Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,
    I am thankful for you. I wish that I had known you longer. Then I could have known for certain that my quirky interest in quantum mechanics, superstring theory, and the existence of black holes came from you along with my tin ear for music and my once incredible memory (age is getting the better of me now). When I was younger I used to look in the mirror, desperately searching for some physical proof of your DNA manifested in the reflection there. Yet, these days when I think of you I find the predominant emotion is mostly a pervasive sense of peace. And for that I am doubly thankful.

   I am thankful for your legacy of honor. I am thankful that a country boy from a small town in southern Alabama with no political connections persevered against all odds to make his dream of attending West Point come true. I am thankful that you swept my mother off her feet 64 years ago and gave her a love that has never faded despite the fact that you have been gone these nearly 52 years.

   I am thankful for my sisters. You and Momma gave me the gifts of a lifetime when Cindy and Julie were born. Thankfully we have matured past our childish propensity to squabble into women who love one another dearly and always have each other's backs. I think you would be proud. When one of us is hurt, we all three hurt. When one of us rejoices, we all three rejoice. It wasn't easy for Momma to raise us after you passed away, but she made the sacrifices of love over and over again without complaint. She has always put our needs above her own, just as she always put your needs above her own. She taught us to honor your memory and she kept close the ties with your parents and sisters. We grew up loving the small town of Opp that you called home. Momma taught us what it meant to be a Scofield and to wear that name with pride.

   I am thankful for the gift of our extended Scofield family: grandparents who loved and adored me, aunts who influenced me and boy cousins who provided relief from a female dominated family structure. Some of my best memories are of riding in the back of Uncle Fred's truck with Russ and Jud bumping over the cow patties in the pasture and laughing with great glee when one or the other of us would fall (on purpose, of course!) off the tailgate to land in the field.

   I am far from the little girl frozen in time in our last family picture. I have been happily married nearly 40 years to a good man. We have four grown children, (three sons and a daughter), and two granddaughters, one grandson and another soon-to-be-born grandson. I even named one of my sons after you, Daddy. His name is David Scofield White. He is tall like you and favors the Scofield side of the family, but oddly enough, it is my youngest whom they say looks the most like you once did. I don't know if that's really true, but it makes me happy to think that it is.

   I am comforted now by the thought of being your child, but for the longest time, I just wanted you back. I just wanted a Daddy. I was the little girl who could never seem to grow past the emotional ties that once bound me to you. But thankfully as the years have gone by, Abba has brought deep healing to my heart. My savior Jesus has bathed me in a grace and mercy that have finally filled the longing that once consumed me. I am also greatly comforted knowing that your faith in Christ Jesus was as important to you as it is to me. I remember watching you read your Bible and how you loved going to the house of the Lord.

   Although I have run from God in seasons of my life, I am thankful that He has never run from me. I am thankful to be both Abba's child and to be your daughter, as well. I believe that we will see one another again in heaven and have the joy of worshipping at the throne of of our Lord side-by-side. I am not sure how all of that is going to work. I am not that little girl anymore, but I still believe that somehow you will know me. I sure hope so. I am looking forward to catching up...

   
Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I will never forget you. I will always be proud to be your daughter.
Love always,
Kathy
 

Hoecakes or Cornbread Patties, Either Way A Bite of Heaven

  If you know what this is...you win a prize. You are more than likely a tried and true Southerner or you have been here so long you can almost lay claim to the title. This, my friends who are not from the Deep South, is a hoe cake. Don't get the wrong idea, this is not another version of the word for a loose woman, this is a h-o-e cake, as in a hoe, an implement used to dig a row in a field. Also known as a cornbread pattie. Yet another synonym for these little cakes is the word delicious. I am smacking my lips just thinking of eating one hot out of my grandmother's iron skillet.

   Growing up in the summers at the Big House on Cinco Bayou, we would line up at the back door of the kitchen as soon as the word spread that my grandmother Lou Lou was frying up a batch of these beauties. I have watched her make them what seems like a hundred times, but mine have never ever tasted the same. For one thing, I am not eight years old and standing on the back stoop in my bathing suit, dripping wet, and waiting not so patiently for the taste of that fried cornbread smeared with a little butter. It's just so lip-smacking good. Crispy on the outside and moist and chewy like only soft cornbread can be on the inside.
   The Baby Sister is working on the recipe. I drove over one night the time before last when I was home to taste hers. They were good. But I wasn't eight years and dripping wet at the back door standing in a line of cousins waiting for my turn...you get my drift.
   I have a recipe I am happy to share with you novices who have never heard of a hoe cake or cornbread pattie, much less eaten one. However, no matter how hard you try, you will not likely be able to replicate a true hot fried cornbread experience. That, my friend, is reserved for but a few.
   But you can try.

Keep in mind that this is not an exact science.

1. You will need a cast iron skillet. If you don't have one, you better not try this recipe. There is something about the seasoning in the skillet, the depth of the skillet, and the uniformity of the heat that the cast iron produces that are essential for success.

2. You will need bacon grease. Yes m'am. Crisco alone will not do. Nor will any canola or vegetable oil, or heaven forbid, extra virgin olive oil. You might be able to mix some bacon grease with the aforementioned substitutes, but you must have some bona fide form of lard and Crisco alone does not suffice.

