These last few days have been full of canyon winds and snow. Looking out my studio window, again, everything is blanketed in white. Yesterday found me wandering the aisles of the grocery story searching for new and innovative foods to prepare for one. Foods that used to be an easy and inexpensive “Go-To” are now outrageously priced. Tri-Tip — $12 per pound. Chicken Thighs — $12 for 6. Lucky for me I only need to cook one portion at a time as I become proficient at reducing recipe size while still creating tasty meals.
Frozen left overs are not a favorite of mine. Eating something freshly prepared is delicious. Having left overs the next day is pretty good. There lies the extent of my interest in seeing the remains of the same dish some days later covered in freezer ice.
I think my distain for left overs comes from my childhood. With seven active people in our household, one being my farmer dad, there were NO leftovers in the frig. Ever. Especially if the meal was really good the first time. Everything we ate was freshly picked, cleaned, prepped, chopped, cooked, and set on the table. Three times a day, there were delicious homemade meals. Served at 7 AM, 12 PM, and 6 PM, you were to be scrubbed and ready to eat. No complaints or pouting allowed, only a smile and proper manners. Eat or go away hungry, it mattered not to the cook. Guess what. Everything always tasted wonderful, and grateful kids cleaned the kitchen afterwards. Cleanup was part of the meal.
Desert was only for special occasions, not a nightly event. Portions were appropriate for each person according to age and activity level. Dad was always served first. Then, everyone passed dishes to the right. Orderly and quite civilized, our meals were polite events of the lady-like kind. After all, six of the seven people were female. My poor dad.
Shopping in preparation for the oncoming storm is tricky. I hate being left without an ingredient I might need, and yet, there is only one of me. Looking at my pantry, it’s a bit gluttonous to have all the items there and waiting for the day they’ll be used. But not having one ingredient on a snowy day wouldn’t be good either.
Last week, the 12 Bean Soup and the homemade spaghetti sauce were divine. This week, I’m going to try Mrs. N’s recipe for Roast Tri Tip. It’s a recipe that requires hours of baking in foil, perfect for a snowy day. Also perfect will be the sandwich I can make tomorrow. I plan to make Cozy Hand-Held Chicken Pot Pie with Puff Pastry crust. Oh my, Google that recipe. So darn delicious and easy. In my kitchen, I make three servings with one sheet of puff pastry, that being the only adjustment I’ve made.
With January 31st nearly here, I don’t remember much about New Year’s Celebrations growing up. There weren’t fabulous parties to attend. No candlelight church services. Usually cloaked in a sea of San Joaquin Valley Fog, the day was just like any other. Maybe pruning of fruit trees, or yard work. There were always vineyard wires to fix after pruning, or thick wood (pruning’s from the vines) to pick up and burn near the barn. Growing up, my New Year’s was always cold and wet.
Last night, I fell asleep to the lullaby of howling canyon winds. They bother some people. For me, they inspire dreams of sailing or romantic trade winds. Here, in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, you can hear their approach, arrival, and departure. Winterpast doesn’t shudder or complain with each passing wind as they arrive like ocean waves, one set after the other.
This morning, with winds gone, the temperatures are in the 20’s with humidty low. All the main interstates between Nevada and California have been closed for days. I can only imagine the nightmare on Donner Pass as holiday visitors race to cross before the next storm. At present, Ski Patrols are searching for a lost skier, surely gone by now. Records of his last run showed him leaving the lift days ago. May he rest in peace. Such is life in the wilderness I call home.
I wonder what interest city life could possibly hold. Certainly none for me. Different people require different amounts of personal space. For me, big skies and open spaces comfort my soul. It’d be impossible to enjoy winds from the 20th floor of a high-rise condo or experience the beauty of a wild mustang walking through the morning snow right out side your door.
So it is here in the high desert Home Means Nevada to me. Off to try my new recipe. More tomorrow.