Spot's Stew: Using Up Leftover Turkey

Annie in Washington here again today re: dog food recipes

A couple of years ago, Halo, the organic dog food company (and co-owned by Ellen DeGeneris) that makes Spot's Stew published its recipe.


I made a batch this morning, using left over turkey instead of chicken. I always add olive oil... The recipe is a good template for making your own variation.


Spot’s Chicken Stew from Halo
2 ½ pounds whole chicken
¼ cup chopped fresh garlic
1 cup green peas
1 cup coarsely chopped carrots
½ cup coarsely chopped sweet potato
½ cup coarsely chopped zucchini
½ cup coarsely chopped yellow squash
½ cup coarsely chopped green beans
½ cup coarsely chopped celery
1 tablespoon dried rosemary
16 cups spring water
8 ounces whole barley
6 ounces rolled oatsand adjust the water content to a total of 16 cups, or enough to cover the ingredients.

Combine all of the ingredients in a 10-quart stainless-steel stockpot with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat as low as possible and simmer for two hours – the carrots should be quite soft at the end of the cooking time. Remove from the heat, let cool.

The original recipe called for blending ingredients into a puree. That extra work is not necessary. Freeze in empty yogurt containers, after cooling.

All My Lazy Rivers, an Indiana Childhood: Chapter 15: The Manners of a Goat

                                         Chapter 15...The Manners of a Goat

Mrs. Reagan Grade 5 Teacher

Fire Escape Tube

 There is no experience quite like that of moving from one house to another, especially in childhood. Our move to Gary, Indiana meant a change of schools, and the whole process could not have been more traumatic had the relocation been to another galaxy. We lived in Gary for only a year, but there are still vivid recollections of the time we spent there.

It's strange how a house can be emptied so quickly of its contents, the material stuff of one's life. The movers wrapped furniture in gray quilts and carried it along with many labeled boxes out to a big truck. Jimmy Mihalic, Butch Marlow, Donny Ward, and Kenneth Kirstel sat on the lawn watching. Kenneth's ball cap was typically askew, and the "C" had been torn off so that the remaining red felt letters read "Chicago UBS." Jimmy was a Sox fan, though his hat was western and said "Hopalong Cassidy" on the band. Butch was eating some crab apples from Mr. Rebey's yard, while Donny attempted to smooth down the corners of the band-aid on the bottom of his left foot.

Something ached inside me as I told them to wait for me a minute.Then I walked into the house, where morning light was still falling in golden strips through venetian blinds and onto bare oak floors. There was an echo with each step I took in the empty rooms where I recalled Easters, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and the births of my brother and sister. Dad's voice from outside called me back to reality. "Come on, Buddy. We're leaving now, and I want to lock the front door." Turning once more to look back, I tried hard to drink in the memories. I knew there would be ghosts there, laughing ghosts from past summers, hiding in corners and lingering there all my life. Outside, Jimmy, Butch, Donny , and Kenneth were still sitting on the grass watching the moving van pull away. They were unusually quiet and a little embarrassed, not knowing what to say or do. Mom, Dad, David, and Connie were already in the car waiting for me to say my goodbyes. Even now I can't be sure how much the others felt and understood of what was happening, but Donny stood up, hopped over to me on his right foot and offered his hand. "We're gonna miss ya, Buddy." Then there was silence, because speech was impossible as Donny reached into a pocket of his shorts and handed me a blue plastic knight. Dad sounded the horn so I got into the car, situating myself between Connie and David so I could, on my knees, look out the rear window. In our lives, there are things we cannot look at hard enough, because they are so fleeting. I think of Emily from Thornton Wilder's play, OUR TOWN, and appreciate the truth of the ache she too felt in looking one last time at the past. The sight of those four kids sitting by the SOLD sign on that front lawn was such for me. As we drove down the street, they waved and grew gradually smaller in the distance along with all the houses and recollections that have remained in storage for me all these years, but that door had essentially closed forever.

September came as I became swallowed up by the new school with its endless corridors, clanging lockers, and cafeteria that smelled eternally of bananas, peanut butter, fish sticks, and stale snack cakes. Fifth grade had come at last, and I couldn't imagine growing up any more. This was, as we all think along the way, the ultimate stage in the maturing process. That illusion, pleasant as it was, left the moment I met my fifth- grade teacher, Mrs. Reagan.

