LeslieDean

Pomegranite Lacquered Pot Roast . From my Secret Pantry Section. Pomegranate-Lacquered-Pot-Roast.docx

Aunt Lavina's Take on Tacos A Midnight Road Trip and a Crowded Kitchen I was a little girl when my parents decided to take a spur of the moment vacation to Redding, California, and down to LA. My dad was a brick mason, and when one job finished he would look for the next one to start. He was well known at his trade and always in demand, and he eventually became the union president and business agent for the city of Tulsa. Before taking on his next big job, he decided he would go home, wake Mom up, and tell her to pack because we were going to California. I remember his booming voice when he came home shortly before midnight, telling Mom to get up and pack because we were leaving now. My dad always made spontaneous decisions without a second thought to my mother's opinion. So, ever the dutiful wife, she packed our bags and made a pallet for me in the back seat, where the window meets the dash. You have to remember that was the ‘fun’ place for kids to ride back then — that way they could see the car that was about to rear-end you and hurl them into the air. No seat belts, no safety laws. But a blanket and a pillow and a bed with a view was the coveted place to ride. My dad always drove straight through except for a nap at the roadside rest stops. I even remember him picking up several hitchhikers along the way, much to my mother's dissatisfaction. But we all lived. My Aunt Lavina was married to a Mexican man, and he taught her the way around a Mexican kitchen. I'm so glad he did. She made tacos the night we arrived, and the kitchen was filled with wonderful aromas and the sound of laughter as the adults gathered around the table and played cards. That was the first time I ever remember eating a taco, but I knew it would not be the last. I know this recipe will not sit well as an authentic dish, but it is one I feel you should at least try. My mom and dad took this version home, and this is how they forever made it. Tacos and Mexican restaurants were rare in the 1960s in Oklahoma. I thought this was the best thing I had ever imagined. Then in the ’70s a few fast food chains and restaurants sprang up, but none was ever as good — until we moved to LA and began eating at all the mom and pop restaurants. That is where my love for Mexican dishes was truly cemented. But my start was in my Aunt Lavina's crowded kitchen, after a spontaneous road trip initiated by a father in the middle of the night. Aunt Lavina's Tacos Serves a crowd — plan for one taco per plate; they're enormous. For the Filling 2 lb ground beef, browned with minced onion and your own taco seasoning blend (Aunt Lavina used her own; use yours) 3 (15 oz) cans pinto beans with jalapeño, simmered until thick Once both are cooked, combine and pulse briefly in a blender until just blended — not smooth, just unified For the Shells 12-inch flour tortillas Lard, for shallow frying For the Assembly Line Sharp cheddar, grated Lettuce, shredded Tomato, chopped Onion, diced Sour cream Homemade salsa Avocado slices, salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lime Method Heat lard in a shallow pan and fry each flour tortilla just a few seconds per side — only until it bubbles up and forms nice brown bubbles. Stack the fried tortillas on a platter. Form an assembly line. The first person spreads a generous portion of the meat and bean filling inside each shell. The next person adds a generous handful of grated sharp cheddar over the warm filling. The next adds shredded lettuce, chopped tomato, and diced onion. The last in line places the crowning touch: a dollop of sour cream and homemade salsa, two slices of avocado, salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lime. Serve immediately — one taco covers the entire plate. Leslie's Note: This is not an authentic taco by any stretch, and Aunt Lavina would have been the first to tell you so with a laugh. But it is the taco that taught me what a kitchen full of people who love each other sounds like — cards shuffling, laughter rising over the stove, and a platter passed hand to hand until something humble became a feast.

I would like to change this subject tagline from My Cookbook to accurately describe the contents. Snippets from my life told through recipes. Is there anyone that can tell me do that change?

