Grill 58

Grill 58 at 284 Monponsett Street in Halifax is a restaurant I’d never have found if it weren't for word of mouth.  It’s set in a strip mall of the sort you’d pass without a sideways glance if you weren't in the know.  I had recommendations from Frank who works at the garage where I get my car fixed, and from Annette’s aunt Valerie, who knits sweaters for our grandchildren. The praise was so effusive Annette and I ventured into the countryside to see what the excitement was about.

Where some cafes have jukeboxes, Grill 58 provides a tableside television into which you’re invited to feed coins. I was disposed to make snide comments about the poor man’s dinner and a movie, forgetting that in the privacy of my home I've been known to sup before the flickering screen.   I suppose the invention is useful for families in which the children haven’t learned restaurant manners and need an electronic drug to prevent them from running amok betwixt the tables.  There were no children when I was there. and none of the TVs was on.

You are also invited to play Lotto, but all electronic amenities faded from mind when the waiter served my fried scallops, which turned out to be absolutely the most outstanding delicacy I've ever eaten from a plastic basket. They were, incredibly fresh, tender, sweet, and perfectly fried.  Annette got the same scallops breaded, buttered, and served broiled with mashed potatoes. As we ate, we began planning what we’d get on our next visit. 

My scallops came with fried onion rings.  This side dish can be wretched when mishandled, but these rings were well-nigh perfect.  There were also french fries, which I was going to rate as ordinary, but on a second taste I noticed they had a nice potato flavor and were lightly fried so they weren't greasy.  Neither were they crisped with the sweet coating that has become just about ubiquitous.  My daughter tells me it’s scientifically developed so the combination of fat, sugar, and salt will deaden the messages sent to your brain which tell it you’re full.  

On the second visit, Annette and I split an order of cheeseburger sliders.  I warn you these are so juicy they squirt when you bite into them.  You get a choice of cheeses. We chose cheddar, and got the real thing, not processed American cheese.  They came with tomatoes, lettuce, and more of those great onion rings.  The buns were much better than the standard hamburger rolls and they were grill toasted to a crisp buttery finish.  We ordered the burgers medium rare, and mine was slightly pink inside.  I give Grill 58 high marks for this.  Often when a wait person asks you how you want a burger cooked, it comes to you brown and dry, no matter what you say. 

Grill 58’s fish chowder had a silky mouth-feel that was rich with cream, not pasty with thickener.  The fish was fresh and perfectly done.  There were bits of quahog in the chowder. (Be warned if you’re allergic to shellfish.)  I think they took their clam chowder and put in generous pieces of delicate cod.  I give it top marks for restaurant chowder. I was beginning to see a pattern in which everything you order gets a little tweak that makes it better than expected.  With the fish it’s perfect freshness.

We weren’t really hungry when it was time for dessert, but we split an order of gingerbread.   The generous portion was the extra in this order.  It was moist, slightly chewy, dark with molasses, and spicy with ginger and clove.  The whipped cream was our first disappointment. It was the aerosol kind that melts into a thin white liquid on the plate.  I wish they’d whip their own.  The gingerbread also came with a small scoop of ice cream

Once again we left contemplating another visit. On that occasion my fried clams were fresh-tasting and not at all greasy.  The lunch basket didn't have a mountain of them, but the quantity was all a person my age ought to cram into his antiquated digestive system, and it was a good deal for $9.95.  The clams came with the same onion rings and fries.  

Annette’s chicken supreme was tender and juicy.  Everything I've sampled at Grill 58 has been carefully cooked.  I remembered how many tough slabs of boneless chicken breast I've eaten forlorn cafes. Annette complained that the supreme sauce lacked the flecks of tarragon she enjoys when she orders the dish at the Mile Post in Duxbury, but it was a lovely gravy that tasted of chicken. 

Annette remarked that, at lunchtime, the grill is filled with old folks.  It’s not that we didn't fit in with the crowd, but we were reminded of our status as we looked around. Fogies go out for lunch.  They tend to have early bedtimes and some of them don’t like to drive home in the dark. They like good food at reasonable prices and pass the word when they find it. 

