I had started cooking dinner when we received the text. Our good friend badly fractured her wrist in a horse-riding accident. This was on top of unfortunate health related news she received the day before. Cath and I had two immediate reactions: sadness for our friend, and a mutual decision to substitute mashed potatoes for the broccoli we were planning to serve with dinner.
Continue reading “Life is too Short to Eat Broccoli”
My sister, Roberta, created a fun family cookbook of recipes and stories a decade ago. She recently resent her “intro” to me and I love it. She talks of how our five senses link us to those wonderful memories from our past. I urge you to give this a read and I guarantee it will make you smile.
The words are strictly Roberta’s. I’m just sharing them.
Continue reading “Finding Happiness”
Last Christmas Eve, I was talking with our nephew Casey. He mentioned a visit to our home as a young boy, and then asked “Do you remember making cheese fondue at the cabin? That was so cool!” The memories of that weekend, and our ‘70s era burnt orange fondue pot came flooding back.
Continue reading “Cheese Fondue”
I was a cookbook junkie for a couple of decades. The last few years, I’ve kept my addiction in check. I try and take it one meal at a time, which has worked … so far. Of course, I continue collecting online recipes and recipes from friends like a fiend.
Continue reading “A Cookbook Junkie”
It was strange. It was simple. It was visceral. One moment I was taking a bite of a tuna salad sandwich made with Julia Child’s recipe. The next instant I was a little boy sitting with Grandma Grubaugh at her kitchen table having lunch. It hit me like a bolt out of the blue.
A couple of my favorite benefits of our New York Times subscription are the food and cooking articles. The columns tell great stories, and the recipes are usually pretty manageable. A while back, chef, James Beard Award winning author and former New York Times food columnist Dorie Greenspan wrote a great column “This Tuna-Salad Sandwich Is Julia Child-Approved Lunch”. She was working with Julia at the time on an upcoming book and recounted a day spent in her kitchen. Here’s a partial extract:
“We were working around the kitchen table when Julia declared, “Dorie, let’s make lunch.” I saw Stephanie smile — clearly, she knew what was coming — and then I was at the counter with Julia, doing as I was told, which was cutting celery. While it might not seem like much of a job, I was cutting celery for Julia Child, and I was going to do it right: I trimmed the celery, I peeled it (because I learned to do that in Paris, I thought it was important to do it for the woman who wrote “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”) and I cut the celery into minuscule cubes that were all the same size. I’m only exaggerating a smidge when I say it took me so long that when I put down my knife, Julia had finished everything else, and we were ready to sit down to one of her favorite lunches: tuna salad on an English muffin.”
The article was about nothing and about everything. I love writing like that. I mean, how can you possibly write an entire article about a tuna salad sandwich? And yet Greenspan wrote a great one and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
The list of ingredients in the actual sandwich intrigued me. We’ve all made tuna salad – tuna, mayo, celery and maybe onion and a boiled egg, but this one was a bit different. Yea, there was tuna (packed in oil), mayo (always Hellman’s), celery and onion, but it also included capers, cornichons (small French pickles) and lemon juice. Hmmmm. I was going to have to try this. Some of you know of my aversion to pickles in potato salad, but with tuna salad, why not give it a shot?
I had everything on hand, with the exception of the Cornichons. After doing a little online research, I figured the baby dills in our fridge were a suitable substitute.
I dutifully chopped the celery (sorry, no peeling), onion, capers and pickles. After emptying the tuna in a bowl, I added all of the chopped ingredients. In went the mayo, and the parsley and I combined everything. Finally, I squeezed the lemon juice in, added salt and pepper, and combined it all again. I did a small taste, and of course because of who I am, added a bit more mayo. Another small taste, and then I put the bowl in the fridge to chill for a couple of hours.
At last it was lunch time and I made my sandwich. More mayo on the bread, the tuna salad itself, some lettuce, tomato and a small slice of onion. Another slice of bread, and then I cut the whole thing in half.
I took the first bite, waiting to be transformed in my mind to Julia Child’s kitchen, and … wait! What!? Was that Grandma Grubaugh sitting next to me? Where in the hell did that come from?! It was a visceral reaction – I was a young boy back in Ottawa, sitting at the kitchen table at Grandma’s house having a tuna sandwich with her.
