Tag: #friendship

Who’saGoodDog, Carmen!?!

Who’saGoodDog, Carmen!?!

My name is Carmen. I’m about 44 years old now, and in my prime. I’m in a small Pack with a total of three members and it is the only life I’ve ever known.

My early memories of the pack included another member called Miles. He left us in my first year or two. Since then, it’s just the three of us, and I have to say, we are a tight little group, and do almost everything together. It’s a bit odd because there are two Leaders of the Pack and I’m the only junior member, but it works out pretty well. The Pack Leaders, Max and Cathy, sometimes argue about who is in charge of the Pack, but not often.

Carmen, also known as The Carmenator, Carmenita and Tammy Faye….

The Pack also has some minor associates, who don’t live in the house with us. They live in the barn. This includes the two cats, Stan and Ollie, who I tolerate. For cats, they are OK. Stan rubs up against my legs sometimes and I let him. I mean, it doesn’t make me a cat or anything. Ollie, on the other hand, always seems a bit cautious around me and keeps an eye on me. For fun, I occasionally chase him. I suppose it doesn’t improve our relationship, but I think it’s a cool thing to do. And, I don’t do it all the time. Just often enough to keep him on his toes.

The other two associate members of our pack are these big things called horses. One is Stella and the other is Katie. Generally, I don’t bother them, and they don’t bother me. Pack Leader Cathy yelled at me a couple of times for chasing the horses, so I don’t usually do it. I’m glad she doesn’t really yell at me for occasionally chasing Ollie.

Sometimes there are interlopers in the barn. I hate the interlopers, and I think part of my job is to keep them away. If I ever see the fat cat Cathy calls “Mama Cat”, or the black cat with no name, I bark and jump around, and let them know if I could get close to them, I’d rip ‘em a new one. So far, they are tricky enough to only sit in the rafters or on the hay where I can’t reach them. I check every morning and every night to see if they are sneaking around the barn. One of these days…

I don’t know many other dogs around the farm. There was a dog down the road named Jake and I loved ol’ Jakey. It’s almost like he was my boyfriend. When Pack Leader Max and I would go for a walk, Jake was always in his yard and I would run up and bark “Hi”. We had plenty of fun playing together. I think he left us a few months ago, as I haven’t seen him lately. His sister Jill is still around, but she doesn’t say hi very often.

Jake

When we go for a walk, we also often stop at a house where the little boy, Jameson, lives. Jameson is only a bit taller than I am, and he owns a frisbee. When I come by, if he is in the yard, we play frisbee together. He’s a pretty good frisbee thrower, and I’m a pretty good catcher, if I do say so myself. Sometimes when we walk by, Jameson isn’t outside, but I know where he keeps the frisbee on his porch. I run up on the porch and grab it and then race around the yard to see if Jameson will come out and play.

Every once in a while, we go on vacation to this place the Leaders call “The Bayhouse”. I love the Bayhouse because I have lots of dog buddies there to play with. I see Nike every day in his yard, and usually see Angus too. When Max and I go for a walk, I also visit with Fred and Gus. It’s fun running around playing with each of them, but by the time I do that AND go for a walk, I’m dog-tired and it’s time for a nap.

Clockwise, from upper left: Nike, Angus, Gus and Fred.

The other great thing at the Bay is the people all like dogs. A man named Vinnie lives in the house next door to us. When I see Vinnie, I immediately race up to him, and he pets me and rubs my back, all the while saying “Who’saGoodDog?! Who’saGoodDog?! Who’saGoodDog Carmen!?!” I of course squiggle all over and say “Me! Me! Me!” Then he goes in his house and brings out a treat. Another man down the street, Kirk, does the same thing. I even know where the treats are in Kirk’s house and if he leaves the door open when he goes inside to get me one, I run in with him to show him where the treat jar is, just in case he forgets.

I have to confess: most times when I return to the farm from the Bayhouse, I have a bit of a Play-Hangover and it takes me a day to recover. My Leaders don’t seem to mind. In the winter, it’s particularly good. When we arrive home from the Bay, the Leaders light a fire in the wood stove, and we all just hang out and doze. Let me tell you, that’s a great life for a dog, lying by the fire, while your Leader snoozes on the couch.