I haven’t dined at Grill 58 in the evening, which means there are things on the regular menu I haven’t tried.  I hear the pizza is good, and I expect the steaks are is as delectable as the sliders.  I haven’t tested the bar.  Of the things I ate, the fried scallops were the most outstanding, but I’m ready to recommend that you begin your own exploration.

November Song

Was there ever a bard who failed to remember

The song of the soaring lark

And penned an ode to November

With its growing cold and dark?

And as the year began to fizzle

Who scorned the buds of May

To sing of the gloomy drizzle

And praise the shortening day?

But I who romped ‘neath April’s sky

Trudge out when the warmth’s unseasonable,

To walk the world ere the year must die,

And stoutly resolve to be reasonable.

I look for beauty in somber hues

And scuff the fallen leaves.

I take my song from a stalwart muse

And shun the one who grieves.

Kindle

Out of the gray mist of my fogyish mind emerges something I once read. These things influence you and cumulatively make you the person you become, but when they pop into consciousness, only the point – the part that made the difference in your development – remains.  It was about some explorers – anthropologists maybe –taking up residence in a primitive culture. I can remember neither the name of the visitors nor that of the people they studied.

 The natives had become used to marvels.  These foreigners bounced about in Jeeps and even landed in small planes.  It all became as humdrum to the villagers as it is to us today.  Then the wizards installed a pipe to bring water from a distant spring into the middle of the village, and the locals gaped in awe.  Carrying water had been hard and necessary work, and presto, water was made to appear right where it was needed. 

The mysterious strangers had at last accomplished a miracle that meant something.  Up to that time it was as though they’d been sawing ladies in half and putting them back together again – amusing, but not exactly important.  Now that the backbreaking labor of hauling water had been made to vanish through the magic of plumbing, there was new respect for the visitors.

Naturally I got this information from a printed page.  The reason that I thought of it was I have acquired a Kindle.  I was going to tell you I’m the proud owner of a Kindle, but clichés don’t always say what you want them to.  I’m not proud.  I've been resisting Kindle ownership on ethical grounds. 

I’m a lover of used books.  I sell them every summer at the Plymouth Antiquarian Fair.  I love the fact that books have lives that extend from owner to owner and I’m proud to be part of the system of passing them on.  This year we didn’t get as many donations as we have in the past.  There are many possible reasons, but it was suggested that people are buying their books on Kindle and don’t have to clear their shelves. 

I have a nightmare fantasy of some Orwellian dictatorship in which the Ministry of Truth gains control of the providers of e-books.  There can’t be that many of them.  There doesn’t need to be an orgy of book burning like there was in Nazi Germany.  Some night a signal reaches out and books are altered or disappear.  I saw my new Kindle quietly turn itself on and upgrade.  It was eerie.   

Where are the original copies of the Gospels?  The answer is they no longer exist.  For centuries when the old editions were gnawed by rats or riddled with worms, monks laboriously copied them by hand and protected them in libraries.  Our oldest versions are in Greek, which was not the language of Jesus and his friends. The work of translation went on and on.  Parchment and paper carried the Word.  Now it is possible to fear that form of the preservation of literature is about to end.  Our heritage may dwell in the cloud.

I have to admit my Kindle is a nifty little thing.  It’s portable and can hold a lot of books.  I used to have a recurring dream that I was walking through my house and discovered a door I hadn’t noticed before.  I opened it and found myself in a  library crammed with books.  Now I can hold such a library on my Kindle, and if they are old books and out of copyright, I can download them for free. My Kindle is like the trickle of water in the primitive village, and I’m impressed in spite of myself.

The Kindle has a clear screen with crisp print that’s easy to read.  If my eyes begin to fail I can increase the size of the type.  The device has a nice feel to it.  It’s solid but not too heavy, and the back has a satiny finish that’s pleasant to touch.  It almost makes up for the tactile feeling of real books that I’ve learned to love.  I don’t want to fall in love with my Kindle, but I may.

