Food

I was mistaken on the whereabouts of the Masolino painting: It's in the National Gallery in Washington, DC, and I did see it. It's in the set of art books I bought there in 1960. But I don't remember seeing the real painting.

Today I've done laundry, mostly, and a dab of necessary shopping. Last night I made soup for dinner, with chicken bouillon, lots of vegetables, a few bow-tie pastas, and lots of spices and Louisiana hot sauce. It was good, but somehow not as tasty as the potful I made last week. I make enough soup to last two days, usually on Friday evenings. The week after Christmas, I made cream of chicken soup: potatoes, carrots, broccoli tips and onion cooked in seasoned chicken broth until they came all to pieces and just made thick soup, then added a cup of skim milk. That was THE best soup I've ever made. When I make something good, I ought to sit down right then and write down the recipe, so I'll know how to do the same thing next time.

I could always cook pretty well (after I got married and observed my mother-in-law's cooking for a few years), but I didn't especially enjoy the act of cooking. Since retiring and living by myself, it has been a relief not to have to cook. But lately I want to cook something almost every day. Last week I made a medium-sized apple pie and, with extraordinary restraint, ate the whole thing in two days. That's why I haven't made the orange layer cake I've been intending to make ever since before Christmas; I'm afraid I'll eat it all, and gain another ten pounds.

Daddy used to like what he called orange cake. I don't remember if it was actually orange cake, or just white cake with orange filling and glaze. Man, I wish I could see him now. I would make him eggs over-easy, fried potatoes with tomatoes on top, at least half a pound of bacon fried crisp, fried bananas, fresh coffee, about a quart of orange juice, and I can't remember if it was biscuits or toast--this is a breakfast I cooked for him one time in Huntsville, when he stopped by on his way to Kentucky to pick up Mama from Pat's house. I kept cooking and setting food on the table while we talked ninety-to-nothing, the longest conversation he and I ever had, and he ate every bite and drank every drop.