Nike and Carmen after tiring each other out

At the Bay, other than barking at strange dogs walking by, I don’t have many jobs. Back home on the Farm, I have several. My main job is the Security of the farm. I’ve already mentioned about keeping the barn free of interlopers. Also, if somebody drives a car down the driveway, I immediately start barking so the leaders know they are outside. They are usually good people, but you never know when you first hear them coming.

Every afternoon, I supervise Pack Leader Cathy taking the horse manure to the back field. She drives the Gator and I ride shotgun. After she dumps the manure, she drives around the back field and I chase her. She calls it exercise for me, but I know we are really checking for Geese in the back field. They are always strutting around, honking and pooping everywhere. If I see any of those varmints, I immediately chase them like a bat-out-of-hell, until they fly off the property. Sometimes I roll in their poop, thinking it will help disguise me. It never works.

Late at night, when it’s dark and Pack Leader Max takes me out for my last potty, the first thing I do is race to the barn, barking with my big girl voice the whole time. There are lots of sneaky animals who might try and attack us, so I want all of them to know I’m on guard. When I use my big girl bark, I sound quite ferocious, and even bigger than I actually am. I’m pretty proud of my bark.

I also keep deer and geese away from the paddock nearest the house. Did I mention I particularly hate geese? They are quite a nuisance.

I have one or two other small jobs, although the Leaders don’t seem to appreciate them quite as much. First off, when we drive to town in winter, and a Pack Leader goes into a store, I always jump in their seat to keep it warm. When the Leader comes out of the store, you’d think they would reward me for this. Instead, they just tell me to go to the back of the car, as if I really hadn’t done anything special for them. My other job is in the morning. Sometimes Leader Max tries to sleep in, rather than go to the barn and feed the horses. If it starts to get too late, I whine by the bed so he knows it’s time to feed the horses. He may think it’s because I want to go out, and he grumbles at me, but it’s really to make sure he takes care of the horses on time. Also, Pack Leader Max doesn’t feed me until after he feeds the horses. The horses get fed. Then, the cats get fed. Then I get fed. You can see my predicament.

That mostly sums up my life. I’m about 44 years old now, and in my prime. I think I have it pretty good and am happy to be a member of this Pack. Way back in the year 1609, some guy named Shakespeare said every “dog will have his day.” I think every day is my day, and I try to live them all to the fullest.

Addendum:

• Both Miles and Jake have crossed the Rainbow bridge.

• The actual quote from Shakespeare is near the end of Act 5 in “Hamlet”. It is: “Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever: but it is no matter; Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.”

• Special thanks to Janet Ferri, Veronica Lindemon, Susan Crawford, Christine Brennan and Trish Hanzsche for pictures of their wonderful dogs!

Moules, Pernod and the Brussels Seafood Market

Moules, Pernod and the Brussels Seafood Market

The other evening, Cathy and I made some Mussels Pastis (Mussels with Pernod) at home. It was delicious. It was a new recipe with plenty of Pernod in it, which made it quite good and strongly flavored. The strong flavor caused me to reminisce about Brussels, Belgium and an early morning trip to the seafood market there.

Mussels Pastis – the Wonderful Dish that Brought Back the Memory

It was early in 1988. Although stationed in Germany, I was spending chunks of time in Mons, Belgium. We were upgrading the communications systems at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers, Europe (SHAPE), also known as the Headquarters for NATO. My boss, Rich, was there almost full time, while I was dividing time between Germany, Mons, and another HQ in High Wycomb, England.

When in Mons, if there over the weekend, we often made a day trip to Brussels, which was only about an hour away. The city has a great history to it, and it was fun to see the sites, including the Grand Canal, and the famous Manneken Pis, which is only about two feet high. There was also of course the famous (infamous?) Red Light District of Brussels, with women on display in storefronts. I suppose it gave a whole different meaning to the term window shopping.

What we really enjoyed was wandering the Rue des Bouchers in the Quays District in the early evening. Here, there were numerous restaurants with outdoor seating, and they also set up temporary wooden “bars” where you could buy a drink, or something lite to eat. We’d walk from place to place having a Belgian beer or French wine, along with some oysters, mussels or shrimp croquettes. Several of the places also served frites (french fries) to die for. Usually, we never sat down at a table for dinner – we’d fill ourselves at the little bars as we ambled along.