After rejoining the present, I sat there eating my sandwich trying to figure out what brought on those feelings. Grandma, to my knowledge, never cooked anything from Julia Child. Besides, my flashback would have been some time in the ‘60s, well before Julia became popular in America.
I thought through the ingredients. I don’t really remember grandma keeping fresh lemons, or capers around the house, although I suppose she might have. Grandma putting either in tuna salad seemed a pure fantasy. It had to be the pickles, although I didn’t remember mom putting pickles in tuna at our house.
At this point in time, mom had already passed away. Uncle Don, her younger brother was still alive, and I gave him a call. After catching up for a few minutes, I explained why I was calling, asked about grandma’s tuna salad, and whether she put pickles in it. He immediately answered “No, there were no pickles”, and my heart sank. Then he quickly added – “No, no pickles. She used a couple big spoonfuls of pickle relish.” And it all connected.
We talked a bit more and I eventually hung up. As I thought about Grandma and her pickle relish, it made sense. The relish certainly would account for the pickle flavor and maybe some of the brightness. In a subsequent conversation with my cousin Dawn, she reminded me that while Grandma didn’t really keep fresh lemons around the house (who did in midwest America in the ‘60s?), there was always a bottle of Real Lemon Juice in the fridge – for lemon cake, lemon pie, maybe a spoonful in cobblers. Who’s to say she didn’t add a spoonful to her tuna salad? While it doesn’t all add up perfectly, it made sense to me.
Since then, I’ve continued to make my tuna salad with pickles, capers and lemon juice. I have to admit Julia’s is better than what I’d made before. It’s also a nice lunchtime bonus – remembering Grandma Grubaugh on a day when you are “only” having tuna salad is pretty special.
Addendum:
• Thanks to my sister Roberta, and cousin Dawn (one of Uncle Don’s Daughters – also a flower girl at our wedding) for their contributions to this blog – both had distinct memories of Grandma’s tuna salad and some of grandma’s habits at the time. Dawn was also quite emphatic Grandma used sweet pickle relish in her Tuna salad. We also had a great conversation about foods triggering happy family memories – Thanksgiving at mom and dad’s house (Uncle Don, Aunt Diane and family were almost always in attendance as well), potato salad, Aunt Diane’s cherry pies and cobblers, watermelon outside on the picnic table, and Grandma Grubaugh expertly spitting her seeds across the yard, to the delight of her grandchildren.
• Here’s another blog about Grandma Grubaugh and her delicious date nut bread: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/12/04/grandmas-date-nut-bread/
• Here’s a link to the column that inspired me to try Julia Child’s Tuna salad. It’s a quick read – https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/21/magazine/this-tuna-salad-sandwich-is-julia-child-approved-lunch.html?unlocked_article_code=a2vDZUZ1eo1yVrKAfuZxMgmll7EsQe8k7K-jTFFMqtFBjYV_jUe1I577EkeqZQNBGpaScBbP2xFhlRgEXk0W3tuhHedthiZqjAOIlq7mFMVFRXTSWUW-mugkmUlR6AtNmjBpqnBC45Dacm7NKVcjag8DPq4nW_Mk-gleZC2NfUBimTJW8wqPnaCRsC9BXBDeHOI6FVeL60bLuggz3IU80r0Op815enYRuh9uZRbZwfNBd33TI6IJNJk_1qSRqnFXzpHmKs4RRpwBBMsGROoFMHGYZ-jWFgxYd51U2M-oYm9mLIFmxsE2twHD2-Qtkx8ZSmRV-W7eCe36dnvravfZOe3UkdJOwFAHYcitmVZSPDenybPsa9HK0r6y4Pgo9YUyIA&smid=share-url
• Here’s a link to the recipe from the NYT: https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1021561-tuna-salad-sandwich-julia-child-style?smid=ck-recipe-iOS-share
• And here’s the exact same recipe if the NYT won’t let you open their recipe without a subscription: https://bwtribble.com/recipe/1071
I hate missing a good party. Unfortunately, we will miss Chili Dump 2022. We made the 2016 version, which featured great chili, a band, Elvis, a bonfire tended by a front-end loader, and 200, or so, of my sister and brother-in-law’s closest friends. What’s a Chili Dump? I’m glad you asked.
