Cooking equipment as well as cookbooks have always been my downfall, and as I try to pare down, I’m pitching out.
In one box went the flan rings, croissant cutter, timbale molds, a brioche mold, a fancy pate mold, a Pullman bread pan and many tartlet tins better known in a Norwegian kitchen as sandbakkel tins. None of the preceding had ever been used.
Since it seems that we will indeed have spring and perhaps summer to follow, I’ve moved into my pre-gardening mode, which means sessions of water aerobics with frequent stops at Nichole’s Fine Pastry to refuel. Going there always lifts my spirits, whether it’s for a croissant and cafe au lait or one of their delicious lunches or for a truly fine pastry to take home.
The gatehouse of my memory sat across Broadway east of the Great Northern Railway depot, just north of the Empire Tavern. It was a 6-foot-square building on stilts with a 22-step stairway going up the side.
The season’s last lutefisk dinner at the Fargo Sons of Norway is April 6. I plan to be there. And when I partake of these meals, I never sample the meatballs that are served alongside, as I prefer to concentrate on the ambrosial flavor of the lutefisk.
If those of us who live here remembered what the weather was like the previous winter, we might consider living in a more southerly climate. Some do go south during our cold months, but I think the majority stay home.
And you get used to it. In years gone by, we even went to school when the weather was bad.
Between the two of them, they have almost 100 years of employment at the Fargo Public Library. Diane Briggs began at the old Carnegie Library in 1967 and Steve Hubbard started there as a part-timer in 1966.
A while ago I came across a story about Amazons from Greek mythology. It seems that in ancient times, Amazons were one-breasted women warriors. The right breast was removed to facilitate their prowess as archers.
According to historian Will Durant, civilization is the unnoticed history on the banks of the stream. In the past year, I have been overwhelmed by history. Not the history of civilization but rather my family’s history on the banks of the stream.
As a child, I remember picking chokecherries with Gram near our cottage on Pelican Lake. We’d fill several pails. Back in the kitchen, she’d wash the berries and pick them over and put them in a big pot to cook covered with water.
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