Rue des Bouchers

The mussels (Moules) were particularly awesome, and I think Brussels is where I really developed a taste for them. There were soooo many ways they served them: Moules Frites (mussels with those famous Belgian fries), Moules Marinière (mussels in a white wine sauce), Moules à la crème (mussels in a cream sauce) and Moules Pastis (mussels with a Pastis, such as Pernod the anise flavored spirit) were probably the main ones we ate.

There was one place we went to a couple of times and came to know the guy working the “bar”. We were talking with him about seafood one night, and how good and fresh it was in Brussels. We asked where was a good place to buy fresh seafood, if we wanted to take some back to Germany with us. He told us our best chance was at the wholesale seafood market that ran every day from 5AM to about 10AM, but you needed to arrive early, as the vendors ran out of their prime seafood early. The other catch was, it was a wholesale market, so you had to find fishmongers willing to sell in smaller amounts to individuals. Rich, our coworker Steve, and I talked about it and decided we’d try and take a haul of seafood back to Germany when we could.

The next time I went to Mons, I took our cooler and stopped by Rich’s house to pick up his. About a week later, we were finishing up the current portion of the project and all of us were returning home. We made the plan to pick up the seafood early on a Thursday morning, and have a big seafood dinner/party on Friday night, at Rich’s home.

Allowing ourselves plenty of time, we woke about 2:30AM and were on the road by 3:15. We arrived in Brussels an hour later, but the seafood market wouldn’t open until 5. We locates an open bistro and went in, where we joined some late night partiers, ending their evening; a few men having breakfast before going to work; and several “Ladies of the Night” who were apparently finished for the night and having coffees and brandy. We sat at an open table and ordered some coffee and fresh croissants.

Just after 5AM, we left the pub and walked over to the market. It was huge, and already quite crowded. We wandered among the stalls and trucks for a while looking to see what was available. To be honest, there were so many choices, it was a bit overwhelming. We started talking to a couple of vendors, however when they found out the small amounts (by wholesale standards) we wanted to buy, they quickly ignored us. Eventually, we found a guy willing to deal with us, and we bought everything from him – a couple kinds of fish, some lobster, and of course, plenty of oysters and mussels. Someone went back to our car for the coolers and we loaded them up. The guy was nice enough to put plenty of ice in the coolers as well.

At the Market

We arrived back at our hotel in Mons around 7:30AM and caught a couple hours of sleep, before driving back to Germany later that day. You have to remember this was pre-Internet and pre-cell phone, so it wasn’t until we returned, when we started calling people for the seafood dinner planned for the next night.

Friday night came and we all met at Rich’s house. In addition to Rich and his girlfriend Lynn, there were Cath and I, Steve and his wife Sabine, a few coworkers and Rich’s boss, Ray Sauer and his wife. It was quite the event, with grilled fish and lobster, Moules Pastis, oysters on the half shell, and fried oysters. We washed it all down with plenty of good German Pils, and some of our local dry white wines. A bottle of Sambuca, along with multiple cups of espresso may have made appearances later in the evening as well.

I hadn’t thought about that market trip, or the subsequent party for years. The Mussels with Pernod meal Cathy and I cooked, brought the memory flooding back. For me, good food has never been just about the taste of the food itself. It has always been defined as much by the place and time, and those who we are sharing the meal with. Our taste buds learn to recognize sweet, sour, salty, bitter and umami. Our minds and memories complete and complement our sense of taste. If you are lucky, years later out of nowhere, the taste of a new meal suddenly blesses you with a remembrance from your past.

For me, Good Food is Never Just About Taste

Addendum:

• Cathy and I had another memory from late ‘88 or early ‘89. I was back in Brussels to present a paper at a conference, and Cathy came with me. We were staying at a nice hotel downtown. We went out for a dinner at a nearby bistro and had Moules Frites. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a small bar for a nightcap. While having our drink, several “Working Girls” came in and sat at another table. They ordered wine and champagne, seemed to be enjoying themselves and were in a good mood. As it was earlier in the evening, we speculated they might be on break, or getting ready to go work.