FAMILY TIME Ready in a Flash HB Rolls 30-Minute Hamburger Buns — Tangzhong Method Same fast hamburger bun method, with a tangzhong starter folded in for a softer, more tender crumb and better next-day texture. Makes 8 buns (or 6 larger ones). A JAR FROM CATOOSA My sister from a different mister, Sue Ward, brought over a jar of Farmers Market maple honey from a stand in Catoosa — she found it and thought of me. I used it right in this batch, and now I'll forever think of her when I do. Sue and I have spent so much time together since Rick's nap time, and in that time we've discovered just how alike our childhoods were. Sometimes we'd tell each other a story about our fathers, and the other would shout, “Twinning!” — or I'd say we really need to look into our family tree. We both had early fathers who were hard men, cold at times, difficult to love. And now, aging in the truth together, we find ourselves longing to form the father-daughter relationship neither of us fully had growing up. For a long time, it was hard for me to think of Jehovah as a father figure. I didn't have a lot to connect it to. But I did have a man with an incredible work ethic, who instilled that same ethic in his daughters. He was a provider, and he excelled at the hard things. I've come to realize now that he couldn't pass on what he never had himself. He was a casualty of poverty and a very rough childhood from the Depression era — a WWII soldier who saw things no one should have to see, a survivor of the Greatest Generation. He had many good qualities too. He just couldn't let his guard down and risk anyone seeing his truth. This honey — sweet, unguarded, freely given by a friend who understands exactly where I come from — has become its own quiet lesson, in its own small way, about the kind of Father Jehovah actually is. Ingredients 3 tbsp bread flour, for tangzhong 1/2 cup water, for tangzhong 1/2 cup warm water (110°F), for blooming yeast 2 tbsp quick-rise yeast 2 tbsp sugar or honey (Sue's Farmers Market maple honey from Catoosa, if you have it) 1 tsp salt 4 oz butter, melted and cooled 1 large egg 2 4/5 cups bread flour (the remainder after tangzhong) 1 egg, beaten, for egg wash Sesame seeds, poppy seeds, or shredded cheese, optional topping Method Make the tangzhong. Whisk together the tangzhong flour and water in a small saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly, until it thickens into a smooth paste, about 2-3 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature. Bloom the yeast. While the tangzhong cools, combine the warm water, yeast, and sugar or honey in your mixer bowl. Let sit 10 minutes until foamy. Add tangzhong, salt, butter, and egg. Add the cooled tangzhong, salt, melted butter, and egg to the yeast mixture. Mix briefly to combine. Add flour and mix. Add the remaining bread flour and mix with the dough hook no more than 2 minutes. Dough will be on the wetter side and sticky — that's expected. Divide and shape. Divide into 8 pieces (or 6 for larger buns). Form, shape, and roll each into a ball, then place on a sheet pan. Egg wash and rest. Brush lightly with the beaten egg. Add seeds or cheese now if using. Let rest 20 minutes — for a slightly better rise in that short window, this can be done in the VIVOHOME stand mixer bowl with the fermentation function set to 80°F (27°C) instead of a plain room-temperature rest. Bake. Bake at 400°F for 9-12 minutes, until internal temperature reaches 195-205°F. Cool. Remove from oven and cool before slicing. NOTES This adds about 10-15 minutes to the original 30-minute timeline, mostly for cooking and cooling the tangzhong before it goes in with the yeast. The payoff is a noticeably softer, more pillowy crumb and buns that stay fresh longer without drying out — the gelatinized starch in the tangzhong holds onto moisture the rest of the dough can't. From Jehovah's Table to Mine

Oh thanks dear brother! Your name has just reminded me that sometimes after an argument Rick would toss a white napkin into the room then yell Turce? I love you already! You hold a special memory in my heart next to that memory of Rick!