My Brother-in-law Jack started his legendary Chili Dump party around 2002 with his then wife, Meg. The first party was a thank you for friends who helped clear the land they were building their home on, and then subsequently helping them build their home. It became an annual event, and as their kids grew older, their friends started attending the party as well. Sadly, Meg passed away in 2013. When my sister Roberta met Jack later, she too was introduced to The Chili Dump. In 2016, we timed our visit home to Illinois so we could attend the party.
On that October ‘16 afternoon, Jack started a fire in the back yard and put a huge pot over it. The pot actually looked more like a cauldron than any pot I’d ever seen. They added the usual chili ingredients – cooked ground beef, tomatoes, tomato juice, hot peppers, beans and spices (and please, I don’t want to hear from any Texans about how beans don’t belong in chili). Soon, the chili started to cook and bubble away. By then, we may have had a beer or two.
The first friends arrived by ATV, and brought more ingredients to add to the Chili – venison and jalapeños if I recall correctly. Others continued to arrive. Smoked brisket, hotdogs, sausage, bratwurst – they all went into the pot. Wood was added to the fire, to keep the chili cooking. Our friends Tim and Renee arrived from the Chicago ‘burbs with a blend of spices they specifically put together for the chili. Into the pot it went.
Other folk brought toppings, including sour cream, grated cheddar cheese, sliced jalapeños and fried bacon. Someone made cornbread. There were bags of chips and Doritos added to the serving table. My sister Tanya and her husband Shawn arrived, and added more beef in the pot. Nieces and nephews arrived, and all dutifully put something in the pot. The volume of chili in the pot was definitely increasing.
Pickup trucks and cars were now lined up near the cow pasture. It started getting crowded and started getting dark. Around then, Jack lit the bonfire. It was a biiiiiig bonfire…
Somewhere during all of this, people began sampling the chili. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but then I took my first bite. Wow! This was surprisingly tasty. People kept arriving and adding to the chili. There was now also a steady stream of bowls being filled, so the volume stayed about the same, or maybe started to go down. There were probably 200 people at the farm by then.
Eventually, the Joel Limberg Band started playing. Some folks were dancing, and as at weddings, lots of little kids were hopping around on the dance floor. At some point, the band brought out a surprise guest singer – Elvis. Actually, a Philippine Elvis. Let me tell ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Elvis sing Sweet Caroline, with the crowd joining in on the response – “Sweet Caroline, oh oh oh, Good times never seemed so good – So Good! So Good! So Good!” The party was going strong now!
More dancing. Talking with family and old friends. Making new friends. More beer. More chili. The chili level in the pot was definitely receding. The bonfire was also going down, but Jack wasn’t ready to let that happen just yet. You know you have a big fire when you need to tend it with a tractor’s front-end loader.
Although it was getting later, no one was leaving. Suddenly fireworks went off and exploded in the sky. We all watched, and oohed and ahhhed. The neighbors didn’t complain, because most of them were at the party.
The band played another set, and it was time for more beer and more chili. The volume in the pot was definitively lower, but the chili was still hot, and still tasty. I noticed the crowd was starting to thin some, although I don’t think the sound volume was any lower.
Well after midnight, Cathy and I finally went to bed. It was a great party, but sometimes it’s good to know your limits.
The next morning, we woke, not feeling overly fuzzy. Jack and Berta were already up and had fed their calves and chickens. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to much worse for wear. I asked Berta how late the party went, and all she said was “Late”.
Our friends Tim and Renee also spent the night and they too woke up and joined the living. Eventually, we all went outside and started cleaning up. We may have partaken of a little “hair of the dog” during the cleanup. A couple of the youngsters also stopped by and with all of us involved, it wasn’t tooooo much work and we finished up after a couple of hours.
That was the 2016 party, and so far, the first and last one we attended. Since then, we’ve been out of the country for a couple of them, and of course covid slowed things down. I should mention they burned a Covid Snowman at the 2020 Chili Dump.
I’ve both attended and hosted a number of good parties over the years, here in the States, and overseas in Germany, Austria, France, Belgium and the UK. I have to say the 2016 Chili Dump was one of the best. Anytime you combine chili, beer, Elvis, a bonfire, fireworks and fun people, it has to be pretty good, doesn’t it?
Addendum:
Thanks to my sister, Roberta, for help with this blog.