• Pastis is an anise-flavored spirit and apéritif traditionally from France. Two of the best known are Pernod and Ricard. If you are looking for a substitute, Ouzo, Sambuca, Herbsaint and Absinthe are other anise flavored liquors, all with different flavor profiles.

• We’ve made Moules with Pernod at home before, but I never had the same flashback. The previous recipe only had a bit of Pernod in it. This one used a full half of a cup. I think it was the stronger flavor that triggered the memory. The recipe is from a wonderful little cookbook we have called “Cuisine of the Sun”, by François de Mélogue. I like the recipe just the way it is, but if not familiar with Pernod, you may want to cut it just a bit. Here’s a copy of the recipe:

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Mrs Ahrens – Den 1 and Pack 50

Mrs Ahrens – Den 1 and Pack 50

Another part of my childhood is gone forever. Mrs Lois Ahrens, my Cub Scout Den Mother from 1963-65, passed away on March 14th at the age of 92. On hearing the news, I was transported back in time to the joy of Tuesday afternoons, and Den meetings in her home. I also thought about the lessons we learned.

Mrs Ahrens, our Den Mother for Den 1

On Tuesday afternoons, the teachers at McKinley School in Ottawa, Illinois had conferences and as a result, we kids were released early. At eight years old, for me and many of my buddies, that meant heading to a Cub Scout Den meeting. I was a member of Pack 50 and belonged to Den 1, under Mrs Ahrens.

Those meetings are mostly a blur now, but I do have a few distinct memories. Many of the meetings were in her basement, where we engaged in some sort of craft project – maybe making a birdhouse out of popsicle sticks, or something similar. I also remember “field trips” to places of interest around town. At various times we were led on tours of the local newspaper, “The Daily Republican Times”, and a local bread bakery. I think there was also a trip to the grave of WD Boyce, the founder of the Boy Scouts. He is buried in Ottawa.

Den 1 of Pack 50 in 1964. Top row: Kenny Ahrens, Terry Johnson, Max Hall, and Dave Engel. Bottom row: Brian Eastman, Dion Sartorio, Pat Hale and Joey McGinnis.

We also had early teachings about honesty, doing our best and being prepared. I don’t suppose we thought of them as lessons at the time, but they helped lay a foundation for my life. We didn’t know what mentors were then, but looking back, that’s what Mrs Ahrens was, and a very good one at that.

Eventually, I moved on from Cub Scouts to Webelos, and then Boy Scouts. Mrs Ahrens and her family moved away from Ottawa a few years later, but I never forgot her, or the lessons she imparted to us. After fifty-some years, I still remember her, and the fun times we had in Den 1. The flood of good memories have somewhat offset the sadness I felt, upon learning of her death.

Those days were long ago, and now with her passing, the Scout Leaders of my youth are all gone. Not only Mrs Ahrens, but Harry Mayberry, our Pack 50 leader, Harry Nangle the local Police Chief and our Webelos leader, and Don Willy and Farrell Brooks, my Boy Scout Leaders. Collectively, they formed a part of who Max Hall became as an adult – an important part. I remember all of their names and the impact they had on me as a child and young man. I’m lucky to have known them, and had them in my life.

Mrs Ahren’s obituary stated in part:

  • “ Lois Rita Ahrens, affectionately known by all as ‘Honey’, born January 13. 1929, was called home to our Heavenly Father … on March 14, 2021… Honey, who was a wonderful and caring mother, grandmother and great grandmother and as sweet and kind as her nick-name suggests, leaves behind many family members and friends who will long remember her heartwarming smile, contagious good will, and joyful laughter … In lieu of sending flowers, the family invites you to honor Honey’s life by sharing a laugh and smile with a friend, hugging those you love, and remembering all the lives so tragically effected by the pandemic.”

I do remember her smile, good will, and laughter. You may not have known Mrs Ahrens, but I’m sure many of you knew someone like her, whether in Cub Scouts, Brownies, or another youth group. I ask you to join me in honoring their memories “by sharing a laugh and smile with a friend, and hugging those you love…” I think she, and they, deserve that much.

