SV Day 5: Over the mountain

Blowing Rock to Boone to Foscoe to Linville to Spruce Pine. That was my route this morning.  I made a stop for breakfast at Grandview Restaurant.  The address is listed as Banner Elk but it is just off NC-105 between Foscoe and Linville.  This is the grand view-

Grandfather Mountain as seen from the patio in back of the restaurant.

This was my view inside, a real Southern breakfast–

Yep, this is how we do it.  With lots of hot coffee.

I made a quick, pull off the road stop in Linville. I spent three college summers working at Eseeola Lodge.  The photo I took  today was terrible so I found one from last fall. We thought it was fancy then, but it is really fancy now.  There is even a spa.

What a great place for college students from far and wide to work and spend the summer.  I was a waitress. We girls lived in an old house behind the main lodge, nicknamed The Last Resort and the boys lived in another house down the road. The gang threw a surprise 21st birthday party for me.  My first birthday party. Good times.

I made it to Spruce Pine and Mama Mildred’s by mid-morning.  Sister Moo is using three of her vacation days while I am visiting.  We goofed off. Pedicures first.

A stroll around downtown- Lower Street to be exact, BFF. The old train depot.  Not many trains pass through any more. Sad.

I got to hang out with the Grand Nephews and their mom, my niece. The boys love my baking so I decided to make them some blueberry scones.  I wanted cherries, but at almost $4 a pound I decided to go for blueberries instead.

A good day.

This recipe for scones is from my friend and colleague Daniela Harrell. It is so easy and so good. I prefer using yogurt instead of milk.

Quick Scones

makes 12 small scones
Use whatever fruit is in season or the currants (or other dried fruit) that the recipe calls for.  Or plain. Up to you. I used blueberries and added the zest from a small lemon. I added the fresh berries after kneading the dough.  I separated the dough into two balls, flattened each one out, placed the berries on top and gently folded the dough several times to incorporate the berries without smashing them.  Not easy and it’s okay if you smash a few.

2 c. all-purpose flour
¼ c. granulated sugar
4 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
¼ c. cold butter
½ c. currants, raisins, or other dried fruit, if desired
1 egg
2/3 c. milk or ¾ c. (175 ml) plain yogurt (the yogurt produces a moister scone)
egg yolk for brushing tops
granulated sugar for sprinkling or fruit preserves

In large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Add butter and cut in until crumbly. Stir in dried fruit, if using. Make a well in the center.

In small bowl, beat egg until frothy. Pour into well. Stir in milk or yogurt slowly with a fork, stirring until a soft dough forms. Turn out on lightly floured surface. Knead 8-10 times. Divide into 2 equal parts. Pat each into a 6-inch circle. Transfer to greased baking sheet or a parchment paper lined baking sheet. Brush tops with egg yolk and sprinkle with sugar (if desired). Score each top into 6 pie-shaped markings. Bake in 425F oven for 15 minutes until risen and browned slightly. Brush with fruit preserves after removing from oven, if desired.

Bon appétit to all families!  I hope that you all have a chance to spend time with your loved ones and get back to your roots!

There are no coincidences

(This post was originally published on thesabbaticalchef.com on October 31, 2016.)

One Girlie I am particularly fond of likes to say “Mrs. E, there are no coincidences.  Things happen for a reason.”  I completely agree.  But I am still astounded sometimes when I run across what, on the surface, seem to be totally unrelated facts or events.  Here is what happened to me yesterday.

Saturday, I went up to the mountains to check on Mama Mildred.  She has not been feeling well for a couple of months.  And when Mildred misses Sunday church services it’s serious. Last week, she saw a specialist in Asheville who did blood tests and discovered that her liver is seriously out of whack.  A blood clot maybe?  A tumor?  More tests, a scan, and a biopsy followed.  With a promise from the doctor to call her on Saturday with the results. We waited.  And waited. Mama finally gave up around 9:00pm and went to bed.  She is exhausted all of the time, but she only said that she guessed the results hadn’t come in yet and she was sure he would call on Sunday.  The phone rang at about 30 minutes later. Sister Moo answered. (She and my mom live together.)  Lo and behold, it was the doctor.  It seems that the medication Mama had been taking for an infection has caused liver damage.  Thanks to my friend Google, I found this on WebMD–

This drug may rarely cause serious (possibly fatal) liver disease, blood or nerve problems. Tell your doctor right away if you notice any of the following rare but very serious side effects: persistent nausea/vomiting, dark urine, yellowing of eyes/skin, unusual/persistent fatigue, fast/pounding heartbeat, numbness/tingling of the arms/legs, muscle weakness.

