement suited Mom just fine, unless the cooking involved one of Papa’s many attempts to make the Greek-style yogurt of his childhood.

 

Each try left the stove caked in burnt clabbered milk that he didn’t care to clean. So he didn’t.  And while Mom wasn’t the best housekeeper in the world, even she couldn’t stand Papa’s messes. So it was just a matter of time before Mom’s pent up anger would boil over like lava out of Mt. Olympus in a fiery slamming of doors and drawers as she grabbed her cleaning supplies.  When Mom was mad, she didn’t care who knew it, as long as the perpetrator was included.  But in this, Mom was denied even the smallest pleasure of justice being served, as Papa had perfected his art of selective hearing.

  

Papa drove others to anger with his driving.  Aunt Carol sums it up this way: 

“He invented road rage.”

Oblivious to the wrath he left in his wake, Papa cruised around town in his land yacht of an automobile – a white and aqua 1955 Chrysler Windsor. He rode window down, arm out, cigarette lit, eyes never wavering from the road.  I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe in using mirrors. To compensate for this, he only drove one speed—Slooow.  He once told me not to drive over 35.  And this was after the Oklahoma Highway Patrol had pulled him over on I-40 for doing just this — driving slower than the posted legal minimum speed of 40.

  

His driving on city streets was no safer.  Often, when he pulled into traffic, he was met with the sound of tires screeching, the smell of burnt rubber, and the screams of frightened grandchildren huddled in the backseat.  My cousin Deb recalls him doing this even to this day.  He would always turn around and wave it off as a “slight” driving hiccup in his heavily accented, slightly mangled English:

“Ahhhh…., don’t worry.  They all got brakes.”

His driving snafus weren’t all speed-related.  Mom loved to tell the story of Papa pulling out against traffic on a busy one-way street in downtown OKC.  When brought to his attention, Papa waved it off, saying:

“I’m only going one way….”

All these near collisions may explain the police siren he had installed on his car by a smpathetic mechanic.  Maybe he thought it would be easier to merge into traffic if his siren made it come to a standstill.    dsc01217a1  

 

I never understood why Papa was so driven to make his yogurt.  But this I know:  His yogurt-making pursuits never did stand still.  And if his childhood yogurt tasted anything like this wonderful yogurt I recently purchased at Crescent Market– marketed under the name The Greek Gods—well…. I can say I finally understand.  Papa wouldn’t let a few angry people deter him from his quest for this childhood delight. After all, what could mere mortals do to him? 

 

It’s not like they were the Greek gods.

 

 –Thanks Kyle for a grand job of editing. 

Ash Wednesday

25 Wednesday Feb 2009

Posted by in Soul Care

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Tonight I wear a cross of ashes on the middle of my forehead .  It’s there to remind me of something I’d rather forget.  

“ I am dust.  And to dust I shall return. “

This dust is weighty stuff.  It makes me think about life and death.  It reminds me that death’s inescapable, that it happens to us all, and as it does, that it levels the playing field.  We’ve no bargaining power or currency that will allow us to opt out.  So all of life’s accumulations of fame and fortune and power are irrevocaby snuffed out with our last gasping breath.  Why then, with this all being true, have I spent so much of my life pursuing these, even on the smallest of scales?    

 

This weighty dust reminds me of a dusty Jesus during his desert temptings.  Forty days and nights of fasting left him empty when he met the devil with an attaché full of contracts on an unleveled playing field.  The devil offered Jesus what the entire world chases its tail to get… fame and fortune and power.   And with the grit of dust between his teeth, Jesus declined. 

“No.”   “No.”   “Hell, no.”

If I’m reading a little between the lines on this last answer, it’s not too far off the mark.  Because whatever Jesus’ words were, they were forceful enough to make the devil pack up his wares in a hurry.  And what could be more frightening to any tempter than to hear the words ‘no’ and ‘hell’ linked together?  

 

I’m so dinged up and tarnished from everyday life that maybe a forty day fast of something will help me to enter into a spiritual desert with Jesus.   Maybe there I can remember that I need to die to the worst parts of my self — those that I’ve acquired over fifty-some years of living — that keep me from being true to myself and even kind to myself, amidst the trippings and the trappings of  fame and fortune and power.  If only it could be easy to let go of these props and take off these masks, for it’s these that have made me unwieldy and clumsy, that have made me acquire a few dings and rough edges along the way.  Maybe some of the desert dust could sandblast me into something shiny and new to smooth out the dings and knock off my rough edges.  Maybe then I will be more like myself.  Maybe this weighty desert dust will also help remind me that I am dust….but not yet dead weight.