Scott Hutcheson

Another Biscuit Please, Dr. Pavlov (and recipe for Charleston-style Cream Cheese Biscuits)

Originally published in quality newspapers the week of March 14, 2011

You’ve heard, I’m sure of the Golden Age of Hollywood, the 1930s and 40s, in which movies really came into their own. I wasn’t around during that time but I was for another era of pop-culture significance, the Golden Age of Saturday-Morning Cartoons. In 1966, the year I turned two, all three of the major networks began a four-hour block of children’s program each Saturday morning.

This was before the days of 100s of cable channels, which now includes entire networks devoted to children’s programming. Many a Monday-morning conversation around elementary-school water fountains were about the antics of Bugs Bunny, the Road Runner, and the other characters that inhabited that colorful world.

During the 1980s other programming began to slip into Saturday mornings and soon the era came completely to an end. For those of us of a certain age, however, Saturday mornings will forever be associated with cartoons.

For me, the Saturday mornings of my formative years have another association – biscuits. My stepfather, a Baptist minister, made biscuits by the dozens to take to the weekly Men’s Prayer Breakfast. I have a photo or two of me, sleepy-eyed and footie pajama-ed, sitting atop the kitchen counter helping him cut out the doughy disks. He would leave a few for the family, and my mother would bake them and serve them with gravy or sometimes apples fried in a cast-iron skillet.

Somehow, in someway, it seems my mind got hardwired, like Pavlov’s dog, so that cartoons remind me of biscuits, and biscuits of cartoons. With the first whiff of a hot-buttered biscuits, I think of Scooby, Shaggy, and the gang, in the Mystery Machine, careening down a winding road to go solve a caper. It works the other way too. If I walk through the room while my children are watching Hong Kong Fuey on the retro channel, my first impulse is to head to the kitchen to preheat the oven.

As a result of my obsession with biscuits I’ve catalogued a great many variations, found all across the U.S – flaky and cakey, lard and butter, thin and thick, buttermilk and regular milk? I’m an equal opportunity biscuit lover, rarely encountered a freshly baked biscuit I don’t like. I won’t even turn my nose up and some canned biscuits. Don’t, however, try to fool me with some sort of pre-baked, then frozen version. 

Last week life took me to Charleston, South Carolina, where I discovered yet another variation, the cream cheese biscuit. The other ingredients and overall technique is not unlike most other biscuits except that cream cheese is substituted for some of the butter. The result is a light and cakey biscuit with a double-doze of tang coming from the buttermilk and cream cheese.

The little King Street café in which I ate these delicious biscuits, had a TV turned to CNN. I asked my waitress if they got the Cartoon Network and if she would mind changing the channel. They did and she obliged.  

 Charleston Cream Cheese Biscuits

• 1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1-1/2 cups cake flour
• 1-1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• ¾ tablespoon baking soda
• 4 ounces cream cheese, chilled and pinched into small pieces
• 4 tablespoons unsalted butter cut into small pieces
• 1 cup cold buttermilk

Preheat oven to 450 degrees and line a baking pan with parchment paper. In a large bowl mix together the dry ingredients. Add the cream cheese and butter and use your fingertips to work it into the flour until it takes on a sandy look. Add the buttermilk and use a spatula to fold it into a dough. Turn dough out into a floured work surface and roll out to ¾ inch thick. Use a biscuit cutter to cut out biscuits, trying to use as much of the dough as possible. You can re-roll the scraps but the second batch will likely not rise as much as the first. Place the biscuits on the baking sheet and back for 12-14 minutes or until golden brown.

Dumplings & Grandmothers: Soft & Warm

Originally published in quality newspapers the week of January 10, 2011

Everything about my Grandmother Smith was soft and warm, from her manner to her middle and from her feather bed to the way she sort of whisper-whistled hymns while doing her daily chores. To say that she was soft, however, is just part of who she was, because she was also strong. She was the kind of strong you had to be to be when you were a widowed mother during the Great Depression and the kind of strong you needed to be to send your sons off to war.

