Cherry Pie recipe

Cherry Pie
This is a delicious recipe adapted from Joy of Cooking. It assumes some basic knowledge of pie making, so if you don’t have that, maybe best to also consult a real cookbook. I have a small scales and find it faster and more accurate to cook with weights, not volumes. It was a sad day when the USA switched to volume for recipes.

Pie Crust:
115g butter (one stick)
50g lard (or more butter)
225g flour
5g salt
50 – 60 ml cold water

Mix these ingredients except water to a coarse level. There should still be chunks of butter about the size of peas. I do it in a Cuisinart. The butter and lard must be cold. You can change the proportions of the two however you like.
Slowly add 50 to 60ml water, just enough for the dough to hold together.
Gather into a ball and put in refrigerator at least half an hour before rolling out.
Divide dough into two and roll out to fit top and bottom of pie pan. I do it on a floured cloth.

1kg sour, tart cherries. I used ones picked from a neighbor’s tree and pitted tediously by hand
150g sugar (pie will be tart with this amount; add more if you like it sweeter)
25g tapioca (instant) or cornstarch or flour for thickening
Mix all and let rest for 15 to 20 minutes

Put bottom crust in pan. Add fruit mixture. Put top crust on and crimp the sides and cut a few slashes in the top crust for steam to escape.
Bake at 425 F (220 C) for 25 minutes with pie low in oven to set bottom crust.
Finish baking at 350 F (175 C) for another 30 minutes or so.
Let rest before eating!

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Finnish foods remind me of my father’s cooking

What are your earliest food memories? A pancake doused in maple syrup? The taste of your mother’s milk? The wonder of cotton candy? Mine I realize, are the foods of my father. Pancakes made on a large aluminum griddle that was warped even back then. Scrambled eggs that had to be stirred for what seemed to be forever. These are the foods of Sunday breakfast, when the kids could help cook.DSC05290

I suppose it is unfair to remember the foods of my father when my mother was by far the more accomplished cook, making nearly all our meals out of whatever was available on a very modest single salary brought in by my dad, maybe $8,000 per year. When we lived in Mexico and got vegetables from a share arrangement, beet soups showed up almost every day. She knew how to cook fancy meals for company, veal, strudels and the like. From her I got a broad love of cuisines and cooking.

My father at 90 with Danny, one of his grandsons

My father at 90 with Danny, one of his grandsons

From my father I now realize I got a nearly undiluted north German palate causing me to love potatoes and cabbage, parsley and dill, pfefferlinge mushrooms (chanterelles) and currants, blueberries, blackberries, gooseberries, and raspberries, strong cheeses, rye bread, sausages and smoked meats and fish, and beer. He added to this list in his long life, but now he is 90, and his tastes have reverted to these pure, simple delicious flavors of the north. And I love them too.

What exactly they were crystallized for me on a recent trip to Finland. The flavors came together centered on rye bread and potatoes with cheeses, smoked fish and sausages bringing in the protein, cabbage the body, with accent notes from parsley and dill. Mushrooms and berries of many kinds, foraged for, almost seem to be the point of living.


Hotel room meal from a Finnish grocery store.

These pure northern flavors do not much overlap with the much-touted Mediterranean diet of the more violent flavors of oregano, rosemary, and thyme, or the strong vegetables like tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers. I know these days we can have it all, prancing around the globe between lunch and dinner. But those northern flavors that I experienced so young have a special place for me.

Of course Finland is not Berlin, but its more northern location may weed out the

With former postdoc, Perttü Seppä before sauna

With former postdoc, Perttü Seppä before sauna

peripheral flavors. Finland is special for many reasons, isolated linguistically and genetically in Europe. It is so recently escaped from glaciers it is still bouncing back from the weight of the ice in a process called post-glacial rebound. This means that at places in the south, like the field station Tvärminne, rocks emerge to trap the boat where there was previously space to go over, every summer. Even the few annual millimeters of rebound make a difference. It is also the place of world class researchers, Johanna Mappes, Lotte Sundström, Hanna Kokko, and the late Ilka Hanski, to name just a few.

I’m not Finnish, but Finland reminds me of my roots more purely even than Berlin might today.

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Tai-ke, fabulous place for Chinese food in St. Louis!