3. You will need cornmeal. Real cornmeal ground in a local grist mill is best, but most of you have no idea what I am talking about. Go ahead and buy your Aunt Jemima if you must, but if you can get your hands on some local yellow or white corn meal, do it. It will be ten times better, trust me.

3. White Lily self-rising flour. You will only need a couple of tablespoons, but it is an important ingredient. White Lily is only acceptable brand left other than Martha White for a tried and true Southerner. Neither of these girls will let you down.

4. Real butter. No fake and bake here. Unsalted or salted. Whatever, just make sure it is butter. That's B-U-T-T-er.

Now for some accompaniments.

Buttermilk. Pretty soon you won't be able to buy this in the grocery stores. I am already seeing a dearth of it up here in the upper South. My dear grandmother would roll over in the grave. She loved this stuff and so does my Momma. Momma used to drink a big glass every night just before bed. Truth be told, I don't care much for the stuff, but if you are gonna have a true Southerner experience, you need to have some buttermilk and cornbread. Real aficionados will dip their hot cornbread in their buttermilk or crumble it up in their glass.

Peas. You need a mess of field peas. Not crowders. Little tiny green and white field peas. Hoecakes or cornbread patties go best with peas and a little pot likker, washed down with a tall glass of cold buttermilk.

Now for the recipe:
Bacon Grease
Cornmeal about 2 cups
2 Tablespoons of self-rising flour
Hot water
Salt
(Some people put an egg in theirs, but I see no need. However, you can add an egg if you want.)

Melt your bacon grease in your cast iron skillet. You want a thin layer of bacon grease, just enough to come up about halfway on your cornbread patties, but not completely submerge them. The hoecakes are fried, but not deep fried.

Mix your 2 cups of cornmeal together with the two Tablespoons of self-rising flour. Add salt. Take your fork and stir it up thoroughly. Next heat up two cups of water in the microwave until just about boiling and pour it into your mixture in increments. You will want your hoecake mixture to be about the consistency of a thick paste. Next up are your hands. Yep, you are gonna have to get messy with this recipe. Using your hands, form little patties and immediately start sliding them into the hot grease. Work quickly. If your dough gets too stiff, add a little water. Do not let the patties touch. Your grease should not be so hot that it is smoking, but it should be hot enough to immediately begin frying the cakes. You will only turn the hoecakes ONCE. Wait to turn them until the sides begin to turn brown. Look at the picture above again to help you gauge this. Remove, drain on paper towels, butter them with softened butter and start handing them out to whomever is in the kitchen. Best if eaten immediately.

If your first batch is a little greasy, either remove some of the grease or turn your heat up.

Obviously making cornbread patties is a trial and error experience. That's the way most Southerners like it. It's not an exact science. But then again, most of what we do down here is not an exact science. You cook with your heart and your taste buds. And you eat in community. Hoecakes are the ultimate in community food because they are not much good when they are cold. So make sure there's a crowd in the kitchen or outside on the stoop when you start cooking these beauties.

           Here are some of the cousins at about the age when we were lining up at the back door, jockeying for whom would get the first cornbread pattie. In case you are at a loss to identify yours truly, I am the one on the far left. My other grandmother made my bathing suit, and I really loved that pom pom trim.
          And this is a picture of the Big House. It was the Big House because there is a tiny little house that sits behind it that you cannot see (not to be confused with the pump house on the far right). Calling it the Big House might be a misnomer to some, but it certainly looms larger than life itself in the canon of my memory.

The beloved Big House, Yacht Club Drive, Cinco Bayou

    If you get adventurous and decide to give the fried cornbread patties a try, let me know how they turn out.

These Sure Aren't Cheap Cheap

    Cheep. Cheep. Little One gently patted the little biddie that the salesperson held ever so carefully in his large hand. The baby chick rapidly blinked his eyes and peeped up a storm. Even though we both smelled the odor the moment we hit the door of the Tractor Supply store, I found myself intrigued. As a dreamer and investigator by nature, I am always drawn to the novelty of new and challenging experiences. Raising chickens in suburbia. It crossed my mind. I have watched with interest and a little trepidation as the fresh egg movement has taken our area by storm.
    Friends have succumbed. And then my Baby Sister and her husband got in on the act (admittedly they live on a farm). Then they sent my granddaughter a video of their adorable biddies. I felt myself swaying. But then I stopped that crazy mad rush of thoughts and rationally considered the idea. Chickens have to be fed every single day. You can't board chickens when you travel. And I don't really like eggs, a relatively important factor. Finally, I took another good whiff in the Tractor Supply store. Then I sashayed my fanny right past the warmers, feeding troughs, water bottles, and shelves stuffed with chicken feed. Sigh. I'll just keep buying The Husband brown eggs in the grocery store and pretending they are as good as the real thing.
    But for all you chicken loving folks out there and a few of us chicken dreaming folks, here are some lovely accommodations for those little peepers. Warning: Building one of these will not be cheap.Can I get a cheep? Anybiddie? (I just couldn't resist...)