She was physically imposing in height and breadth. Her breasts always arrived seconds before the rest of her. At least that's how huge they seemed. Her hair was in a loose bun that moved from side to side as she walked. It is easy to recall her clothing, because she wore the same dress most of the year. It was black jersey with white polka dots all over, except for yellow ones under the arms. Black orthopedic shoes (doubtless size twelve) and tortoise shell glasses held by a chain around her neck completed Mrs. Reagan's attire. She was a classic example of what women of middle age should not wear.

In her hand was always a pointer with which she would visually punctuate whatever she was saying. She used the pointer also to crack unwary students on their knuckles. The latter seemed to be her favorite activity, because she demonstrated complete adroitness from what must have been a lot of practice. The intended victim didn't have to be doing something overtly wrong to get whacked. Simple day dreaming merited a quick lick of the pointer. Some people got the pointer every day so that by sixth grade, they had gnarled and arthritic looking fingers. James Dillon was one of these chronic offenders, though I believe Mrs. Reagan resented his size more than anything else. He was almost as big as she was, and the other kids called him Baby Huey.

With Mrs. Reagan's great bulk in mind, I am still amazed that she could sneak up on people so quickly and quietly to get them with that pointer.
The only warning was her usual, "What ya gawkin' at?" in her raspy voice. One subtle clue to her presence behind you was the scent of something like Ivory Liquid, which evidently she dabbed extravagantly behind her ears each morning.

The deluxe feature of our classroom was a fire escape tube, something Mrs. Reagan considered a true technological wonder. Our classroom was on the second floor, and three other classrooms shared with us the same escape tube. This meant that the teachers had the drill down to an exact science and choreographed our movements with terrifying precision. Mrs. Reagan's class would always slide down first, followed in order by Mr. Firth's, then Miss Selkerk's, and finally Mrs. Briggs's class.

Admittedly, fire drills were fun, because they broke the rigid routine generally followed so strictly during the school day. It was akin to an amusement park ride. Sliding down the waxed interior of that metal tube was, in fact, delightful, that is, until one afternoon after a grueling assembly about Johnny Appleseed in the gym. We marched back over creaking wooden floors to Mrs. Reagan's room to discuss the life of this American folk hero. As I sat at my desk wondering how that sixth-grade kid had been persuaded to run around a stage with a sauce pan on his head, the fire alarm went off. It seemed immediately just what was needed to perk up our day. Suddenly though, Mrs. Reagan began shoving people down the tube as she waved her pointer and screamed, "What ya gawkin'at? Ya wanna be burned up?"

I was one of the first to go down the tube, and it soon became obvious that the bottom of the tube had not been opened. The custodian, Mr. Jenks, could be heard fumbling with the two pad locks that held the cover in place. "Nobody tells me nothin' 'round here," he was mumbling. In the meantime, more people were coming down the shoot and piling up at the bottom. Jo Ann Bunch, who wore cleats, came down on top of me, one of her saddle shoes right on my forehead. The circle of light from above was now disappearing, along with Mrs. Reagan's shoes and voice. Girls were crying. So were a few of the boys, and in the midst of the panic, a voice cried out, "Shut up!" Then in the silence, a meek little voice asked the 
most terrifying of questions. "Ya don't think Mrs. Reagan'll come down this thing, do ya?"

There was a quiet hum of reflection in the dark at such a hideous possibility before the bottom of the tube was finally opened, and we all poured out on to the cool grass. Mr. Jenks was rolling on the ground in what appeared to be a terminal case of laughter. Had there actually been a fire, I'm not sure how or if Mrs. Reagan would have made an escape. It is certain she would not have fit into the tube but possible that she could have stamped out the flames with her pointer or blown them out with a massive, "What ya gawkin' at?" For three weeks afterward, I walked around with a big cleat mark pressed into my forehead.

That was also the September I had the only physical fight of my life with anyone besides my brother. The air was still warm as summer, so it was difficult to focus my attention for very long on Mrs. Reagan, despite the menacing pointer. She was droning on one day about Francis Scott Key. Her words became a distant hum as I gazed out the open window at the cottonwoods, listening to the flutter of their leaves and remembering Mrs. Gardner at the organ playing, "The Star Spangled Banner." There were still a few cicadas drilling the late afternoon with their hypnotic buzz. Then the tapping of a pencil across the room arrested my attention.