Fogies are the natural enemies of the newfangled. It is for us to treasure the old ways and preserve them if we can.  It is also for us to move into smaller quarters and let our possessions, including our books pass into the care of others.  I see myself in a room in a nursing home rereading Moby Dick on my Kindle.  Then I will fade into the Great Elsewhere and leave the world to the young.  Maybe it will be all right.

Port Bistro

I was excited about the opening of Port Bistro when I learned it is the sister restaurant to Sintra in Braintree. The hospitality and the food were worth the trip, but now I have only to drive to Kingston where Jenkins has taken over the space that housed La Paloma at 14 Main Street near KFC and the Purple Building. http://www.portbistrokingston.com/

I was first impressed by the wine list, and when I remarked upon it, I was introduced to Melani St. Pierre, who put in great deal of work selecting wines for the restaurant and is proud of the result.  Her title is Wine Director; she says sommelier is a masculine term. No matter your wine expertise or lack of same, your experience at Port Bistro will be enhanced if you place wine selection in her hands.

Served with a square of polenta, the long island duckling was tender, juicy, and unctuous without being greasy. The spiced orange glaze was a little sweet for my taste, but not so much as to spoil the total experience. To go with it, Ms St. Pierre recommended Bedell Merlot from North Fork, Long Island, NY. That‘s certainly a terroir I’m not familiar with, and the wine reached heights to which I didn’t think the variety capable. I decided then and there this Wine Director has a great deal to teach. I see the bar at Port Bistro is convivial with winebibbers, and I suspect that the place is becoming a destination for those who appreciate wine.

When visiting Port Bistro on a weeknight, I often choose a half portion of pasta.  I like the baked rigatoni served with chorizo sauce, roasted peppers, melted fresh mozzarella and topped with crisp basil-scented crumbs. It’s a treat for $11, and I spend the savings on wine. On a recent visit I selected a half order of braised beef short rib cannelloni. The meat was removed from the bone and served with a béchamel sauce enhanced with porcini mushrooms, tomato confit, and a demi-glace with truffles. With it I enjoyed a 2012 Castello Di Nieve pino nero. This is a Spanish pinot noir and an outstanding example of the variety, which can sometimes be a little thin.  It was graced with velvety tannin that elegantly balanced the sprightliness of the grape. 

Annette had baked haddock, which was perfectly fresh and moist from vigilant cooking. “This is good fish,” she exclaimed, “This is as good as I would make!”  (Having learned the art from her mother, Annette is famous in our family for her baked haddock.)

On that evening she and I split a salad of arugula elegantly dressed with lemon and extra-virgin olive oil and garnished with shavings of parmesan cheese.  The greens were fresh with the characteristic hint of bitterness.  I get so many bad salads in restaurants, it was a delight to have one so thoughtfully conceived and carefully made.  

We finished up with crème brulee, and I had a piece of chocolate cake with a rich molten center and a scoop of coffee ice cream.  It was more food then we require on a Wednesday night, and next time we hope to manage a little restraint.

Port Bistro is a rising star upon the area’s restaurant scene. I look forward to further exploration of the menu, and just contemplating the wine list makes my future seem bright.

Casablanca

Much blood has been spilt,

but I have the letters of transit.

They are in perfect order

and actually quite beautiful –

fine paper, crisp print, legible handwriting.

Neither high officials nor brutish border guards

dare question them.

Possessed of incredible privilege,

I trudge the desert alone.

Soylent

I just got the latest New Yorker and read “The End of Food” by Lizzie Widdicombe.    http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2014/05/12/140512fa_fact_widdicombe?currentPage=all It tells of the invention by a Californian named Rob Rhinehart of Soylent, which is a food substitute. Like most of his friends, Rhinehart had been living on McDonald’s dollar meals and five-dollar pizzas from Little Caesars. He and his friends thought eating food was expensive and an interruption of their work. 