I recently enjoyed a fun and funny New Yorker article, by Rachel Syme. While reading, I became aware of two dichotomies simultaneously – First, she is a wonderful writer, whose prose blows mine away. Second, I know how to cook a perfect soft boiled egg, while she does not :-).
I subscribe to the New Yorker, which has great writing on a multitude of topics. One of the features of my subscription is that I receive emails a couple of times a week with reading suggestions. Last week, the email shared several food related articles, and one of them immediately caught my eye. Maybe it was the lead in … “The Ridiculous Egg Machine That Changed My Breakfast Game – It breaks all my kitchen rules, and yet, every morning, I make myself a fussy little hotel breakfast.” I’m not a kitchen gadget guy, but this sounded intriguing. I knew I was either going to love it, or hate it.
The article WAS good, and interesting. I enjoyed the way she wove the story of the egg machine into her own background and family history, while adding something we all crave – a little pampering while at a hotel. She talked about short getaways, and the enjoyment of coffee in bed, and wonderful little breakfasts, including soft boiled eggs.
It made me think of my own introduction to soft boiled eggs. Growing up, eggs were a family staple, particularly on weekends. Saturday mornings often saw eggs scrambled, over easy or sunny-side up, with toast and bacon on the side. Hard boiled eggs? Sure. Always at Easter, but also occasionally for a snack, and a big dose of them in mom’s potato salad. Soft boiled eggs? I don’t remember mom (or dad) ever fixing them. I believe the first time I ever ate one was while stationed in Germany in the early ‘80s. On one weekend trip, we spent the night in a small village Gasthaus. The next morning we came to the dining room for breakfast, where we were greeted with charcuterie, a cheese board, and thick slices of bread, along with something else – soft boiled eggs in small holders, with a tiny comforter over the top of the eggs to keep them warm. The presentation was funny, practical and magical all at the same time. The eggs themselves? Both simple, and delicious. I was hooked.
Of course, we then had to make them at home, which led to us buying the little egg cups, and the tiny spoons needed to scoop out that golden delight from the center of the egg. We made them for a year or two, usually on the weekend when guests were staying the night. Then, as is often the case, we got out of the habit, and eventually stopped making them. For thirty years.
After retiring about eight years ago, I rediscovered the egg cups, and brought them back into use. I’m usually up earlier than Cathy, so we eat breakfast separately. Once about every week or two, I take the four minutes and fifty seconds needed to make a soft boiled egg. Just. The. Way. I. Like. It. A little bit of memory, delight and tastiness all in one egg.
Which brings me back to Rachel Syme and her article. The twin dichotomies we share are perfectly summarized in her breakfast description in the article: “Mornings at home were for English muffins with a scoop of marmalade, or muesli with a splash of almond milk. Low-risk stuff. Foolproof … What I kept fantasizing about was a perfect plate of soft-boiled eggs, with a silky, spreadable yolk the consistency of honey. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to manifest this fantasy on my own. Enter the egg machine.”
In a million years, I would never come up with the phrase “…with a silky, spreadable yolk, the consistency of honey.” I mean, that is a perfect description. It makes me hungry just reading that line. And then, she adds the kicker “ I knew I wasn’t going to be able to manifest this fantasy on my own. Enter the egg machine.” I wanted to scream out “Rachel! You too can do this. All it takes is four minutes and fifty seconds! Really!”
So there you have it. We all have our talents, we all have our fantasies, and those of us who are lucky enough, recognize the limits of the former, while trying to reach the latter. If Rachel Syme can achieve breakfast nirvana with a DASH Rapid Egg Cooker, who am I to judge? In the meantime, I look forward to reading more of her wonderful writing, and maybe learning a thing or two along the way.
Addendum:
The oldest recipe in my recipe collection is for Erbseneintopf – a German Split Pea Soup. It came from The Stars and Stripes newspaper in Germany in ‘82 or ‘83, and is now a bit tattered. The first time I tasted the soup in a Gasthaus, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Getting the recipe was a bonus.
Erbseneintopf. The word and the soup are both a mouthful. Erbseneintopf literally translates to “Pea One-Pot”, and is really closer to a stew. Made properly, it is a thick soup with little chunks of sausage or ham hock in it. I’m not talking the puny American ham hocks, but the big German kind – meaty and smoky. The meat gives the stew a wonderful flavor. It’s a simple, hearty meal.