It was big Jim Dillon's pencil, and he was trying to get my attention. Hardly able to fit at his desk, Jim was staring at the marble bag hanging over the corner of my desk chair. Mrs. Gardner had made it for me before I moved away. Jim's lips formed the words, "I want it back," which made things instantly clear to me.

At lunch that day Jimmy and I had played marbles, and I had won his blue shooter, a large, glass sphere with veins of blue that made it look like a miniature planet earth. In the game that followed, Jimmy had failed to win back the marble, so I considered it mine, a prize won fair and square. When I shook my head and my lips formed the word, "No." Jim's fists clenched and his jaw muscles became taut enough to open a bottle of soda.

"What are you doing back there, Mr. Bolinger?" inquired Mrs. Reagan. "You have the manners of a goat!" she continued.
                                                            
Of course, I couldn't deny that my manners were not up to her standards, but I hardly thought they were those of a goat, though I wasn't clear about the quality of a goat's manners anyway. The comparison fascinated me, even as Mrs. Reagan continued with her next and final topic of the day, the Northern Irish Peat Bogs. Nothing else she said registered that afternoon, because I was too busy imagining a goat drinking his finger bowl, or using the wrong fork at dinner. Jimmy then dropped a book on the floor. Several people jumped from the shock, but it had been for my benefit, not theirs. He pointed at the clock, then at me as he held up a fist to indicate he was going to pummel me after school.

Bravery in the face of pending violence has never been my strong suit, but this time a principle was involved, and so was my dignity. Several other students were now staring at me, wondering how I was going to cope with Baby Huey. I reached into my cloth marble bag and pulled out the blue shooter, placing in the pencil tray of my desk, where it rolled to a stop and stared blankly up at me like Uncle Wesley's glass eye. The clock above Mrs. Reagan's desk showed 2:55, five minutes until dismissal. The second hand inched its way around the face of the clock, cutting the minutes into pie-shaped slices. I remembered the movie HIGH NOON at the Ace Theater and watching the clock tick closer and closer to Gary Cooper's showdown with the crooks from that noon train, and suddenly, Ruth Ann Coulter in the seat across from mine began to resemble Grace Kelly.

The bell rang and, as usual, I was the last one out of the room. I took time at my locker to stash some books before walking down the stairs and down the long, narrow corridor leading to the front doors and out of the building. Noise had dwindled away, and the jostling was over, because almost everyone had gone. The sun made me blink as I stepped out onto the black top so that I had to cup my left hand over my brow. Leaning against a cottonwood was Jim Dillon, hands in his pockets, his head cocked to one side in belligerent anticipation of a fight. He walked toward me as a harmonica in my head played, "Please don't forsake me, oh, my darlin'" A few kids moved from the grass to the black top to witness the imminent battle.

At last Jimmy and I were face to face.

"Gimme that shooter, bicycle face," he said stiffly.

"Nothin' doin'," I insisted. "It's mine now. I won it in a fair game and even gave you a chance to win it back."

"Yeah, well I'm gonna mash yer face!" he threatened.

All of a sudden I was no longer Gary Cooper but little David without his slingshot. Goliath shoved me with a hand the size of a bread board, and I shoved back. The next thing I knew, we were rolling around on the black top throwing punches, most of which hit nothing. A crowd had gathered by now, a few of them cheering, but not for any one in particular. Taking sides against Big Jim was apparently a little too risky. All sensible bets would have been on Jim anyway. in fact, it was obvious, even to non-sports fans, that I was not going to win the battle.

Finally something happened that ended the brawl but that was far worse than any physical abuse I might have suffered. Worse than any of the scrapes on my arms and face was the fact that I was being rescued by a sixth-grade girl, whose sharp tongue and lovely face rendered Big Jim sheepish. Debbie lived on my street and insisted on walking me home. Though I was grateful for my life, I was also mortified by what I had to pay. Neither Gary Cooper nor little Davie had ever been rescued by a sixth-grade girl named Debbie. The school grapevine was certainly going to climb high with this piece of news, but for the time being I just went into the house straight to my room, where I lay on my stomach, staring up at the blue plastic knight on the dresser and the marble bag containing the blue shooter. The world was still mine, but it had come at a price.