He is quoted as saying, “You need amino acids and lipids, not milk itself. You need carbohydrates, not bread. He said fruits and vegetables provide essential vitamins and minerals, but they’re mostly water. He decided that nutrients – the things you need from food – could be reduced to a powder which could be dissolved in water and drunk.  For him the problem was solved.  He claims that for the past year and a half he’s been living almost exclusively on Soylent. Widdicombe reports that he looks healthy. 

Soylent is nerd food and has gained a following among computer engineers and other bright young workers.  Rhinehart claims that his discovery will eliminate the need for agriculture, which he says is an inefficient use of resources.  Of course some agricultural products are used in the production of Soylent, but Rhinehart dreams of a time when farming will be made obsolete by Soylent-producing algae that would turn out the product using only sunlight and water.

This is the opposite of the Whole Foods philosophy.  Instead of removing chemicals from food, you remove the food and ingest chemicals. If you protest that you can’t live without rocky road ice cream you can have it.  Rhinehart calls this recreational eating, which he condones and occasionally indulges in. 

As a person who has found good food one of the blessings of life, I’m somewhat appalled, and yet I’m not outraged at the idea. I lunched today on a ham salad roll from a supermarket deli.  The roll was sweet and cottony, and the main flavor of the ham was salt which remains on my palate as I type. I was able to get it down with the copious lubrication of cheap mayonnaise – sugar, salt, and fat. I’m embarrassed at this confession, but I was tired from my morning chores and didn't feel like rustling up a better meal.  Rhinehart in his dollar meal days was a fellow sufferer.  Considering the number of Americans who subsist mainly on fast food, he may have invented a godsend.

But I continue to seek out new foodstuffs, and am trying to tempt the Foodie Pilgrim into undertaking with me an excursion to Boston to explore the bizarre foods of Chinatown. I was there a short while ago and sampled a dish of tripe and tofu at the Great Taste Bakery & Restaurant. 

http://www.bostongreattastebakery.com/  These are two foods I've long striven to learn to like.  I had been making progress with tofu, but tripe had defeated my attempts to achieve appreciation – until then. Perhaps my self-congratulation at my new ability skewed my judgment as to how good it actually was, but it sure wasn't bad.  If I've mastered tripe, can the conquest of duck feet be far behind?

A History of Chowder

Robert Cox is a robust man who looks more like a lumberjack than a scholar, but his wit, assortment of degrees, and ornamented prose belie first impressions.  His recent lecture at Pilgrim Hall was full of information and humor, and its topic was chowder.  Having heard it, I bought The History of Chowder; Four Centuries of a New England Meal, which he co-authored with Jacob Walker.

Both my grandmothers made chowder.  They used salt pork, milk, potatoes, fish or clams, and served it with crackers.  They seasoned it with pepper and sometimes floated a pat of butter on top.  My mother made it the same way, and I’d come in wet and cold from sledding and tuck into a steaming bowl that spoke to me of family and home. Like all New Englanders, I thought this chowder had been passed down from time immemorial, and I couldn't imagine eating it any other way. 

As I grew to manhood, I learned the world is not as innocent as my mother’s kitchen. In Rhode Island they leave out the milk, and in New York they add tomatoes! But these were traveler’s tales from beyond the outskirts of civilization. Now my eyes are opened. The History of Chowder is packed with information that takes the reader on a fascinating journey through the past.  The authors write: “This most comfortable of comfort foods carries a subtle aftertaste of international conflict, of conquest and enslavement, of the blood and tears that made Europe imperial and shaped the modern world.”

Now I find Rhode Island chowder is the oldest version made today.  It was born aboard fishing boats and was built from ingredients at hand.  The ocean teemed with fish.  Salt pork kept well in barrels and was a staple of seafaring life.  So were crackers in the form of hard tack.  Onions would survive on board if kept in a dry place.  You cooked them in pork fat, added a layer of fish and a layer of ship’s biscuit and kept alternating the ingredients in the pot.  Fresh water was scarce on shipboard so they only used a little, and they had no milk. In the days when chowder came to be, potatoes were not popular in New England.