BLAST FROM MY PAST THAT TRANSPORTS ME IN TIME. CASA VEGA MARGARITAS A Studio City Booth, a Confession, and Rick's Farewell Toast for Howard THE BOOTH AT CASA VEGA There was a booth at Casa Vega in Studio City that became, without either of us planning it, the place where this particular tenant told me the truth about her life. We went there more than once over the years we managed the buildings on Riverside Drive, in Sherman Oaks, Ca and Casa Vega was a industry legend, just a few blocks from our condo on Ventura Blvd in Studio City. But this place was always the same ritual — a dining room so dark your eyes had to adjust before they led you to your booth by flashlight. Candles on the table cast dark shadows and unless you had the menu memorized you still needed the flashlight offered to view it. We didn't. We had been there enough like most patrons to know exactly what we wanted. But now. looking back I think she this chose this place to reveal deep secrets. A basket of chips, flavorful cold salsa and a good margarita in front of each of us, allowed conversation that started light and went deep before the second drink arrived. June lived in one of our two plush buildings, upper-swank tenants, the kind of building where everyone kept their business to themselves in the hallway and nowhere else. She was head accountant in payroll for one of the studios in Burbank. She was a bit flirtatious mixed with mischief, the kind that always attracks men of a certain caliber. But over wine and margaritas, she told me she and her boyfriend were about to take things to the next level, and that she had something from three years earlier that she carried without resolution. She and her fiancee, Howard, had been in the middle of sharing a passionate intimate expression of their love when everything came to a sudden halt. Dead weight . And she meant dead to its fullest meaning. She told me she was right there with him, still caught up in the moment, saying don't stop, don't stop — before it came to her that he was gone. She called 911. He could not be revived. Then came the part that haunted her even more than his death: notifying his son, and the hallway neighbors learning everything when the medical examiner came to remove his body from her apartment. She told me she hadn't been intimate with anyone since. That she missed the physical closeness but went cold at the thought of it. She had tried, more than once, to explain this to her new boyfriend, and simply couldn't get the words out. I had real empathy for her sitting across that booth. I could see her go somewhere else for a moment, reliving it. When I got home that night, I told Rick the whole thing and asked him what he thought she should do. He said the simplest thing, the thing he always said about hard conversations — just be open and honest, and tell the man why you're hesitant. That was Rick's whole philosophy in one sentence. RICK'S BENEDICTION A few days later she came by with her rent check, and asked if she could sit a moment and tell me how their conversation went. She'd found the courage to bring up Howard with her boyfriend, and they'd talked it through. Rick came into the dining room to kiss me goodbye on his way to the store and caught the tail end of it. In the gentlest voice you can imagine, he said he hoped she got things worked out. She turned to him and asked, did Leslie tell you about Howard? And Rick — without missing a beat, without a flicker of mischief on his face — said he heard she'd rung his bell all the way to heaven. I felt every drop of color leave my face. I heard her gasp. I was certain the floor was about to open up beneath the dining room. And then she burst out laughing — said it was a farewell party Howard never knew he wanted. Rick told her he was sure she'd put her all into it, kissed me, and walked out the door like he hadn't just detonated a bomb in my dining room. The only other time it ever came up again was months later, when we ran into her and her new fellow leaving the garage together. She introduced us properly. As they walked off, arm in arm, she turned back over her shoulder, kicked up one heel, and gave us a thumbs up — no words at all, just that one gesture telling us everything had healed. I have never forgotten it. It's as crisp in my mind today as a photograph. Rick was the king of euphemism. Sometimes it left you wondering what the conversation was even about. But every so often — like that afternoon in the dining room — he found exactly the wrong words at exactly the right moment, and somehow they were the kindest thing anyone could have said. In memory of Rick, who never met an awkward silence he couldn't fill with something worse — and somehow, better. Casa Vega Style Margarita The booth drink. Made the way it deserves to be told — a little strong, a little salty, completely unhurried. INGREDIENTS 2 oz blanco tequila (100% agave) 1 oz fresh lime juice 3/4 oz orange liqueur (Cointreau or Triple Sec) 1/2 oz simple syrup, to taste Coarse kosher salt, for the rim Lime wedge, for rimming and garnish Ice DIRECTIONS Run a lime wedge around the rim of a rocks glass, then dip the rim into a shallow plate of coarse kosher salt. Set aside. Fill a cocktail shaker with ice. Add the tequila, lime juice, orange liqueur, and simple syrup. Shake hard for 15 to 20 seconds, until the shaker is ice-cold to the touch. Strain into the salt-rimmed glass over fresh ice. Garnish with a lime wedge. Best sipped slowly, across a long conversation that starts light and doesn't stay that way. LESLIE'S NOTES Casa Vega's version always tasted a touch more savory than sweet, which I've always suspected was the salt rim doing more of the work, and the bits of jalapeno than people realize. Don't skimp on it. I hope you understand this clear memory was from a time in my life, 12 years before learning the truth. I did not want to exclude from my book as it still holds a place in my heart. Rick was extremely funny and kind, yet could be a loner by nature. One thing that was abundantly obvious is people were drawn to him. He was a people watcher from the get go. Could peg a persons motives yet sometimes overlooked the elephant in the room. But he was mine. Sometimes good, sometimes for my detriment but always mine.

I typed my original story in my own words. The attachment is the cleaned up version with grammer and wording corrected as per my instruction to ai. Story content is entirely my own.

Tomato_Soup_Grilled_Cheese_Chapter.docx

About 1;year ago I started having dinner parties or evenings with friends and would invite different ones over to share. When I became a widow I hid in the recesses of my mind and only emerged for meetings. It was a lonely year. Then I signed up to pioneer I took to heart our talks concerning we must draw close as a congregation to survive the GT and enjoy beyond. A elder once said, look around you. These will be the faces of the ones that we need to depend on. The ones we must grow close to. The ones if you have a difficulty with you may find yourself in their basement. Then what will you do? Grow close NOW! Don't delay. So I went home and prayed, that night awake in prayer. Trying to realize memories will carry me through but I can't live there. They are meant to visit. To anchor and support but not to live in which I had been doing. Every waking hour was spent looking back, not forward. I've got to break this cycle. I can visit but not stay. So I thought of inviting other widows, singles, divorced and older couples into my home where we could share, learn about each other and what makes them tick. I decided to call these events my BASEMENT Reserve. I want to draw on these good times that I am giving a place for, with the intent that these times we are living and making are what will carry us through. When we see the smiles on the faces of our imprisoned family, or the struggles we all are baring, what is it they are thinking about that is farting them through? Our spiritual heritage definitely. But then I realized some day this will be someone's spiritual heritage too. So hence, my much loved family, how I came up with my title Basement Reserve. From our table to yours. From Jehovah's table to mine. What dishes are you serving that tie those memories to your heart? So if you are looking for a recipe that cuts straight to an ingredient list you won't find it here. You will be bitterly disappointed. But if you want to connect through insight, memories and dinner parties but yet planned, pull up a seat. This will take a while.