Addendum:

• Mr Ken Ahrens, Lois’s husband, was my Little League coach a couple of years later. Our team, The Yanks, won the City Championship under him in the summer of 1966 or ‘67. His son, Kenny, seen in the group picture above, was one of our pitchers and had a helluva pitching arm…

• Thanks as always to Tim Stouffer, Howard Johnson and Mark Dunavan for their thoughts and inputs to this blog. Tim and Howard were both four months younger than I, and as a result, they didn’t join Cub Scouts until four months later. They were both in Den 2, under Mrs Stouffer, but remember Mrs Ahrens as well. Mark went to a different grade school, but had memories of trying to hit pitches by Kenny Ahrens in Little League Baseball…. 😉

• The Boy Scouts played a big part in my youth. Here’s a Blog I did about Farrell Brooks and Don Willy, our Scoutmasters at the time. They were both important men in my life: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/07/11/farrell-and-don/

The Friendliest Strangers

The Friendliest Strangers

The friendliest strangers Cathy and I ever met were at a pub in the town of Blarney. It was during a long night on a short trip to Ireland in January of 1981. We had spent the day driving around County Cork, finishing up in Blarney, where we dutifully toured the castle and kissed the Blarney Stone.

Cathy kissing the Blarney Stone. Yes, that’s how you do it. Upside down, and backwards.

Afterwards, we found a B&B to stay in and then adjourned to a local pub for a drink or two before dinner. It was probably about 4PM when we entered and we were the only ones there. We sat at a small table and I went to the bar to order myself a Murphy’s Stout and Cathy an Irish coffee. It was a raw day, and after the chill of the castle, it was good to be inside and warming up.

Often times, I think the nondescript pubs and bars are the best ones.

A bit of time passed and as we were finishing up our drinks, a man came in, nodded in our direction and went to the bar where he ordered a stout. As he was sipping his pint, he turned towards us and said,

“Would you be American?”

I answered “yes”.

“Ah then, could I buy you a drink?”

Not wanting to turn down his hospitality we said yes, and joined him at the bar where he introduced himself as Conor. When Cathy ordered an Irish Coffee, he informed her he’d buy her a real drink, but not a made up one. We all laughed and she ordered a pint as well. We toasted and then talked about this and that.

A bit later, another man came in and joined us at the bar. Cath and I introduced ourselves to him. He then said,“Would you be American? Could I buy you a drink?” Of course we accepted. A bit later, a couple more guys came in, joined our group and the same thing happened. Our money was literally no good. As we drank another round, the pub started filling up.

By now it was about 7:30 at night and we still hadn’t eaten. We asked the bartender about dinner, but it turned out they didn’t serve food. At that point Conor recommended the pub across the street for dinner. We thanked him and told the group we’d be back in a bit. They laughed, said it was good to meet us, and it was plain they thought we probably wouldn’t return.

We crossed the street and entered the other pub. There was a wedding reception going on in the main room, so we slipped into the smaller adjacent bar and sat at a table. The bartender took our order for food and we both ordered some water. As we were waiting, an older man came in from the main room to talk with the bartender and then saw us and came over to say hello. We started talking and it turned out he was the father of the bride. He suddenly said “Ahhh, you’d be American. Would you like to join us at the reception? There’ll be dancing later”. We thanked him, and although he was insistent, we declined several times and said we needed to rejoin our friends back at the other bar. He bought a round of drinks for the three of us, and we proceeded to toast the bride and groom. As our food arrived, he said goodbye, and went back to the reception.

After finishing dinner, we paid and said good night to the bartender. Now, the smart thing to do at this point, would have been to return to our B&B, maybe have a whiskey with our hosts, and turn in. Instead, we proceeded back across the street, for just “one final beer” with our new old friends.

It had grown crowded in our absence. As we looked around, Conor called out and waved to us. We worked our way through the crowd and rejoined “our group” on the far side of the bar. Someone we hadn’t met before immediately bought us another beer. And so it continued for a couple more hours … “Ahhh, you’d be American. Can I buy you a drink?” Finally, around 10PM, I bought a round for about half the pub I think. There were cheers all around. I looked at the clock a bit later and it was 10:40. I thought to myself “OK, just make it to 11PM. The pub will close, and we can make our way home to the B&B.” (at the time, pubs closed at 11PM in Ireland. Nowadays, it’s 1130PM on weekdays, although Covid has currently shortened the hours.)