This hearty pottage was cooked by men for men, but chowder came ashore, and women civilized it.  When I make stock from fish bones and freeze it so a cod filet from the fish market will make quick and flavorful chowder, I’m tinkering with a dish that has been tinkered with from the time Europeans reached these waters and these shores.

I often read about food, but this book taught me things I didn’t know about local history.  It seems pigs were agents of colonialism and had almost as much to do with the displacement of the native people as the diseases harbored by the newcomers.  Pigs are easily transported and pretty nearly raise themselves.  They can be released into the wild and live off the land. The Pilgrims fenced their fields, but the Indians didn't so the invading swine devastated native crops. Pigs also rooted in the clam flats that were mainstays of Indian sustenance.  The white man salted pork and packed it away, and it became a basic ingredient of chowder.  

I enjoyed the appendix of chowder recipes that starts with one for diet chowder from the seventies that made my blood run cold. It’s made with skim milk, onion flakes, parsley flakes, and either butter flavoring or a teaspoon of oleo. How far we've descended from the time when hearty chowders were built and devoured on the ever-moving sea. I liked the reproductions of recipe cards, but I have to say most of the images in the book are badly reproduced and a lot of them are just plain lame. Never mind, A History of Chowder is a short, but fascinating treatise on local history centered around one of our most iconic regional dishes.  After you read it, you’ll never look on a bowl of chowder the same way again. 

Maxims

“Do what you love; the money will follow.”  There have always been starving artists. “Whatever doesn't kill you makes you strong.” Unless it weakens you – ask any fogy about old age.  “Crime doesn't pay.” Some people never feel guilty and never get caught.  But there’s one maxim no logician has ever been able to refute.  “It is what it is.”

Veal Chops

Since I’m a frugal Yankee, my gym is Shaw’s Supermarket.  I’ve gotten to know the staff so I have the same camaraderie I’d get in a gym I had to pay for.  I go early when the aisles are free of shoppers, and I walk briskly seven times around, which I estimate to be a mile.  It’s just as good as a treadmill. When I’ve finished the seventh lap, I get a cart and go around again.

Being there early, I find bargains.  There’s a spot at the end of the meat counter where they put the stuff that didn’t sell, and the other day I found two veal chops that had been discounted deeply. They started at $7.00 each, but this isn’t Whole Foods, and they languished. They were marked down to $5.00 – still no takers.  Now they had manager’s special stickers deducting $3:00 from the lowest marked price so the $7.00 chops were $2.00 each.  How could I resist?

We pan-broiled the chops in a cast iron skillet, the kind my grandmother called a spider.  Then Annette made a sauce using pan drippings deglazed with wine and Cognac. She thickened it with heavy cream.  

We had the chops for lunch accompanied by asparagus and a lovely Rosé D’Anjou. When I thought how much this luncheon would cost in a fine restaurant, I felt smug.

   

Mexican Madras

Happy Day!  Annette saw something on TV that told her tequila is good for you.  Personally, I never pay attention to the nutritional and other health segments of the morning news, but ‘tis an ill wind….

I am ordinarily the family bartender, but I was off this morning purchasing bagels and the Sunday New York Times. When I returned Annette had gotten out the cocktail shaker and mixed up Mexican Madrases. Here’s a recipe.  I don't know if it’s the one she used or if she followed the one she found, but it looks like a good start.

3 ounces cranberry juice

½ ounce orange juice

1 ounce gold tequila

1 dash lime juice

Shake with ice, strain, and serve with a half orange slice. 

I’m not sure how much health benefit you get from one tiny ounce of tequila, but the recipe may be modified according to your conscience, your body’s need for nutritious agave, and your taste.  The mere presence of breakfast cocktails improved our mood on this cold and cloudy March day.  We clinked glasses, munched our bagels, and went off to our newspaper in good spirits. 