What is it about Sichuan pepper numbing sauce that has me remember the meal for days? I never really understood 3 cups chicken before. Pork belly buns with cilantro? Yes please! Tai Ke is really good. It is Taiwanese street food, apparently, but didn’t really remind me of what I ate in the night markets in Taipei, but we were focused on trying stinky tofu. It has truly spicy dishes, and that wonderful Mala sauce. We will certainly be going back. It is a block off Olive, just South on McKnight. Yea!

By the way, this is a simple place without a liquor license. Just get the Mala sauce and you won’t miss your beer too much.

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Where to eat in Houston in 2016

St. Louis friends are visiting Houston and asked for restaurant recommendations. Sadly, I would be nearly 5 years out of date. Are La Guadalupana, Hobbit Cafe, Lemongrass, Shri Balaji Bavan and La Mexicana still it? Should I just recommend food trucks? Where did we used to go for dim sum?

Do not fear! I asked my trusty Facebook friends and they came up with these great suggestions. A lot of them are new, like Hugo’s little cousin, Caracol, but some are trusty old ones, like Chez Andre, Mucky Duck, and Hobbit Cafe. I’ve eaten at only 9  of them, Shri Balaji Bavan (get the chole chaat or a dhosa), 100% Taquito (get the tomatos, jicama, pepinos in a glass), Old Papas Seafood, Chez Andre, Mucky Duck, Udipi, Himalaya, Hobbit Cafe, and Lemongrass. I’m excited to try all the others sometime in Houston!

Send me more and I’ll add them.

Where to eat in Houston in 2016


Here are the suggestions of my friends on Facebook:


Danny: Shri Balaji Bavan:

Gerda: Underbelly,

Gerda: Pass and provisions:

Suzanne: Jinya Ramen

David: Tiger den

David: Common bond

Robert: BCN Taste and Tradition:

Pam: Pondicheri

Tamara: Caracol

Tamara: Bernie’s Burger Bus

Tamara: Coltivare

Tamara: Liberty Kitchen

Tamara: Uchi

Tamara: Jackson Street BBQ

Tamara: 100% Taquito

Andre: Old Papas Seafood

Andre: Chez Andre

Mike: Mucky Duck

Tom: Mala Sichuan

Tom: Udipi

Tom: Himalaya

Joff: Blue Nile

Nancy: Latin Bites

Nancy: Brenner’s

Cleopatra: Hobbit Café

Ellen: Southern Goods

Joan: Lemongrass


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Throw out your old spices!

For me the next 6 weeks are about family and food. I cook new recipes, but mostly the old ones. I bake my grandmother’s stollen and S kuchen. I don’t brine my turkey because I don’t want the gravy to be too salty.

Perhaps nothing gives food more flavor than spices. It is the time of year for cardamon and cloves, sage and bay leaves, just to start. I took a break this morning from reading files and toasted up a new batch of garam masala, the recipe I like best from among many. In the process I found an old commercial jar of same, so I could actually taste compare the two, touching the flat of my tongue on a sample plate to one then the other. I threw out the sawdust that was the old bottle.

I got ambitious and threw out the sage and the bay leaves. I kept the whole cloves and the cumin seeds. When I get home, I’ll throw out the other old spices. If they are ground, they will not last long. Every Thanksgiving is a good time to be sure to start with fresh spices. It could be the spice new year!

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All hotels have bed bugs! What to do?

First I thought the line of bites along my jaw were from mosquitoes, though I could not recall seeing any in my wanderings around Seville, Spain. My friends did not have any bites, so maybe it was because I breakfasted outside, I thought on the second day when a crop of bites appeared on my left arm. Maybe there were little flies biting me.

But the third night was enough. I woke at 2 am with a new crop of bites and dug around my mattress, discovering scurrying little insects that could only be bedbugs. I packed up and went downstairs, indignant and itchy, with welts on my arms, feet, back, and cheek. How dare the desk imply that I had brought them to the hotel from the plane! I got a new room, apparently an upgrade, though all I wanted was one free of bedbugs.

I posted my affliction on Facebook and learned of a bed bug registry, here, and for outside USA, here. This might be an answer. But then I had a chat with Becky Zufall who told me of a colleague from the UH hotel school. When asked at a meeting to say something surprising about their field, what she said was that all hotels had bedbugs at one time or another. The trick was to keep them controlled, to keep them from infesting the whole place. After all, these insects are attracted to us. They even go for the smell of our dirty clothes, apparently. So, what to do?