11PM came… and … they closed the shutters on the windows, locked the door… and … everyone kept on partying! Oh lord …

A little after midnight, the pub started emptying and we knew it was time to go. We said goodbye to Conor and our other new friends, with many handshakes, backslaps and hugs all around. Finally, we departed and made our way to the B&B.

At the B&B, we found the owner had put two rubber hot water bottles under our blankets at the foot of the bed. It was a toasty night’s sleep in more ways than one.

The next day, I felt way better than I had a right to. I suppose the hearty Irish breakfast helped. As we ate breakfast and drank our coffee, Cathy and I talked and laughed about the night before and what a great time we had. It’s amazing how quickly you can sometimes make friends when traveling. You start the night as strangers, and by the end, you are friends of sorts. Not life long buddies, but friends nonetheless. Over time, it’s certainly happened for us in other locales, and with other people, but that night in Blarney? I dunno. Maybe we gained the gift of gab from kissing the Stone, and maybe not. I do know it’s a night I’ve never forgotten.

Addendum:

That 1981 vacation was about ten days long. We spent the first five or six days in England, including New Year’s Eve at Trafalgar Square (London’s equivalent of Time Square for NY Eve at the time). We then spent five days in Ireland, including Dublin, and driving along the south coast past Waterford, eventually arriving in County Cork. Here’s a picture of Cathy along the Coast – I’m not sure why, but I really like this candid photo of her. She was 25 years old at the time.

⁃ In researching a couple of items for this blog, I found out pub lock-ins evidently happen more than you might think. Here’s an article about them: https://www.afar.com/magazine/the-late-night-secret-irelands-pubs-dont-want-you-to-know-about

– Happy Saint Paddy’s Day next week. Everyone is Irish on the 17th…

Old Friends – Dunny, Howard, June and Ben

Old Friends – Dunny, Howard, June and Ben

I’ve been honored to enjoy many great friendships over the years. Maybe due to Covid, or maybe because I am closer to the end rather than the beginning of my life, I’m more aware of that good fortune. What I feel most blessed about though, is the continuing close friendship with my childhood buddies, Tim, Kim and Mark.

New Years Eve, 1978. Mark, Howard, Tim and I appear to be doing fine.

Mark recently sent a photo of the four of us on New Years Eve, 1978. It’s a classic New Years Eve picture. Slightly blurry, it captures us at about 3AM on January 1st, and, perhaps, slightly inebriated. Plainly we are having a good time. Although we aren’t thinking of it, our youth has passed, and our adult lives stretch out in front of us. Looking at the picture now, 42 years later, I think about our friendship and the transience of our time on this earth.

Kim, Tim, Mark and Max are also known by the nicknames Howard, June, Dunny and Ben in some circles. Those guys have been my friends forever. I first met Howard and June at about three years old in Sunday School. Kindergarten followed. Mark was a couple of years later, through Boy Scouts and youth football. I sometimes think because all of us had only sisters as siblings, we became closer over the years. Friends replacing the brothers we never had…

For the four of us, there are too many good times to count, whether in grade school, high school, college or the real world. We know and accept each other as we are, and have remained friends throughout. You might have thought with me going to West Point or serving overseas in Germany for a decade, the relationships would have faded, but they never did. Neither time, nor distance, have dimmed the closeness I feel for these guys.

Living in Virginia, I don’t see the three of them as often as they see each other, but we still make good times happen when we are together. And of course, when together, in addition to making new memories, we tell stories of the old times. Sometimes, just a name, word or phrase are all we need to generate smiles or ripples of laughter – Farrell, Wrong-Way LeBeau, The Ottawa Gluttons, The Great Wisconsin Tent Mystery, Sam’s, Wolfgang, the White Sox, certain meals or nights in Chicago…. While several of the memories are of the four of us together, many are only of two or three of us doing something. We’ve all heard the stories so often by now, it’s as if we were all at all of the events. The stories grow stale to some, but not to us. They are the chronicle of our past and the evidence to each other that we have tried to live life fully.

We are all lucky enough to have wonderful partners. Our friendships have expanded during our four marriages and one divorce. Some friendships survive neither marriage nor divorce.