Here is Velvet and Linen's coop at her former home:

Umm...how about this chicken castle? Definitely not a coop.

Source: Marsha on Pinterest

And this is the crooked little house....

Source: google.com viaJillian on Pinterest

This one is vaguely reminiscent of an outhouse

Source: hortenhill.blogspot.com viaHeather on Pinterest

And this one a chicken church. How about "The Church of the Good Egg?"

Source: theladybirdblog.com viaJeannie on Pinterest

I call this the Chicken Pavilion

Source: lifeatbuttercupfarm.com viaQueen Bee Coupons on Pinterest

Source: kkimington.tumblr.com viaBlanca on Pinterest

And this is Coop de French Chateau...for sale through none other than Neiman Marcus

Source: video.today.msnbc.msn.com viaMargy on Pinterest

And how about this take on gothic architecture, complete with lightning rods.
You wouldn't want those chickens to get fried...yet!

Source: Margy on Pinterest

And here is an eco friendly option. You could use the chicken manure to fertilize the roof top garden. The plants will help regulate the temperatures and keep the building warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer. You could grow herbs or small veggies and complete the cycle.

Source: thedesigngoose.blogspot.com viaErin on Pinterest

Then there is the option to upcycle that old dresser that you don't really use any more

Source: homesteadrevival.blogspot.com viaJeannie on Pinterest

The Thatched Coop. Wow. It makes an architectural statement.
Another benefit:  If you run out of chicken feed...
they can just eat you out of their own house and home...

Source: houzz.com viaJudy on Pinterest

What? The chicken that laid an egg...

Source: img.gentside.com viaPas betes on Pinterest

Bilbo Baggins might snag this gem

Source: hunsonisgroovy.com viaAris on Pinterest

And finally, have coop will travel...

Source: westphoria.sunset.com viaQueen Bee Coupons on Pinterest

Hog Heaven...Sorta

   My Baby Sister was in hog heaven when she received her birthday present from her husband. This year he really hit the bigtime. The gift was a HUGE success for something so small. But before you start making assumptions about the present she received, I feel compelled to give you a little background.
   Baby Sister grew up wanting to be a vet. Animals were always high on her list and numbered among her best friends. My dear Momma, who does not really like animals of any sort, was persuaded by this daughter of hers to allow all manner of creatures to inhabit our home while the Baby Sister was growing up. To this day I still do not understand how the Baby Sister could get our Momma to do things she would never do for anyone else. The Baby Sister was also famous for bringing home stray dogs and cats and then talking our neighbors into giving them homes. Even now this sister finds it hard to walk by a puppy in the Wal-Mart parking lot, but I digress. Back to the story. Baby Sister graduated from high school and traveled to Auburn University with the veterinary dream intact, but while there she switched over to education. In time she became one of the finest 5th grade teachers in the State of Florida and was selected for all kinds of honors. Baby Sister even went to Disney World as part of the Teacher of the Year recognition program. While she taught every subject, her hands-down favorite was science and as you might imagine, her approach to science was very hands-on and included lots of...you guessed it...investigation and observation of live creatures of all shapes and sizes.
   Fast forward. My sister is now retired from the classroom but lives out in the country with her husband. If you live in a city like I do, you don't really know what the country is, unless you have a sister who lives there. Baby Sister and her husband have about 40 acres. My sister knows how to drive a tractor with a bushhog, how to muck stalls and how to care for their animals, both large and small. The Baby Sister and her husband have cows and horses and a huge garden and dogs and a cat. And now, thanks to her husband, the Baby Sister is the proud owner of a...drumroll please...a miniature donkey. Yep, a miniature donkey.

   My sister was thrilled. Yep, thrilled. If my husband gave me a donkey, he would be sleeping outdoors with it. But not my sister. She has been asking for one of these for years. And yes, she has endured all kinds of snide and slightly inappropriate jokes about getting said donkey for her birthday. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting the donkey yet, but I am sure that I will. Apparently having a miniature donkey is like having another dog. These little creatures are loyal, friendly, great with children and the elderly and live 25-30 years. My sister will definitely be elderly if the donkey lives as long as he is supposed to. I will be elderly before she will so I will be able to tell her if the donkey does indeed get along well with old folks.
   The donkey's name is Petey and the great thing is that just like a dog, he comes when he is called. He lives in the pasture with the cows and the horses, but if I know my sister he will soon be allowed to come up right next to the house...if he leaves our great-grandmother's hydrangeas alone, that is. She says that he eats carrots out of her hand and loves to be petted. He sounds spoiled already.

Here is a picture to help you get the scale of the donkey in your head. This is not a picture of my sister.

And in case you are wondering, here are a few interesting facts about miniature donkeys:
To be a miniature donkey, the animal cannot be taller than 36 inches.
A male donkey is a "Jack".
A female donkey is a "Jennet."
Miniature donkeys originated in the Mediterranean area of Northern Africa in ancient times and most recently in Italy and Sardinia.
They live 25-30 years, are sweet and even-tempered, and most owners say that having a miniature donkey is like having another dog.

My sister agrees.


photos from teenytinyanimals.blogspot.com