When my sister and I visited her Arkansas home a couple times each year, we would fight over which one of us got to sleep with her at night. One would bunk with her in her double bed while the other got the single feather bed that was on the other end of her bedroom. Either was a pretty good deal but sleeping with “Ma Ma” was the grand prize. I can vividly remember nestling up against her warm back and throwing my little arm around her soft waist.

My grandmother lived well into her 90’s but she died about the time I was becoming interested in cooking. She was a wonderful cook and I would loved to have spent time with her in her kitchen, learning to make some of my favorites, her chicken and dumplings in particular. Like many women from that era, she was not one to work off recipes.

On my trip home to see my own mother last month, she recalled that she had sat with her mom in the kitchen one day while she was making her chicken and dumplings and taken notes. Mom had recently run across those notes and made a copy for me. It was the best Christmas present I could imagine.

I spent some time last week recreating the recipe and ended up with something really close to what I remember from my childhood. I’m sure this recipe won’t mean as much to you as it does to me, but if you don’t already have a favorite chicken and dumplings recipe, I hope you’ll give this one a try and tell your family it came from a grandma in Arkansas who was soft and warm as those dumplings in their bowl.  

Ma Ma’s Chicken and Dumplings

• 2 quarts chicken broth
• 2 chicken breasts
• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon shortening
• 1-1/3 cups buttermilk
• 2 tablespoons butter
• Salt and cracked black pepper to taste

Pour the chicken broth into a stock put and bring to a boil. Once boiling, add the chicken breasts and when the broth returns to a boil, reduce the heat to medium, cover, and simmer the chicken for 18-20 minutes. To be sure it is cooked completely you can remove one of the breasts and insert and probe thermometer. Chicken should be cooked to 165 degrees. Remove breasts from the broth and set aside to cool enough to handle. Leave the broth simmering.

For the dumplings, combine the flour, baking soda, and salt in a mixing bowl. Use your fingers to work in the shortening, pinching it and incorporating it through the flour mixture. Mix in one cup of the hot broth and one cup of buttermilk. Dough should be about the same consistency as biscuit dough. Place the dough on a floured surface and work in enough flour so that you can use a rolling pin to roll the dough out to just a little thicker than piecrust.

Bring the stock both up to a boil. Use a knife to bite-size cut pieces of the dough dropping them into the boiling broth. As the dumplings are cooking, remove the meat skin from the chicken breasts and tear the meat into bite-size pieces.

The dumplings will only need to cook for 2-3 minutes. You can tell they are done when they begin to float and puff out just a bit. Stir in the butter and remaining 1/3 cup buttermilk to thicken the broth. Add the chicken pieces and serve immediately. This will make about four adult-sized portions.

George-Bailey Moments

Originally published in quality newspapers the week of November 29, 2010

Our family’s list of favorite Christmas movies seems to keep growing and last Thursday, after all the turkey, dressing, and pumpkin pie was settled in our stomachs, we officially kicked off the holiday movie season.

Over the course of the next few weeks we’ll watch classics like Miracle on 34th Street and White Christmas as well as some of the newer offerings like Elf and Jim Carrey’s version of the How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

After the kids are in bed my wife and I will enjoy some our other favorites like the hilarious Christmas Vacation and the touching Love Actually.

On the very top of our list of holiday movies is It’s a Wonderful Life. In 1946, when the film was released, it came and went without much fanfare. Due to a lapse of its copyright in the 1980s, TV stations all over the U.S. began showing it over and over each holiday season. As a result it found a huge audience and it is now as much a part of the modern American Christmas as is Black Friday.

One of the reasons, I think, the movie resonates with so many people is that the character Jimmy Stewart plays, George Bailey, is a sort of Everyman, with whom most of us can identify. We all experience those George-Bailey moments from time to time. Hopefully not the jumping-off-the-bridge moments but the end-of-the-movie moments, when surrounded by his friends and family, George realizes just how wonderful his life really is.

These George Bailey moments sneak up on you. They just show up like a surprise guest, you can’t orchestrate them or purposefully repeat them. One of my distinct George Bailey moments came during a battle with insomnia when I moved to the living room to read a book.

A cold thick blanket of snow was covering our town muffling any sounds from the outside world and when our furnace kicked off, there was absolute silence in our small house.