Currently, one of us has serious health issues. With Covid, we can’t just rush to his side to somehow help, or try to help, or just commiserate. And so we text, email and call each other, often on a daily basis. It’s not the same as being there, but I like to think it helps him, and I know it helps me. Our communal history is a comfort that binds us beyond words.

I’ve been blessed with many great friendships over the years. From family relationships, my home town of Ottawa, West Point, the Army, neighbors, our running group, the horse world, politics… the list goes on. Tim, Howard and Mark? At the end of the movie, Stand By Me, the character played by Richard Dreyfuss says “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12. Jesus, does anyone?” I count myself beyond lucky that my friends “when I was 12” have remained my good friends to this day. I love these guys. They are the brothers I never had.

Addendum: Thanks to Mark for sending the photo – it really did help start and formulate some things I’d been thinking about for awhile.

Making a Three Day Beef Daube

Making a Three Day Beef Daube

The weather had finally turned cold(er) here in the Virginia Piedmont and they were calling for snow over the next two days. This was the perfect time to make a Beef Daube and I was on a mission.

Daube is a French word that translates to stew. All daubes are stews, but not all stews are daubes. To me, daubes are thicker and richer, and are almost like a stew “sauce”, if that makes sense. I loved my mom’s beef stew, but this beef daube is something else.

This particular recipe is for a Three Day Beef Daube. It’s from a book my old friend Tim lent me called “Duck Season”. The book is about the Gascony region of France, and if you enjoy reading about other countries, particularly their food, drink and culture, I highly recommend it. The dish takes three days to make, although the steps are pretty easy. Day one – marinate the beef; day two – make and cook the daube for 2-3 hours and let it rest over night; and day three – gently simmer the daube for a couple of hours and then eat. That’s all there is to it.

Last Thursday, I pulled the chuck roast out of the freezer to thaw, and made up my shopping list. On Friday morning, I went shopping for the few things I still needed – a leek, some parsley and thyme. We had everything else at home. After a quick lunch, I cut up the beef and added it to a bowl which already included smashed garlic, sliced leak, a bouquet garni, and a bottle of red wine. Day one was done, with plenty of time left to take our dog Carmen for a walk, and in anticipation of the snow, to bring more firewood into the house.

Day two started grey and cold. When I went to the barn in the morning to feed the horses, there was a skim of ice on the pond and the air had that “pregnant with snow” feeling you sometimes get right before a storm. Predictions for snow amounts rose from 2-4” to 3-7”.

I continued with the daube around noon and day 2 was only a bit more work than day 1. I browned the beef; chopped up and sauté garlic, onions, celery, carrots and tomato; added the beef back to the pot with the vegetables, along with a new bouquet garni; and added the strained and reserved wine marinade to the pot. Once that was done, it simmered on low heat for about 3 hours.

I’ve found it’s best to take your dog for a walk while the stew is simmering, so you don’t drive yourself mad with the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. After returning from your walk, you are faced with the most difficult part of day 2. You don’t eat the daube on day 2, no matter how good it smells or tastes. Instead, you remove it from the heat, cool it to room temperature and let the daube rest overnight in the fridge. Remember, don’t eat the daube at this point in time.

Sunday, Day 3, greeted us with a blanket of snow. About 7 inches had fallen, with more expected over the course of the day. After feeding the horses in the morning, and then having my own breakfast, I plowed our drive and around the barn, and then plowed the drives of several elderly neighbors. I made it back inside for lunch, and then some playoff football.

During the afternoon, I started reheating the daube. After removing the congealed fat from the top of the daube, the pot went back on the stove for a gentle three hour simmer. Now the smells were truly driving me crazy and the football was barely a distraction. I took one more walk with Carmen and could see that we had another 3-4 inches of snow today. It was still snowing at dusk as we finished our walk, and I may need to plow again tomorrow, but that will wait.

About a half hour before dinner, I threw a baguette in the oven to warm up, and finally it was time. We served the daube over egg noodles and had it with the bread and a bottle of wine. I breathed in the aroma and took my first bite. What a great ending for a snowy weekend…

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Addendum: Here’s the recipe. It’s from the book “Duck Season”, by David McAninch.