I thought back to the last time I got bitten by bedbugs. It was in a cheap hotel in Macuto, Venezuela, the third or fourth we tried, finding everything full. It was more than 25 years ago too. We did nothing special afterwards with all our luggage and did not pick them up either. In all the hundreds of nights in hotels between that trip and this one, I never once worried about bed bugs. I unpacked easily and quickly into the drawers. I snuggled unsuspiciously into the bed. Should I change now?

I was apparently the only one in our group that got unlucky.  I will miss a free confidence in drawers. So I think I will take a middle path. Actually part of it I took in this hotel. That is I hung all my clothes, even my underwear, clipped onto the hangars. I had read something about bedbugs on the airplane and this is what that article recommended. I think I’ll eschew drawers also. They aren’t really necessary. IMG_8158I’ll also probably give the bed a quick inspection, looking under the sheets and mattress pad. Odds are I’ll never again find anything.

I won’t reveal the hotel or put it on the registry. I don’t see the point since they clearly took care of this room, refunded my bill, and don’t seem to have a general problem. My guess is my affliction came from the blanket I unzipped from a bag, cold on that first night. If you check the registry for your hotel and bedbugs, remember only frequent posts probably matter. And who knows what AirBnB will do for spreading these insects.

The last thing I want to say is that we humans have an intense reaction to bed bugs. It is as if they are unclean in a profound way. Some people think getting rid of them is nearly impossible, that they are magic organisms rather than DNA mostly like our own packaged in a form that happens to sometimes succeed in turning us into them. I will freeze or wash my things. But I won’t worry that they’ve penetrated my computer. I won’t burn my clothes. And I won’t bring them with me.


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Battling snakes on the Ghost River

DSC01617 DSC01622  DSC01656 DSC01660 DSC01705 DSC01716 DSC01717  DSC01731 DSC01732 I back-stroked my cheap orange kayak up to the bridge and away from the beached kayakers, including my own family. A quick scan of the bridge under surface revealed cliff swallow nests, vines, and a few lovely wasp nests. The big wasps jerked left and right, shuddering their large bodies across the heavily parasitized nest face. It seemed too early in the season for Chalcoela iphitalis to have so destroyed this lovely Polistes annularis nest. The parasitic moths could have come from the larger old nest right next to this new sprout, but that nest’s cells were unblemished by the cat eye slits the moth pupae leave in a wasp nest. I guess mid June really isn’t too early in the part of western Tennessee so close to Mississippi.

The start to any group river trip belies the tranquility to come. The trips always go from bridge to bridge. You park at the muddy take out, then wait for transport up river in those tippy 15 passenger vans. The drive for a day of paddling seldom takes more than 20 minutes. Loading into the kayaks is a confusion of life jackets, paddles, awkward attempts to hook water bottles and dry bags under elastic, ending with the struggle of beginners getting their soft bodies into the hard plastic and pushing off from the mud.

DSC01650Paddling the Ghost section of the Wolf river is one of those things my daughter wanted to do before leaving Memphis. We had a whole year to say goodbye to Houston, but Anna has only a few months to say goodbye to Memphis. She has done a lot more than we have, but we have also enjoyed Memphis, a 5 hour drive from St. Louis the way we do it. We have eaten at Fuel, Cafe Society, The Beauty Shop, Sweetgrass, Cafe Eclectic right around the corner from home, and even Bari. We’ve been to the Civil Rights Museum but Graceland, Beale Street, and all music we’ve missed, sadly. But now we can say we paddled the Ghost.

Much of the trip reminded me of the Cypress Wonderland, but that Texas treasure has a larger river, the Trinity, larger cypresses, and no clear route through without guides. A highlight of that trip was the history Tom and Linda told. We got no such stories on the Ghost, though it was in the Civil War. There was a still on it during prohibition, but is no more, though the folks at Ghost River Brewing take their water from it. We even ran into them at the lunch spot and were glad they shared a sour and a smoky beer from the kegs they canoed in.