As I read, my ears picked up the slow, steady sound of breathing coming from the direction of the bedrooms. Upon listening more closely, I realized I was hearing not a single breath but a beautiful three-part harmony – my wife, and two boys, all sleeping peacefully, warm and safe in our home.

That was a George Bailey moment to be sure. I don't know what chemicals got released in my brain, but I was overwhelmed with indescribable sensations, greater than contentment and seemingly even more than love. Not that there had ever been any doubts before or since, but I knew in that moment that I was truly living a wonderful life.

I asked some friends recently about their own George Bailey moments and they knew exactly what I was talking about. One friend recalled Midnight Mass, a wonderfully elaborate service with incense and candles and two choirs. Each churchgoer was handed a simple present -- a green apple for luck -- when walking outside into the decorated downtown with the sounds of church bells ringing and happy chatter of those around him.

Another friend told me about her family’s Christmas Eve tradition of changing into the new jammies the Christmas “elves” leave for them and then snuggling in to watch a Christmas movie.

It seems that these George Bailey moments have the potential to show up more frequently during the holidays but you sort of have to be in tune or you might miss them. So during these next few weeks of hustle and bustle, try to slow down and look for those special moments.

No recipe this week because I thought you might need a break from the Thanksgiving feast. I’ll be back next week with more stories of food, family, and community, and a new recipe for the holidays. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy your wonderful life!

Bat Burgers

Originally published in quality newspapers on the week of October 25, 2010

“There’s something flying around in here,” whispered my wife as she nudged me out of my slumber. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see it, thanks to the light from the streetlamp that was spilling through our bedroom curtains. “A really big moth” was my first thought but that initial speculation quickly gave way to the reality. It was a bat.

The next few minutes included me screaming like a little girl, running out the room slamming the bedroom door behind me leaving both my wife trapped with the bat. I returned quickly with a broom and eventually managed to make contact with one of my swipes, knocking the bat to the ground atop a pair of my wife’s jeans that were on the floor. I scooped up the jeans, bat and all, and tossed them, out the front door.

That was our family’s first encounter with a bat but it was not our last. Living in a 102 year-old home, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that a critter finds it way inside now and then. We occasionally have to set a mousetrap and we seem to get a bat every couple of years.

My sons find the bat episodes both freaky and a little bit cool at the same time. The last few years for Halloween I’ve cooked up a scary dinner and this year I told them we’re having Bat Burgers in honor of our occasional nocturnal visitors.

Portabella mushrooms make a terrific bat patty and I’ve come up with a pattern, which can be found on my website, to help carve out the shape of a bat. I’m adding some roasted garlic mayo to be sure they don’t turn into vampires on Halloween night.

 Bat Burgers

• 4 large portabella mushrooms caps
• 1/4 cup soy sauce
• 2 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
• 1/4 cup water
• 1 tablespoon chopped garlic (about two large cloves)
• 1 tablespoon sugar
• Cracked black pepper to taste

 Garlic Mayonnaise

• 1 head of garlic
• Extra virgin olive oil
• Kosher salt
• Cracked black pepper
• ½ cup of jarred mayonnaise

To prepare the mayonnaise, preheat oven to 375 degrees. Use a knife to cut the top of the head of garlic exposing some of the cloves. Place the head cut side up on a sheet of aluminum foil. Drizzle with olive oil then top with a pinch of kosher salt and a few turns of the pepper grinder. Gather up the foil around the garlic closing it up. Place in the oven and roast for 35-40 minutes. Remove from oven, open foil and let cool enough to touch. Squeeze the garlic out of each clove and place in a small mixing bowl. Use the back of the spoon to smash the garlic into a smooth paste. Mix in the mayo. This can be prepared ahead and can keep covered in the refrigerator for 2-3 days. 

For the burgers, wipe off each of the mushroom caps with a clean dry cloth and remove the stems. Use a small knife to cut out the shape of a bat (click on the template to the left to enlarge it). In a small bowl mix together all the ingredients for the marinade. Place the mushrooms top down in a shallow dish and drizzle on the marinade. Let stand at room temperature for one hour. Preheat oven to 375 and place the mushrooms top up on a baking sheet and cook for 20-30 minutes or until browned and softened.