Reuben, She’s Been Thinking.

When you’re two years old, a long winter has taken up a sizable percentage of your time on the planet; and my two-year-old grandson was ecstatic about the coming of spring.  On the phone to Annette, he exclaimed, “Nannie, the grass is here!  Indeed it is, and it was time for us to break out of hibernation and go to Mattapoisett for sauerkraut. 

I’d asked The Foodie Pilgrim if he was going to be near the famous Morse’s Sauerkraut, but the grass has not yet emerged in Waldoboro, Maine, and the Pilgrim had no immediate plans to venture that far up Route 1. Still his knowledge of the food resources of New England is encyclopedic, and he told me I could score creditable sauerkraut at How on Earth in Mattapoisett. 

It was a pleasant trip. The snow had melted except in sheltered places and grimy piles in parking lots.  Many of the ponds had open areas where water sparkled for the first time in months.  A sharp wind was blowing in from Buzzard’s Bay when we pulled into the How on Earth parking area.  Hurrying inside, we found a good selection of fine New England foodstuffs, and from the refrigerator case we picked up a jar of Real Pickles Organic Sauerkraut.

It’s naturally fermented by a small, worker-owned cooperative using cabbage from family farms in Massachusetts and Vermont. As we made our way home through the thawing countryside, we had our start toward the Reuben sandwiches we hungered for. 

St. Patrick’s Day had been duly celebrated, and as is our custom, we corned our own beef.  It’s not difficult to do.  You need a large zippered plastic bag, salt and spices, a couple of culinary bricks to weigh down a chunk of brisket in your refrigerator, and the persistence to turn the meat daily and massage it with the rub.  Julia Child has a good recipe in The Way to Cook.

I stopped into The Hearth Bakery in Plymouth for a loaf of pumpernickel bread, and then rounded up ingredients for homemade Russian dressing.  I was out of the house just before the meal was to occur, and when I returned I found Annette had riffed on the Reubens. 

We should have a kitchen data recorder that saves the details, not of disasters, but of creative inspirations that visit her when she opens the refrigerator door. It’s sad that recipes of these strokes of genius are lost to humanity, but although I won’t get exactly the same experience ever again, I’m comforted in the knowledge that she can keep coming up with surprises that are just as good. 

 She rejected the Cains pickle relish I’d picked up that day as being too sweet. We’ll save the jar for hot dogs this summer.  For the dressing she chopped some of my martini olives, some parsley, and onions.  Still avoiding sweetness, she rejected Heinz and chose an exotic brand of hot and spicy ketchup she found in the door of the fridge.  She mixed these into a mayonnaise base, adding added a shake or two of Worcestershire sauce, and a squirt of horseradish cream from the plastic container. Having avoided the sugar, she didn’t need the lemon juice Martha Stewart called for in the recipe I’d downloaded that afternoon. 

The leftover corned beef was a little dry from its time in the fridge so she sliced it as thinly as she could, sprinkled it with water from the tips of her fingers, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and steamed it in the oven.  It melted in our mouths. Reuben sandwiches are made with Swiss cheese, and she used some Raclette, which is the famous melting cheese of Switzerland, although ours was made in France. She added the sauerkraut, buttered the bread, spread dressing on each slice, and grilled the sandwiches. 

They were slightly unorthodox but absolutely heavenly.  I may not have the exact recipe, but the memory will linger for a long time.

Rock Shrimp

It’s a great thing at my age to discover a new seafood, and I just devoured my first mess of Rock Shrimp.  These little critters have been off the Florida Coast for a long time, but no one fished for them for a very good reason.  They aren’t named rock shrimp because of their habitat; it’s because their shells are rock hard, and until recently there was no practical way to get to the good stuff.  Now with the invention of high speed splitting machines, these well armored crustaceans have hit the market, and I’m sending up a cheer. I had my first taste of them at Dixie Crossroads in Titusville, Florida. http://dixiecrossroads.com/  If you’re on your way to Cape Canaveral, it’s a good place to stop.  You may just spend your afternoon eating shrimp and forget all about outer space. 