I believe the first time I had the dish was in a little village near Stuttgart, although I can’t remember the name of the town, or the Gasthaus, for the life of me. At the time, we often went for a walk in the woods on a Sunday afternoon, as many Germans did, and then would stop at a nearby Gasthaus for a late lunch, and a beer or two. We’d usually have some sort of simple meal – a bratwurst, or goulash soup, or some charcuterie and cheese. On one of those trips, it started snowing. Eventually we made it back to the village and the Gasthaus, where Erbseneintopf was on the menu, and despite the green color, I gave it a try. It was delicious. It became one of those dishes that stayed in my mind and I started looking for it on the menu anytime we went to a new Gasthaus – especially in winter.
There were a few other dishes that stuck in my brain back then, and I would stalk them for a while – eating the dish anytime I saw it on a new place’s menu. One of those was Cordon Bleu. I spent a couple of years looking for the perfect Cordon Bleu during our travels across Germany, France and Northern Italy, and dragged visiting friends with me on my quest. Another dish was Käsespätzle, basically a German adult version of Mac ‘n Cheese, with homemade noodles, onions and cheese – It was total comfort food and a bazillion calories.
Cordon Bleu, käsespätzle, schnitzel, wurst, certain kinds of steak, pommes frites (french fries) and a host of other dishes all became a part of our life. We loved German food, but never tried cooking it at home. I’m not sure why. Maybe we knew we couldn’t match what we were eating in the Gasthauses.
Then one day, the world changed. Around 1982, our local military newspaper, The Stars and Stripes*, started a monthly feature with recipes for different German dishes. Some were simple, some more complicated. I’d read the recipes, but didn’t really think much about them, and then one day, they published several soup recipes – Gulaschsuppe, Linseneintopf (Lentil Soup), Tomatencremesuppe (Tomato Soup), and at the bottom of the page – a recipe for Erbseneintopf! I promptly cut the recipe out of the paper.
This was most excellent. I spoke with a German friend about the recipe and she thought it looked authentic. Her one suggestion was to swap out the boiled ham called for in the recipe and replace it with chopped up ham hock, or some smoky local German sausage. It was a good suggestion.
A week or two later, we made the dish for the first time and lightning struck. We couldn’t believe how much it tasted like the restaurant version. The ham hocks provided the smokiness, while the “Melbutter” (see recipe – a mixture of flour and butter) thickened the soup. This baby was a keeper. At the time it was actually one of the very few dishes I cooked, or could cook. Yea, I did steaks, burgers and brats on the grill, but cooking something in the kitchen? I was out of my league there. This soup was probably just about it.
Erbseneintopf has remained a part of my winter repertoire ever since. I’ve only made one change since cooking it that first time. Here in the States, it’s sometimes hard to find good German sausage, or ham hocks with a bit more meat on them. As a result, I often substitute a smoked turkey leg for the ham hocks. It gets the job done.
Looking for a good winter soup on a cold, snowy day? Erbseneintopf might be just what you need. It’s peasant food at it’s best. As with many soups and stews, it’s even better on the second day.
Addendum:
⁃ * The Stars and Stripes newspaper was first published during the Civil war. Later, it was delivered to US forces in France during WWI, and became an overseas fixture during WWII. It continued through Korea and Vietnam, and is still published at overseas military locations to this day, although there were discussions during the Trump presidency of cancelling it (it wasn’t). It operates from inside DoD, but is editorially separate and independent from it. The newspaper has been published continuously in Europe since 1942.
⁃ I also struck pay dirt a month or two later when The Stars and Stripes published recipes for Spätzle and Käsespätzle, and our friends Jim and Res bought us a Spätzlemaker for Christmas. The Spätzlemaker is 40 years old now, and in great shape. We still use it a couple times of year.
⁃ My friend Tim Stouffer reminds me occasionally about my Cordon Bleu quest. He visited Cath and I several times throughout the ‘80s. On at least a couple of those visits, I know I inflicted my obsession with Cordon Bleu on him.
How much is an honest man worth?
I needed to run into town for a couple of errands last week. As I was finishing up, it was about 11:30. I was hungry and suddenly had an urge for Mexican food. I called our favorite place, El Agave, a local family owned restaurant here in Warrenton, Virginia to see if I could pick up a couple of burritos to go, and they said sure, come by in ten minutes.