I like to serve these on a good-quality bun topped with provolone cheese and roasted red peppers, which you can find jarred in the pickle isle of your grocery. To get the most out of the presentation, I like to put the buns in the broiler cut side up with the peppers and cheese on the top side so the buns can warm and the cheese can melt. Spread the roasted garlic mayo on the bottom bun then place a “bat” on the bottom bun.

Biscuits & Chocolate Gravy

Originally published in quality newspapers the week of October 4, 2010

I would like to have met her. I’m pretty sure it was a “her” because that’s the way it was back in those days and especially in those parts. The idea probably came to her when she was racking her brain to do something special for her brood of children. Her husband may or may not have been in the picture. Lots of men were taken away from their families – war, seeking work, death to soon. 

Maybe it was early one Christmas morning when she came up with her creation from what she had on hand – a little milk and butter from their one cow, some lard, some sugar and a giant sack of flour. 

Biscuits, of course, were a mainstay. They had them at nearly every meal but this was a special meal. Remember, in my version of this story it was early Christmas morning. The presents waiting for her sleeping children likely represented a meager bounty compared to the Christmases most of us experience. A special day called for a special breakfast. 

Inspiration struck when she spotted a small container of cocoa she had procured from the general store. “Why not Chocolate gravy for those biscuits?” She wondered aloud.  As the biscuits baked, she melted a little butter in her cast iron skillet and added flour, just like she would for cream gravy, then some sugar and the cocoa. The minute the chocolaty goodness hit the hot pan, you could smell it, probably all over the house. Maybe its what woke up the children on this special morning. It would be a Christmas to remember.

This is, of course, all speculation because nobody knows who was the first to make chocolate gravy. Research tells us that it originated in the Ozark and Appalachian Mountains. This is where my people are from, the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas specifically, and many of the attributes of my fictional women are really details of my own maternal grandmother, who made chocolate gravy for her children. 

I grew up in a very different world than my parents did, and the world of my children is even more of a departure from those lean times of yesteryear. Our pantry and refrigerator are well stocked and a carry-out pizza is always within our means. 

Some of our favorite meals, however, are recipes that have not changed much from the olden days – beans and cornbread, vegetable soup, roast chicken, and biscuits with chocolate gravy. Sure this is all good food, but it also usually comes with a good story, our story. We talk with our kids often about the generations that came before them, the sturdy stock from which they came. 

Aside from a few heirlooms and trinkets, the most valuable things most of us have from the past are our stories and mealtime is a great time to make them come to life. Whether your family has been in this country for generations or immigrated more recently from somewhere else in the world, you can use food to help keep those stories alive.

I hope you’ll try this recipe for chocolate gravy. Consider it part of the story from my past and I would love for you to share with me a story (and recipe from yours). Drop me an email if you are so inclined. As for this recipe, make the biscuits the way you normally would or you can even cheat and but the ready-to-bake kind. The gravy will be just as delicious.        

Chocolate Gravy

• 2 cups whole milk
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2/3 cup sugar
• 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 1/3 cup good-quality cocoa

Warm milk in the microwave until it’s steaming, about two minutes on high. Heat butter in a skillet over low heat. Add sugar, flour and cocoa. Slowly pour 1/2 cup of milk into the skillet and whisk well. Add another 1/2 cup and continue whisking, removing any lumps. Whisk in remaining milk, stirring constantly, until mixture is thick. This can take 5 minutes or more. Makes enough to serve over about a dozen biscuits. Any leftover gravy can be stored in the refrigerator and eaten like pudding!

As American as... (and recipe for Curried Chicken Salad)

Originally published in quality newspapers on July 1, 2010

Every once in awhile I have a conversation with one of my children that stops me in my tracks and I had one of those with my oldest son the other day. We were talking about some of his friends from school and one of the names caught my attention.  I repeated the name back and asked, “Is he…” then named the nationality from which I thought that name might come. My son paused, looked at me quizzically, and said, “No, he’s American. He lives here.”