You can order rock shrimp by the pound. If you make a mistake and under-order, your friendly waitress will bring you more. She starts you off with corn fritters, which are addictive, but filling, so go easy.  The shrimp are sweet.  Some compare the flavor to lobster, but I think it’s unique, and these were absolutely the best shrimp I ever tasted.  They came broiled and accompanied by lemon and melted butter. Annette liked them with butter, but I thought they were perfect with just a side of cheese grits.  For a beverage I chose Fat Tire Ale, a local brew.

Should you have any room when the shrimp are gone, Dixie Crossroads serves an excellent key lime pie.

St. Michael’s Bread

The only hard thing about baking bread is remembering how easy it is. Today I made St. Michael’s bread from the book Recipes from the Portuguese of Provincetown.  By the way, I see this book is available for small money from Amazon. 

This is my go-to bread recipe, but it has been modified over the years.  It calls for dissolving a yeast cake in warm water in which you also dissolve two tablespoons of vegetable shortening.  I always used Crisco. You wanted the water to be warm enough to dissolve the Crisco, but if you got it too hot, you would kill the yeast.  It was always a cliff-hanger to see if the dough would rise. 

I’ve made some notes in my old cookbook.  I now use instant yeast, which I buy it King Arthur Flour.

http://www.kingarthurflour.com/shop/items/saf-red-instant-yeast-16-oz

It comes in quite a large package, but it keeps in the freezer.  My notes say a scant tablespoon equals a package of yeast, which long ago substituted for the yeast cake.  You just put it in with the dry ingredients. There’s no need to proof it.  Instead of Crisco I now use the same amount of olive oil.  This makes yellower bread with a delicious taste that’s slightly different from the original.  I think it’s better.  Maybe the Portuguese of Provincetown used vegetable shorting, but their ancestors in Portugal used olive oil. 

For the kneading, I use the dough hook on my Kitchen Aid mixer.  I like to knead bread, but the dough used to start out sticky, and I hated getting the residue off the table.  It would clog a brush and ruin a sponge.  Paper towels turned to shreds no matter what brand I used, and I ended up alternating between scraping it and washing the surface. Now, when the dough hook has done its work, I flour the table and knead the dough by hand for a minute or two until it forms a smooth ball.  I actually like kneading bread, but this will do.  Because it’s past the sticky phase when I put it down, all I need to do is brush away the leftover flour. 

From experience I have learned that the recipe’s direction to bake it for 50 minutes at 350° is too long. Today I checked it at 35 minutes. I liked the color and the hollow sound when I thumped the bottom of the loaf.  Then I checked it with an instant-read thermometer just to make sure, and it came out to 180°, which is what I wanted. 

Now there are only two downsides to baking bread.  It’s not a lot of work, but you need to be home when it finishes each of its two risings and when it bakes. Music on the stereo and a good book fill the wait.  A more serious problem is you’re likely to eat more bread than you should before it even cools.

 

O Christmas Tree

 

 O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,

 Wie treu sind deine Blätter!

Thou blessed our house with woodsy scent

While we grew slowly fatter.

As carols graced our living room

Thy lights adorned our Christmas Eve,

But now that needles strew the rug

It's time thou got the heave.

Sweet nostalgia dewed our eyes

As trinkets old thy boughs bedecked.

Now only in the vacuum bag

Thy odor we detect.

All over are the galas grand,

Both casual and formal.

We move the furniture in place

And things go back to normal.

We rest and read our Christmas books

Surrounded now by quiet.

We sit at table solemnly

Observing careful diet.

While once again in nature thou mayst feel the breezes blow

With fellows up and down the street, bedecked by flakes of snow.

O Christmas Trees O Christmas Trees

How lovely are thy branches,

Now sprawled before colonials,

Victorians, and ranches.