I finished up at the dry cleaners, and drove over to El Agave. It’s been here in Warrenton for years. If we are looking for “Mexican food”, or a decent margarita, it’s almost always the place we go. You know the kind of place – honest food, nice portions, good service and relatively inexpensive. Since Covid, we haven’t eaten there as much in person, but have done take out many times.
As I came into the restaurant, my order was just coming out of the kitchen. The owner/manager and I were making small talk as I paid, and he said, “I’m sorry, we have no plastic forks. They are coming in this afternoon.” I answered back “No problem, I’m taking it home to eat.”
We talked a bit more and then I said “Too bad on the forks, I guess between supply chain issues, and the snow storm last week, your order was backed up, eh?”
He looked at me and smiled, and then said “Or maybe I just forgot to order them on time.”
I laughed and said “Wow! An honest man!” He chuckled and answered back “People are going to believe what they want to anyway.”
I thanked him, left a tip and went outside to my truck. On the drive home, I was still thinking about our exchange, and it occurred to me. If he was this honest about a small mistake he made, it says a lot about how he runs his restaurant overall. He could have easily laughed at my supply chain comment, agreed it was causing him problems, and I wouldn’t have thought anything more about it. One little white lie that, in the big scheme of things, didn’t matter.
Instead, he told the truth.
Maybe I’m making too much of the whole incident, but it continues to echo around in my brain. I’ve always enjoyed El Agave. Now, I like it even more. It’s always great to see honesty and excellence in a local business. Thank you El Agave – I’ll be back soon.
Addendum:
There are five local El Agave restaurants in or near Fauquier County, Virginia. I’ve only been to two of them – the one in Warrenton, and one half way between Marshall and The Plains. I highly recommend both of them. You can learn more about El Agave here: https://elagavemexrestaurant.com/
‘Fess up. Who owns, or owned, one of these beauties from the ‘70s? Long before there were Slow Cookers or Instant Pots, there were Crock-Pots. Ours is from 1974 and still chugging along. Seriously, 1974 and it still works. What else do you have that old, and still working? And, you have to love the color…
It’s the 50th anniversary of the invention of the Crock-Pot. Appliance maker Rival unveiled it in 1971 at the National Housewares Show in Chicago. Ads and commercials represented the Crock-Pot as a wonderful, time-saving device, assuring women (yes, this was the ‘70s – almost all cooking related ads focused on women) it would simplify their lives. Hell, baseball player Joe Garagiola even became a pitchman for the Crock-Pot, hawking it as “the perfect gift”. And of course, the Crock-Pot would do all of this great work in those fabulous ‘70 colors.
That color – I’m not sure if it’s called burnt orange, red orange, or just mutant orange. It’s a color you can’t forget. Quite frankly, it and the colors “Autumn Gold” and “Avocado” represent the ‘70s as much as disco, polyester and bell bottoms. If you see anything in one of those colors, you pretty much know what decade it came from.
Cathy bought this particular Crock-Pot at the age of 18 in the summer of 1974. It was just prior to moving to Washington DC and a job with the FBI. Over the past 47 years, our Crock-Pot has made countless chilis, soups, stews, roasts, and other dishes. We have cooked with it in Germany, Georgia, Oklahoma, Ohio and Virginia. It crossed the Atlantic four times. How many things do you have that have been with you your whole marriage? This pot, along with our love, is one of the few things that has survived those 43 years. It’s pretty much indestructible and part of the fabric of our lives.
Having retired, I do much of the cooking around the house these days and often braise, roast or slow cook in the oven itself. Still, there are some recipes that just call out for the Crock-Pot. I think the simplicity of the device helps – you fill it with the food you are cooking; pick one of the two heat choices, low or high; and walk away for 6, 8, or 10 hours. What’s not to like, other than perhaps the color?
Summer is ending, autumn is arriving, and winter will soon be here. This ol’ Crock-Pot will again earn it’s keep, providing us with comfort food this autumn and winter. Sure, it has a couple of chips around the rim, but the heater still works fine and the lid sits securely on top. It does it’s job. In fact, it does it’s job much better than any number of devices from this century. It just keeps ticking along and will probably be with us for another decade or two. Now that I think about it, we should list it in our Trust for one of our nieces or nephews… 😉
Live Life Exuberantly 