Mark was our guide for the trip, from Ghost River Canoeing. The 8.5 mile water trail took me, Dave, Anna, Philip, and Becca nearly 6 hours, but we weren’t going for speed. We were looking for snakes and listening to birds. Birds included white-eyed vireos, parula warblers, prothonatary warblers, and blue gray gnatcatchers, with an occasional yellow crowned night heron, or murder of crows heard in the distance. On the river we saw none of the ominous hulks of social black vultures that we had seen on the drive along with the dead armadillos.IMG_6585

But what we really looked for was snakes, basking snakes, swimming snakes, water snakes, or cottonmouths, we wanted to see them all. I hoped Philip would not pick up a cottonmouth and he didn’t. The snake that bit him repeatedly till he bled, then showed its gaping and innocent snake mouth hoping for another bite was a water snake, some kind of Nerodia sipedon, most likely. Philip informed us we should not get too close to him, for the musk the snake released to stink him up was not water soluble.DSC01720

Mark and Philip were more clear on the differences between harmless water snakes and venemous cottonmouths, but my experience was not recent enough for me to feel sure from a distance. The one cottonmouth as promised did swim away heavily on the top of the water while the water snakes nearly submerged.

We paddled and paddled. We needed an early lunch break before the main lunch place takeout with a sandy bank, but it was after noon. We ate sandwiches and grapes and drank herbed water. We paddled as one should, pushing down with the top arm and pulling back with the lower arm. We dug deep and smooth into the nearly still water. We also fluttered the paddles, lazily pulling back with the lower arm. We twisted around the snags and ducked under poison ivy. We wondered how many parula and prothonotary warblers this swamp could possibly hold. We remembered the swamps have trees and marshes have only grasses. We dripped on our legs with every stroke, a welcome cooling, though it was not really too hot. We realized our whole family is gradually moving north and mourned for the dangerous Faulkner south of kudzu and torpid days. What is so interesting up there in the glittering north?

I paddled in the middle of the group, like bumper cars, my daughter said. I paddled to the tranquil front, hunting for snakes. I paddled in the back of the group on the second stretch when the ghostly channels had opened into a lake and we abandoned the trail as Mark took us past beaver lodges and through narrow cypress passages.

We had been competing for snake sitings and several of us were at about three when I saw them. Not any old snake siting, but an improbable one, massive 5 foot long coils as thick as ship rope hanging down from their tails like ripening meat. It was not one snake but a twist of two, evenly matched in size hanging so their shoving heads were just above the water. They twisted, they writhed, they ascended and uncoiled.

I called everyone back and rapidly they came, ungainly kayaks clunking together. Anna risked her camera and I risked my phone, unsheathing both from their plastic. The snakes continued to struggle, reminding me of what I love about animal behavior. It is so gripping, so real. That there is something to explain is clear, but what was it? Who were they? Was it love, sex, or war?

Philip quickly figured out that the snakes were not water snakes. But what would a rat or a corn snake be doing here on a tree in the middle of a swamp? We later identified them as gray rat snakes, famous for taking wood duck eggs, excellent at climbing trees, and even nesting in high cavities.

The snakes dropped into the water, swam away, then returned. One ascended before the other and dipped into a whole 15 feet up the tree. Oh, so that is the goal. But out she (or he?) quickly came. I guess it would take too long to eat an egg with the enemy snake right behind. They played the hanging and fighting game awhile longer, then swam away from the tree again. Clearly neither had forgotten about it. Neither thought to share.

We paddled on, noting the places where beaver had torn strips of bark from the cypresses. All too soon were were at the slippery take out. Mark refused a tip and urged us to instead make a donation to the Wolf River Conservancy. Without them, this timeless stretch would have been harvested in the 1990s, just as it had been half a century or more before.

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Leaving Memphis

IMG_6490  A mockingbird sang an eight-part song with no repeats, ceasing only at the insistent squeal of a fledgling. Now they are silent. Besides the basil and rosemary in the garden, my daughter has a fig tree and a crape myrtle. Next door is a pink mimosa, not the kind you drink. The air is heavy with the kind of Mississippi River humidity most Americans have not learned to love the way I do. Memphis is not Houston, but coming from the north, St. Louis, I might be fooled for a bit. The bungalows on my daughter’s street could be in Montrose, right in the heart of Houston. Ancient magnolias with their blown white flowers and rubber leaves grace the corner.

Memphis may not have the petroleum-based euphoria of Houston, but it may be just as misunderstood. It is much more than the town where our nation’s most tragic assassination occurred, at the now civil rights monument of the Lorraine Motel. It is a music and barbeque city, with much theater. It is the big city Faulkner’s characters flee to.