The fine print.  And as I have heard more than one mountain person say “If the sickness don’t kill you, the medicine will.”  I am not that cynical and am thankful for modern medicine, but still…

Mama Mildred will go back for more blood tests this week and enroll in a study through the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill medical school for others like her.  At least her oldest daughter has told her to. The doctor running the study will be in Asheville next week and hopefully she will go meet him.  (If she considers backing out, I will drive back up there, put her in the car and take her my own self.  Not that I am bossy or anything.)

I left Spruce Pine Sunday afternoon and decided to drive back through Linville and Boone instead of down the mountain to Marion and straight to I-40.  I wanted to see the scenery. It is good for my soul to see that stretch of road.  US- 221N and NC-105N.  Mitchell County to Avery County to Watauga County.  Through Linville, at the foot of Grandfather Mountain.

I spent three summers working at Eseeola Lodge in Linville.  They hire college students to work in the summer.  At least they did in the late 70’s and I hope that they still do.  Those were amazing summers.  I worked as a waitress and met some wonderful people.  Mr. Pottle, who ran the Lodge at the time, took me under his raspberry-colored jacketed arm and designated me as waitress to the folks who came and stayed for the summer.  Major and Mrs. Lane particularly stand out in my memory.  She had to have baby gherkins on her table.  Not much of a tipper at the end of the summer, but what a character.  I stopped at the Lodge, now quiet, and wandered around, taking lots of photos, picking up some beautiful red leaves and a couple of rocks.  (The BFF always insists on a rock.)

I got back on highway 105, heading towards Boone, with an eye on the clock and a desire to get home to Durham before dark. But as I drove past St. Bernadette’s Catholic Church something made me turn around and go back.  I had it in my head that this is where my high school French teacher, Mme Buchanan, went to church.  But she attended St. Lucien’s.  Anyway, I drove up the steep drive to the church, just to see what was behind the church.  Maybe a cemetery?   At least a great view of Grandfather Mountain and the Mile High Bridge, if nothing else.

I wandered around, went into the chapel dedicated to St. Anthony of Padua, said a short prayer, took some photos, and went back to my car.

I left an offering and took a little packet containing a prayer and medal.

I am not Catholic.  I am a reformed Southern Baptist, as I like to say (but absolutely not in front of Mama Mildred).  I do believe in a higher power or powers.  I think that this Power wants us to help our fellow man and that He/She could care less about our politics or who wins a football game to be perfectly honest.  Mama was raised in a serious Baptist home. She is a bit suspicious of Catholics, but we can’t hold that against her.  She did go to the Catholic church once for my cousin’s son’s baptism. I may not be Catholic, but I light candles in every cathedral I enter and offer up a little prayer for the safety of my loved ones and thanks for the life of Mme Christiane Roze Buchanan, my beloved French teacher.  I filled in the blank of the prayer above with:

“Obtain for me good health for my mama.”  

Short, sweet and to the point, St. Anthony, Saint of Miracles.  He was a Franciscan monk who lived from 1195-1231.  He was canonized only a year after his death.  It seems his body was exhumed 336 years after his death and his tongue was found to be totally intact although the rest of his body was “corrupted.” He was known for his “simple and resounding” teaching and taught occasionally at the universities of Montpellier and Toulouse in my beloved southern France.  He is the patron saint of lost articles and was known for his undying devotion to the poor and sick.  Mama Mildred is both, dear Anthony, so send her some love, please.  How can it be fair that a woman such as my mother can work for at least 50 years of her life, at mostly minimum wage jobs, raise four children plus a mostly lovable but irresponsible alcoholic husband, finally retire and try to live on her social security check?  Answer that one, politicians?  How was she supposed to save for retirement?  You try it and see how easy it is, Senator or Congressman Whomever. Anyway, I digress.  Back to my story.