At that moment, I realized that my children see the world much differently than I do. When I encounter someone with a different color of skin than me or with a particular accent, my first thought is to associate them as Mexican, Chinese, Greek, or whatever. My son, however, sees them first as American, simply because they are here. They are here, just like me, and they likely have the same American dream as me. We’re all here together and occasions like the 4th of July are good times to be reminded of that.

This diversity is part of what defines us. We all came to this country originally as the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. I recently had a chance to poll some of my friends about where their families came from originally and for how many generations had they been here. Nearly every corner of the globe was represented in the responses and some had been here for just a generation and others for centuries. One of my friends noted that unless we are Native American we’re all originally “boat people.”

We’re essentially a nation of imports and even some of what we consider as quintessentially American was imported from somewhere else. Would there even be baseball had there not first been cricket? It’s hard to imagine our American cuisine without its many influences. Most of our favorites have roots from elsewhere. In this season of cookouts and backyard BBQs, we have Germany to thank for our hot dogs and England for our apple pie. This summer I’m trying to broaden my repertoire of “American” picnic fare by enjoying Asian noodle dishes and sandwiches made on Cuban bread. Another terrific picnic menu item is this Curried Chicken Salad, bursting with the warm spices of India.

I don’t know if we’ll ever update our idioms to make room for our diverse American reality – “As American as motherhood and Pad Thai?” but I’m grateful my children are growing up in a country where no matter what color of skin you have or how your last name is pronounced, you are American because you are here.

Curried Chicken Salad

• 1 -1/2 lb grilled chicken breasts, skin removed and meat chopped
• 1 medium red onion, chopped (1 cup)
• 1 firm-ripe mango (3/4 pound), peeled, pitted, and chopped
• 1/2 cup salted roasted cashews, coarsely
• 1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
• 1/2 cup mayonnaise
• 1/3 cup plain yogurt
• 5 teaspoons curry powder
• 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
• 1 teaspoon honey
• Salt and pepper to taste

Place the chicken, onion, mango, cashews, and cilantro in a large mixing bowl. In a medium bowl add the remaining ingredients and whisk to combine. Add the dressing mixture to the large bowl and stir to combine. Serve on good bread or in pitas.

Have a Warm and Fuzzy Thanksgiving

Originally published in quality newspapers on November 19, 2009

When I picked up my 3rd-grade son from school earlier this week I asked the question I’ve asked nearly every afternoon since he could talk in complete sentences, “How was your day?” Although he CAN speak in complete sentences, that doesn’t mean that he always DOES so. Most of the time, his answer to this question is a monosyllabic, “fine.” On this day he was unusually chatty providing me rich details of his day at school. He was also peppering me with seemingly random questions. “Daddy, how many friends do you think you had in middle school?” “Do you think adults use less than ten percent of their imagination?”

After that random Q and A our conversation turned to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. His nonstop banter paused for just a second and then he said, “Why do I feel all warm inside when I think about Thanksgiving.” I probed a little about the “warm feeling” he described and he told me that he also feels it when it’s cold and snowy outside and we’re all inside our house, all four of us, watching a movie or playing a game.

Now I don’t know the science behind that warm and fuzzy feeling; but I know exactly what my son was describing to me and it sure seems like we get those waves of emotions, or surges of chemicals to the brain, or whatever they are, more in the holiday season than any other time of year. Thanksgiving is primetime for the warm fuzzies. Many of us get to enjoy four-whole days away from work and school. Some will host extended family and others travel near or far to be with those they love the most.

Thanksgiving is primarily a holiday celebrated on the home front. We Americans love our restaurants but the significant majority of us eat our Thanksgiving meal at home. According to the National Restaurant Association, only one in ten Americans eat their Thanksgiving meal at a restaurant.

All of the warm-fuzzy experiences my son described to me were home-based. There was no mention of trips to Disney World or Chuck E. Cheese; and spending time with his friends wasn’t on the list either. The warm fuzzies seem to be quarantined within the walls of our home or the home of a couple members of our extended family.