Easy Home Made Dog Biscuits

Annie's Dog Biscuits

Thanksgiving week commences my annual dog-biscuit-baking frenzy, that dog owners in the 'hood come to expect.

The holiday dog biscuit recipe published in Bark Magazine, in 2006, that sparked this new cooking interest and my variation, are below. Jean Claude Cauderlier, owner-chef of Cafe la Ruche, in my DC neighborhood, advised, re: making dog biscuits, if it doesn't taste good to you, it won't taste good to your dog.

Bark Mag's  Red and Green Holiday Dog Biscuits

3 1/4 - 3 1/2 all-purpose flour
1 cup Parmesan cheese, grated
1/2 cup tomato juice
2 tablespoons safflower oil
1 1/2 cup spinach leaves


1/4 cup water

Preheat oven to 325


Mix flour and cheese. Blend 2 1/4 cups of mixture with tomato juice and 1 tablespoon oil; set aside the red dough. Finely chop spinach in food processor; in a clean bowl mix with remaining dough and oil. Mix to form green dough.

Roll out the green dough, and then the red. Place rolled out red dough on top of rolled out green dough; roll again. Cut into shapes. Bake on a non-stick cookie sheet or on parchment paper, about 30 minutes.

Annie's Dog Biscuits

3 1/4 - 3 1/2 all-purpose flour
3/4 cup Parmegiano Regiano cheese grated
3/4 cup crumbled bacon
1/2 cup nonfat dry milk
2 tablespoons olive oil

 Mix to make dough. Refrigerate one hour. Roll out, cut in shapes. Bake 30 minutes until brown. Can substitute leftover chicken or chicken livers. Use best quality Parmesan cheese you can afford. 

As the French chef advised, taste the dough... One of my dogs prefers cheesier biscuits, so I up the cheese for him.


Happy baking!
 -- Annie River

Winter Comes: Reflections on Winter Years of Life

John's sister Connie as a young woman

 

My sister, Connie Lynne Bolinger, died May 22, 2011, and I have been going through many things she wrote about caring for our mother during the years 1986 until Mother's death in 2008. I think that many will identify with Connie's emotions at remembering the good and bad times with our mother, watching her slip slowly away into another world that Connie and I were able only infrequently to enter.  Remembering the old house, I was touched by the recollection of Mom standing in the doorway on winter mornings even when my brother David and I were in high school until we turned the corner waving to her.  Something my sister wrote I found in one of the boxes of her papers, and those images came back to me.

Bonnie in her winter years

                                                 Winter Comes

Mother would always stand at the opened door of our house in Indiana, and watch me as I walked to school.  Rounding the corner, I would turn and wave to her.  Smiling, she would wave back, blow a kiss, and signal me to keep my coat buttoned.  When I was seven years old, it was reassuring to know she would always be there.

Years earlier Mom had defied all medical odds against her when, at the age of 32, she had the largest neurofibroma in Mayo Clinic history removed.  Surgery left her with paralysis and a convulsive disorder.  She was diagnosed as terminal, was given about 18 months to live, and told she would never walk again.  Fierce independence, fueled by an unparalleled determination, motivated her to dismiss the surgeon’s pessimistic prognosis.  She bellowed that she had three children to raise, and dying just was not in her scheduled plans.  With grueling therapy, and otherworldly strength given by God, Mother was able to walk again.  Despite severely reduced usage of her right side, she never missed a day cleaning house and preparing meals.  She was grateful to be alive, and never ceased thanking God for the provision of His strength in that season of her life.

When Dad died in 1986, I knew Mom could not live alone.  She came to live with me in Nashville, and thus began my journey of caring for and ministering to her.

In 1994, Mother was diagnosed with Chronic Dementia, but it did not rear its ugly head until 1997, when she began to exhibit paranoia and skewed judgment.  She would place favorite knick-knacks and family photos in hefty bags and hide them under her bed, behind her dresser – any place that would throw off imagined “intruders” whom she believed were absconding with her treasures.

As Mother’s symptoms worsened, I realized her needs were beyond what I could provide.