My father, JC Lynn, told a story to many people who would sit with us at our table and eat. Back when food was associated to family and sharing stories. He would tell anyone with an ear about my first day of kindergarten. He relays he brought me home at noon as kindergarten was a half day in the 1960s. He asked me what I learned that day. I told him I learned to make grilled cheese and tomato soup. He said he was skeptical but intrigued . Upon arriving home he took me to the kitchen and said show me what you learned. Without hesitation he would recall I told him to pick me up and put me on the counter top where I began to rummage through the cabinet till I found a can of Campbells tomato soup AND a can of diced tomatoes. I asked him to open them since I had not mastered the complexity of a hand held opener at age 4. (I started school at 4 in September and turned 5 in mid October. He said I told him to bring a dining room chair up to the stove and proceeded to crawl upon it. I dumped the soup and tomatoes into the pit then asked him to bring me some milk, cream preferably if we had it. Which we did. Cream from a bottle delivered weekly to our door. Cream made everything better. Just a well known fact. So I asked for a pinch of 'chicken powder ' since I could not say bullion. And black pepper. Must have. He said that I would stir then taste and smack my lips loudly while he watched in bewilderment. He began to wonder if perhaps I really did learn this culinary act that morning. He says with great pride that was the BEST tomato soup he had ever had to that day. I remember this clearly but wonder if it is an actual memory or just a story told so fondly from a father's memory. But whatever, it is now a firmly established memory of mine. I have since learned to roast tomatoes, a onion, a grated carrot in olive oil and puree for the base. Yes I now call the chicken powder bullion,band top the bowl of tomatoe bisque with homemade croutons and fresh shaved Parmesan but my father still clung to that first bowl of soup as being his favorite.

Just for you to understand my thought process in recording this cake it's all over the place. I have enlisted the help of so to keep me on track. I tell the circumstances surrounding the dish and the emotions connected to it. Which are many. My earliest memories are connected to food. It was not until about 30 years ago it hit hard and clear the connection and how it was woven into my life. I worked at Rader Institute in Tulsa Oklahoma back in 1984..William Rader was the founder. It was a globally recognized eating disorder unit at Doctors Hospital. Sally Jessie Raphael , a well known TV host filmed several patients stories from there. She was popular at the time of Donahue, Ravero, Springer, and other tabloid talk show hosts. A few of the patients stories resonated with me and I began to think how deeply food connects with our personal pain and enjoyment. I did not know the truth at that time and was still some 12 years away from finding it. So settle in, this will take a while.

Thank you! I will add this to my screen for easy multiple reviews. When I said I follow directions if I understand them does not mean they have to make sense to me. It does mean they need to be easy to follow, not over complicated, not have so many steps I can't remember what to do next. So my memory retention is somewhat faulty. Gso, gve me a string of numbers and I will definitely struggle trying to remember what order I heard them but I will be pretty accurate recalling all the numbers I heard. Transpose. Phone numbers? I got the right numbers just turned them around. So what good is that? If I'm partnered up with someone good at sequencing I'm good with remembering the right numbers. I'm a rule follower. Our marriage counselor told Rick and I that we were the perfect example of opposites attract. He used the example of a no trespassing sign. He said I would turn around without questioning but Rick on the other hand would read it, interest would spark and now nothing can stop him. He took it as a challenge not instruction. Does that make sense? Yes my default mode is to apply humor to everything. It may land me in the principals office but I laughed as the way there.

Kindred spirits

I can follow directions as long as I understand them..😂 all through grade school every report card contained check marks for 'follows instructions well.' Then penciled in at bottom it said talks in class too much. I can not remember ever the teacher saying limit your talking during class. Or if they did I was talking and didn't hear them. 🤪😝😱 I.just don't want to be the one with the perplexed look on their face asking 'What did he say?' so I hope the instructions are short, loud and clear.

As soon as I get my iPad this week I will start posting..the cell phone is too hard to toggle between screens and attach.