IMG_6498There is the Memphis of excellence, with St. Jude’s hospital for children, Autozone, and Fed Ex headquarters, along with universities, University of Memphis, and Rhodes College. But there is a lack of opportunity that is different from Houston. There are racial divides I do not know the scope of. Many flee to places with names like Germantown, but why do they not choose to live in colorful Cooper-Young, Vollintine/Evergreen or verdant Central Gardens or more generally midtown or downtown? There is a big park with zoo and plenty of green trails. Tomorrow we will kayak the Ghost River.

IMG_6492But this is not written as a travelogue for Memphis, city of contrasts. It is good bye. My daughter has spent four wonderful years at the University of Memphis where scholarship is celebrated and students who might otherwise not find higher education at all are cherished. She has found wonderful colleagues and lives on a city block where people look out for each other. They help with soup for the ill, dollies for moving, cat sitting and most of all many front porch parties. It is the kind of community that seems more easily found inside cities than out in the suburbs. It is a place where furniture is traded among neighbors. This block seems quiet now, before most have had their coffee, but later the neighbors will be out and chatting.

I wish I had looked at Wikipedia on this interesting city earlier. It was apparently purpose built on the bluffs over the Mississippi, on the fourth Chickasaw bluff, above the confluence of the Wolf and Mississippi rivers. Early it was a major city, just as St. Louis used to be. But they took their water from the Mississippi and suffered from swampy conditions that contributed to the yellow fever epidemic of 1878. The numbers I came across said there were 50,000 on 5 August 1878, then 30,000 fled, all those that could and of the 20,000 or so left, all but 2,000 got yellow fever and about 5,000 died.

Does a city that loses its leaders stumble forever, or do leaders as good as those before emerge from the masses the way my social amoebae can endlessly form a new front to its slug? What if there are plenty of great leaders, but the resources the others brought from outside changed it? Could Memphis have rivaled Atlanta? Might St. Louis have become Chicago had the railroads gone another way? Surely Galveston would have been what Houston is without the hurricanes of 1900 and 1915? I am not a historian, so I do not know how to answer these questions. I do know that saying goodbye to Memphis will be hard.

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Anything you say will be held against you

IMG_2185Anything you say will be held against you.
No, you are not among friends.
We do not like you.

Anything you say will be held against you.
What part of that do you not understand?
No, you do not fit here.

Anything you say will be held against you.
No, you may not explain.
We make all the decisions.

Anything you say will be held against you.
Yes, it is fine if you are quiet.
For remember, we do not like you.

Anything you say will be held against you.
No, we will not tell you the rules.
We do not need you.

And no, you may not judge us. We judge you.

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The bird sounds of Houston

Open your Houston windows to the soft, hot humidity early in the morning and listen. You may hear tires on asphalt of the West Loop, but you will also hear the birds. Just five species fill much of the sound canvas, white-winged doves, Carolina wrens, northern mockingbirds, great-tailed grackles, and northern cardinals. Learn these five, and see how long into your day it takes to hear all of them.

White-winged dove

White-winged doves are new, surging into Houston from a Galveston introduction only in the late 1980s. To me their sound was once exotic, typical of McAllen along with the chachalacas down on the border.  Is it global warming or human transport that has let them overwhelm the dove community of Houston? Their song is barred owl-like, but much softer, who cooks for you?

Carolina wrens are the noisy, tiny birds no one ever sees. Put a little wren house up in a scrubby corner of your yard and help these jewels out. They have the long wren tail at an angle and a defiant white eye stripe. Pay attention to this song, for you will realize it is one you hear daily. You might even spot a little wren disappearing into a brush pile, or atop the wooden fence built after Hurricane Ike took down the original one.


Northern mockingbird

Of all the birds on this list, no doubt northern mockingbirds are the one you know. The males sing to their mates from up high, varying their song as they try for flamboyance. They will flutter up in fights as they divide Houston into mockingbird territories. Or they may be witnessed dancing along their borders, one hop after the other, as so many of my students discovered. If songs were tails, mockingbirds would be peacocks.


Great-tailed grackle


Great-tailed grackles make improbable sounds resembling cars backing up or metal clashing when the males court the females, rushing them with ever closing circles of blue-black feathers. Then here they nest in the trees along freeway medians when parks are not available.

Northern cardinals may sing the way a child might imagine the arch typical bird to sing, in pure simple notes. They will be a backdrop to any Houston morning.

High above are the chimney swifts, seldom settling except when they swoop into their night time roosts. Spring is here when their chips are above us.

Dusk is for the night hawks, night for the screech owls, and the toads. So leave your windows open as long as you can, Houston, at least through May.

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