The winter of my Mother’s life has come, and as of this year, she resides in a nursing facility.  I visit her each evening, engaging her in conversation, and making her feel that what she says still has meaning.    Too many times I have witnessed the elderly being invalidated.  People can debate all they want over “personhood theories” and quality of life issues.  But, when my mother relives a memory, replete with bright-eyed animation, I remember that she is still there under all her medications - under the tangled mess of invasive brain tentacles, and medical terminologies.

Mother still sees me as being seven years old.  And every night from her bed she watches me as I leave her room. Each time I round the corner, I turn and wave to her, and she still smiles, saying “You button your coat – it’s a cold Winter.”

It is difficult to see her so frail now, for I will always think of Mother as strong and determined in the summer of her life, and carry in my heart tender memories of rounding corners with smiles, waves, and blowing kisses.

God bless you, Mom.

Love, 
Connie

November, 2007

Having Both a Dog and a Cat in Same Household...

Riggs was a rescue cat, that Jim retrieved from one of Denver’s animal shelters about eight years ago.  An affectionate pet, he is also quite vocal in letting the world know when he wants attention.  We suspect that his frequent meowing was the reason someone abandoned him in the first place, but his gentle nature, and the fact that he has never clawed furniture or carpeting, make up for Riggs’s feeble attempts at becoming an opera singer.  

He is a creature of habit and can be located easily at any time of day, beginning in the early morning, when he can be found in the basement TV room lounging on the big sofa.  That is where his food, water, and litter box are, but most of the remainder of each day Riggs spends in the sun room on a wicker chair, then on a small camel-back sofa in the master bedroom upstairs, and finally in the wing chair in the library on the main floor, always in that order, almost by the clock.  Relocating seems to give him the benefit of variety and of empowerment in choosing his varied rest areas.  You can almost see in his eyes the decisions he makes, “Well, it’s time to head for the wing chair now.”  When watching TV in the evening, I can always expect Riggs to spend some time on my lap being petted and talked to before his final spot of the wing chair before bed.

Riggs uses his scratching tray in the basement to exercise his claws, as Jim and I don’t believe in declawing, which seems cruel and unnecessary, especially since Riggs has run out the front door a couple of times and was gone for days at a time, completely vulnerable to whatever he might have encountered in the outside world.  Riggs is the only cat I know who comes when he’s called, and his purring sounds like a little outboard motor wrapped in cotton.  He is what most people might consider the ideal feline companion, one whose heartbeat and “personality” add so much to the domestic peace of the house.

Then there is Dudley, my West Highland White Terrorist (Oops! I mean Terrier).  He comes from Tipton, Iowa, where his breeder retired in 2008, Duds being the last pup, which she reserved for me.  My previous Westie (from the same breeder), Cody, died on July 18 of 2009 at the age of almost fifteen.  He was much beloved by everyone who met him, and when he died in my arms that day, I was devastated.  I phoned Marty, Cody’s breeder to find that she had one pup left from the final litter, and that she was retiring from raising Westies.  Dudley was born the same day Cody died, so all signs pointed to my having him as my next dog.  His father’s name was Cody II.  That info prompted Jim to drive me all the way from Denver to Tipton, Iowa to get Duds when he was nine weeks old.  I named him after the angel played by Cary Grant in the 1947 film, THE BISHOP’S WIFE.  For the first few weeks he stayed in a crate at night in the sun room and was quickly house trained.  Riggs accepted him almost immediately with what we believe was an attitude that this clumsy puppy was no threat to the urbane and sophistiacted Riggs, who when tired of the pup’s attempts to start a squabble or wrestling match, would simply walk up three of four stairs toward the second floor, knowing that Dudley was a devout coward when it came to any stairs.  This remains true.  Now the two of them still tumble around locked in bear hugs around the living room and sun room but are essentially buddies who would never dream of hurting each other.

The dog run is twenty-five by forty feet of pea gravel just off the sun room and is surrounded by a six-foot cedar fence with a bonnet all the way around that curves inward to keep out coyotes and to keep Riggs from climbing over it into unknown territory.  The sun room has an electric pet door for both Dudley and Riggs, who wear magnets on their collars to give them access in or out whenever they wish.  They love to sun themselves out there together, even on winter days or shade themselves under the large blue spruce.