There’s further evidence that the warm fuzzies are not location-based but rather people-based. My parents’ current residence is a house in which I have never lived. My childhood home, in fact, was torn down years ago to make room for a strip mall. When we spend the holidays with my parents, I wake up in a strange bed in a strange house but get an immediate case of the warm fuzzies when I realize where I am – with my wife and children and my parents.

Next week we’ll be traveling to Dayton, Ohio to spend Thanksgiving with my wife’s sister and her family. They built a house this year so this will be the first Thanksgiving in their new home. I can almost guarantee that they brought the warm fuzzies with them from the old place.  

I realize that not everyone gets to experience the love of hearth and home around the holidays. Strained family relationships can be heightened during the holidays. Nothing throws cold water on the warm fuzzies like Uncle Sal getting drunk and punching Uncle Mike. For some, the forecast calls for the cold pricklies.

I’m glad my son feels loved and secure and that family time brings about the warm fuzzies. I hope that will always be the case. If the warm fuzziess have become more difficult for you to find, try looking extra hard for them this Thanksgiving. They’re probably there somewhere, maybe playing cards with the dust bunnies under the bed.

Pleasures of the Bendy Straw

I'm going to miss having a four year old in my house. My youngest will be five soon and with each passing day he will become harder to delight. I know this because I watched it happen with his older brother. The other day my little one had a cold drink in hand and asked for a straw. He was overjoyed to see that it was one of those that was flexible. "Oooh, a bendy straw," he said with widened eyes, as much to himself as to me. It won't be long before he will be much more difficult to please.   

Mending Both Bone & Spirit

Published in belly-filling newspapers on September 17, 2009

If the 12th visit was free, our punch card would be filled up by now. In just eight years as parents we've been to the ER much more than our share. Other families with boys tell us its par for the course in a testosterone-filled household.

I had my own share of injuries as a kid. There was the rusty nail through my foot from a less than adept kung fu move and a three-inch rip in meatiest part of my thigh courtesy of a rusty piece of sheet metal. You would think I grew up in a scrap yard with the sharp and rusty objects I encountered, but that wasn’t the case. I must have had a built-in metal detector that was stuck on the rust setting.

Since my sister will likely read this I have to also mention the time she “accidently” cut me with scissors and when she slammed my finger in the car door. Thanks, sis. It’s a wonder I reached my tenth birthday with all my digits still firmly attached to my body.

As an adolescent, my injuries came less from running around outside and more from sports – sprained ankles, bruised ribs, and jammed fingers. The black eye was the best badge of courage, not serious enough to put you on the disabled list but visible enough to solicit lots of compassion from the fairer sex. There’s nothing like a black eye to bring out a cheerleader’s inner Florence Nightingale. 

My children, my oldest in particular, loves to swap war stories. He takes in every detail of my tales of maimings and wants to see the scars. He then tells his own stories, exaggerating a bit more each time about the details, like the size of the rock his buddy Robbie pitched at his head when he was three.

As much daredevil as my oldest has in him, it is the youngest that is likely causing my insurance company to rewrite their actuary formulas. This week marked his third broken arm, all occurring within the last 14 months. This was the worst of the three, with the above-the-elbow break requiring a full-arm cast.

Seeing your own child hurt or sick is without a doubt one of life's must burdensome difficulties. My heart aches for families dealing with problems much more serious than broken arms. The most agonizing part of having a child in pain is the feeling of helplessness. Yesterday afternoon our little guy, although not in agony, was certainly uncomfortable. Aside from a dose of children’s pain reliever, there didn’t seem like there was much we could do for him.

As I thought ahead to dinner time, I decided that there was no better time for comfort food and when there was a broken arm in the house and that perhaps a version of macaroni and cheese with an extra boost of calcium might be good for both his bones and his spirit. I headed into the kitchen to whip up a version that included sharp cheddar, cream cheese, sour cream, and butter. It seemed to do the trick, filling his belly and setting him on the road to recovery. Good thing he’s not lactose intolerant.