As I got in my car, I noticed what looked to be a statue across the parking lot.  I decided to walk up and check it out.  It turned out to be a grotto dedicated to St. Bernadette, the namesake of the church.  As I approached it, I realized that this is why I felt the pull to turn my car around and visit this spot.  St. Bernadette of Lourdes.  I have never visited Lourdes, in southwest France near Spain, but I have read about her.

Bernadette lived from 1844-1879.  She was beatified in 1925 and canonized in 1933.  She is the patron saint of illness, people ridiculed for their piety, poverty, shepherds and shepherdesses.  Thousands of sick people flock to Lourdes every year, hoping for a miracle cure.  We can’t make the trip to Lourdes, but it felt rather holy at this grotto yesterday, as I lit a candle and said a prayer.

As I researched Bernadette this morning, I found the quote below, written by Dr. Comte upon the 1928 exhumation of Bernadette’s body.  He published his findings in the Bulletin de l’Association medicale de Notre-Dame de Lourdes.  A coincidence?  I don’t think so.

“What struck me during this examination, of course, was the state of perfect preservation of the skeleton, the fibrous tissues of the muscles (still supple and firm), of the ligaments, and of the skin, and above all the totally unexpected state of the liver after 46 years. One would have thought that this organ, which is basically soft and inclined to crumble, would have decomposed very rapidly or would have hardened to a chalky consistency. Yet, when it was cut it was soft and almost normal in consistency. I pointed this out to those present, remarking that this did not seem to be a natural phenomenon.”

A pumpkin muffin (baked in a jack o’lantern mold) with apple butter from The Orchard at Altapass.  Yum!

Bon appétit and Happy Halloween to all.  All Saints Day, Toussaint, is tomorrow.  Say a prayer for Mama Mildred or send up good thoughts to whatever higher power you believe in.  

You can take the girl out of the mountains...

I've written before about who I am.  The age old question.  The one I started contemplating around 6th or 7th grade.  Who am I?  But more importantly, what makes me me?  That question.  After spending a couple of days with my family last week, I've given more thought to where I am from.  I am from the Appalachian Mountains.  Western North Carolina.  The Blue Ridge Mountains.  I was born there and I spent my first 22 years living there.  I love the city I live in now, but I will always be a mountain girl at heart.

I was born in Spruce Pine Community Hospital.  The hospital was built some time between 1950 and 1958.  I know this because Roy Williams, the men's basketball coach at UNC-Chapel Hill, is from Spruce Pine, too, but he was born in Marion because Spruce Pine didn't have a hospital in 1950. It was built by the time I came along in July 1958.  Roy only spent 6 months in Spruce Pine, though, before moving on to Asheville. (I know this because when he was up for the Carolina job the first time, the sportscasters said he was from Spruce Pine.  I did not know that, so I called his secretary at Kansas and asked. Coach Williams was at the NCAA tournament she politely told me, but she would get back to me. And she did.) I lived there for 18 years, before moving on to Boone and then to Durham.  (Roy and I are practically neighbors, but we haven't run into each other at the grocery store or post office yet.)

      Photo: www.athletepromotions.com

I digress.  As usual.

I forget how much I miss the mountains until I go back to visit.  There is just something soothing about the views.  

After exiting Interstate 40 and driving around Marion, this is the stretch of mountain that you have to climb to get to Spruce Pine.  I don't really like this road.  Trucks can lose their brakes.  One of my cousins and her husband died that way about 30 years ago.  

The view at the top is pretty spectacular, though.  And worth the drive.

On the way out of town, before heading down the mountain, I took a little detour to visit with Miss Vicky at Big Lynn Lodge in Little Switzerland.  