Both pets have a sixth sense, and they know when I’m going to go away for a few days, even before I get out the suitcases. Duds is already suspicious about a trip Jim and I are taking over Thanksgiving to visit his aunt and uncle in Knoxville, Tennessee at their beautiful log home in the country.  Our friend Debbie always stays with Dudley and Riggs at the house, and they love her, but Dudley is already beginning to stare at me for long periods, the way he always does before I leave him for any travel.  Looking into his eyes or the eyes of any other dog or cat always makes me know they have stories they want to tell about their deepest feelings.  That’s why pet shelters are so important, and why we must be voices for pets in order to protect them and sometimes rescue them.

There is something miraculous about having a dog or cat in one’s life.  The bond cannot easily be expressed in mere words.  Dogs and cats improve our humanity, giving us an added purpose to each day in caring for them,  enjoying their warmth and gratitude for our providing for their simple needs, and most of all in their teaching us what devotion really is.

JB

Get Ready for Thanksgiving: John's Make-Ahead Apricot & Oat Slices

 For the seriously challenged in the kitchen, who must bring something home made to a Thanksgiving feast, I offer you the easiest dessert...

Apricot & Oat Slices

*****************

Makes 12 HUGE squares.seriously consider doing half recipe. From the
Glenorchy Café, 27 miles south of Queenstown, New Zealand.

2 cups dried apricots, coarsely chopped
1 LB unsalted butter, softened
4 cups flour
3  cups rolled oats (or old fashioned or other oats)
2 cups light brown sugar
4 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350. Put chopped apricots in heavy sauce pan, cover with
water, bring to a boil, remove from heat and let sit until soft and swollen
(about 5 minutes), then drain. Grease a 12' x 9" pan with one tsp. of the
butter. (7.5 x 7.5 pan is almost exactly half size) When in doubt, go up in
pan size as these come out fairly thick.

In a large mixing bowl, mix all dry ingredients then cut in remaining butter
with pastry cutter or two table knives until mixture resembles coarse meal.
Using your hands, press half the mixture into pan in an even layer. Scatter
all the apricots evenly on top. Then scatter remaining mixture evenly on top
of that.

Bake until golden brown.about 50 minutes. Cool pan on rack and then cut into
squares.

A Poem of John's Accepted by Verse Wisconsin

Back in September, at the Library of Congress annual book festival on the Smithsonian Mall, I picked up a copy of Verse Wisconsin, a wonderful regional poetry mag, founded by Linda Aschbrenner, in 1998, formerly called Free Verse...Although published from Madison, Wisconsin, Verse Wisconsin  is universal... like the New Yorker...

Loved the mag, which got my own poetry-writing juices flowing again... thought that John's poetry would be perfect for the mag... I didn't tell John...that...I submitted some of the poems that he had sent me...some you're read on the blog, and others to Verse Wisconsin.... John's Midwestern roots, and love for northern Wisconsin summers fit the mag....  I told John a few days ago, that one of his poems was accepted for the upcoming mag. (He took the news well. Further, John's too modest, by half, to tell you himself...) Was going to wait until the newest issue with John's poem, is up on the Verse Wisco website, but am too thrilled to wait... Further, this might get lost in pages of holiday recipes and holiday survival stories... 

Here's the poem, that Verse Wisconsin editors called, "Food, circa 1954".

Visit the Verse Wisconsin website: www.versewisconsin.com to see John's poem in the upcoming issue. (We knew John when.) -- Annie River

PROSE FRAGMENTS...JUNE, 1954 by John Bolinger

The Aunt Jemima toaster cover smiled
on the gold-speckled counter top,
where Mom made pot roast
for Aunt Edna and Uncle Lou.

Sunlight filtered through fruit-print curtains,
like an X-ray of Pete’s Produce Market,
while the twins and I played hide and seek,
and I stayed inside the kitchen window seat
with the vegetables until Donald threatened
to put my turtle Trudy in the oven
if I didn’t come out.

After pound cake with peaches, the radio played
“No Other Love,” a tango for trombones
that made my parents dance 
over the salt water taffy wrappers
we kids had dropped on the floor.

Screens pulsed with moths
yearning for the Chinese lamp in the front window,
and when company was gone and I lay in bed,
I wondered if the next day my clothes
would still smell so strong of peppers and onions.