Bone-Mending Macaroni and Cheese

• 1 lb elbow macaroni
• 4 tablespoons butter
• 4 tablespoon all-purpose flour
• 3 cups milk, heated in microwave
• 8 ounces cream cheese
• 8 ounces sour cream 
• 16 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
• Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
• Salt and freshly-cracked black pepper to taste
• ½ cup panko breadcrumbs

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cook macaroni according to directions, drain, and return to pot. While the macaroni is cooking, place a large sauce pan over a medium burner, add the butter and melt. Add the flour and stir with a whisk or wooden spoon until golden but not brown. Add the heated milk a little at a time, stirring constantly. After all the milk is added continue stirring until the mixture begins to thicken. Add the cream cheese in chunks so that it melts then add the sour cream and cheddar cheese. Add the nutmeg and salt and pepper to taste. Pour the cheese mixture into the macaroni and stir to combine. Spray a 9”x13" glass casserole dish with cooking spray and pour in the macaroni and cheese. Top with breadcrumbs and bake for 30-45 minutes, the lesser time for a creamier dish. This makes about ten servings.

Peachy, Frog, & Burl: The Ghosts of Uncles Past

Published in warm and satisfying newspapers on August 20, 2009

Comedian Steve Martin used to do this bit about how hilarious it would be to teach kids the wrong words for things so that they show up on the first day of kindergarten and asked to use the restroom they would say something ridiculous like, “may I mambo dogface to the banana patch.”

Although most of us didn’t face anything that extreme growing up, some of us have had the experience of an abrupt discovery that something that seemed so normal in our family was completely absurd to the rest of the world - “Huh, I just figured everyone’s dad ate dinner while wearing only underwear.” One of those moments for me came when I was talking with a grade-school buddy about a visit to see my uncles – Peachy, Frog, and Burl. He was astounded by the names of my mother’s brothers and informed me that he had uncles named Bob and Jim.

I can clearly remember the light-bulb-over-the-head moment when I realized that I had never, ever, met any other people named Peachy or Frog and that the only other Burl I had encountered was the actor who narrated Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

My trio of uncles was as eccentric as their names implied. Burl, the oldest, had lost his teeth early in life and wore his dentures only to the weddings of his daughters. Without the extra two or so inches his false teeth added to the length of his face, his head took on a shriveled apple-like appearance. Teeth or no teeth, he was a sweet and loving man who stepped in as a long-distance male role model after my dad died when I was only one. He came all the way from Houston to take me to get my first haircut because, in his view, that was a rite of passage in which mothers should not participate.

Frog’s real name was Homer but he was Frog to nearly everyone but his mother. His love for amphibians exhibited itself early in life and the nickname seemed perfectly logical. When he died I’m sure someone had to inventory his frog knickknacks – stuffed, plastic, carved, porcelain, and I’m sure they numbered in the hundreds. Frog was a consummate teller of jokes and stories and I could always be assured of a laugh-induced bellyache after an afternoon visit with Uncle Frog.

Peachy’s real name was Charles but I don’t think I even knew that until I saw it on his gravestone. Like his brother Frog, Peachy’s nickname was the result of a childhood love, his, of course, for peaches. What I remember most about Uncle Peachy is his capacity for unconditional love. His only son, John Charles, had cerebral palsy. He was several years older than me and, to be perfectly honest, spending time with John Charles made me uncomfortable. He was wheelchair bound, drooled, flailed his arms about uncontrollably, and made sounds I found distressing. But I recall Uncle Peachy loving his boy with as much affection and pride as any father could have for any son.

All three of my uncles are long gone, but pieces of them still remain with me. I think of Uncle Burl nearly every time I walk into a barber shop and especially when I see a young boy getting his first haircut. I’m grateful Homer and Charles had such colorful nicknames. When either frogs or peaches come up in conversation, their faces pop into my mind, usually for just a second or two. These memories are like unexpected little gifts.

I had one of those moments this week with Uncle Peachy when I visited a fruit stand. They had just received a shipment of tree-ripened South Carolina peaches and suddenly, my uncle was right there in my head, watching football on TV with John Charles, both cheering on their favorite team. I brought home some of the fruit. How could I resist? So, this week I’ll be making things with peaches – maybe some freezer jam, maybe a cobbler, and I’ll be spending some more time remembering my uncle.

If you care to follow my peach adventures or if you’d like to share some of your own stories about how memories get conjured up in the oddest of ways, please visit my website.