In less than two months, my graduating class from Harris High School will hold our 40th Reunion at Big Lynn.  One of my classmates, PW, who lives in Texas and I are frantically trying to find the other 88 names on the back of the program from our Commencement Exercises held on May 28, 1976. 

We know that we have already lost at least six of our classmates, including my cousin, Kathy.  It is past time for a get-together.  It was nice to meet Miss Vicky and put a face to a name.

I was in the mountains to take my baby sister Moo to the hospital in Boone for sinus surgery.  I would post the photo she asked me to take post-surgery, but I think she would stop speaking to me.  And I do not want that to happen.  I am the only one of my siblings to leave Spruce Pine.  As a matter of fact, Mama Mildred, Sister Cindy, and Moo all live on the same street, Bell Street, named for my Papa.  On the way home from the hospital the day after the surgery, I couldn't resist pulling off in Linville for a couple of photos.  Moo was still pretty drugged, so she didn't object.  I spent three summers working in Linville at Eseeola Lodge as a waitress.

It is much fancier now, featuring a spa and an updated pool, as well as the golf course.  It also stays open longer, not just Memorial Day through Labor Day the way it did back in the '70's.  It was a great place to work and live.

One of my Lodge buddies, The Honorable JR, has a family home next to the Lodge.  I had to take a photo.

And my old friend, The Grandfather, is still lying there watching the clouds roll by and allowing hikers to climb all over him.

Although I have no photos to prove it, I don't think I've ever seen so many shades of green. The trees covering the mountains are leafing out.  Spring has hit the Appalachians.  Spring and fall put on magnificent shows of color up there.

I physically left 36 years ago, but my heart is and always will be there.  I hope that I appreciated the beauty that surrounded me for those 22 years, even while I dreamed of taking airplanes to faraway places.  I knew that I wanted a different life than I could have there. Marrying The Mailman (who, by the way, just happened to be bringing mail to my mom as I was leaving... bit unsettling to run into him after all these years) would not have been a good idea.  I needed a bigger world, a world where I could teach middle school French and make my own way.  Daddy didn't understand, but I think that he was proud of me.  Mama Mildred has always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even if that meant leaving the mountains.  I've never regretted the decision to leave, but I sure miss the views and my family.

While sitting around the table at Mama Mildred's house, I remembered to look through her tattered cookbook- the one she and Sister Cindy fight over- and find her favorite pound cake recipe.  I wrote it out in that cookbook for her, copying it from Southern Living magazine, she says.  I do not remember where she found it.  So, my kitchen smells like chocolate cake.  It just came out of the oven...

 (I took a croissant-making class yesterday at Sur La Table and was told that my goodies will bake better if they are not just placed on the wire rack in the oven, but on a "platform."  Thus the pizza stone. That is supposed to make them bake more evenly.  We shall see.)

The Ex-Ex will be eating chocolate cake for breakfast this week.

Mama Mildred's Mahogany Pound Cake

1 c. butter, softened

2 cups granulated sugar

1 c. firmly packed brown sugar

6 eggs, separated, at room temperature

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour (I use King Arthur's)

1/2 cup cocoa (the last of the box of Van Houten I brought home from France in January)

1 cup sour cream, at room temperature

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. vanilla extract

Butter and flour a 10-inch tube pan.  Set aside.

Cream butter; gradually add sugars, beating well at medium speed.

Add egg yolks, one at a time, beating after each addition.

Sift flour and cocoa together. 

Combine sour cream and baking soda.

Add flour mixture to creamed mixture, alternately with sour cream, beginning and ending with flour, scraping down the bowl often. Mix just until blended after each addition.

Stir in vanilla.

Beat egg whites in a separate bowl until stiff peaks form.  Fold into the cake batter.

Spoon into the pan.

Place in cold oven, set the temperature to 325˚F and bake for 1 hour and 10 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean. (I had to add 12 extra minutes.)

Cool in pan 10 minutes.

Remove from pan and let cool completely on wire rack.

Bon appétit to all my fellow mountaineers!  Enjoy the views wherever you are.  And eat more chocolate cake.  Life is short.