Silver Kvells, Silver Kvells . . . .

Kvell -- from the Yiddish, to gush with pride; usually reserved for proud grandparents when new babies are placed in their arms, as in, "Oy, I'm kvelling!"

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A couple of epiphanies today: One, that it is only 9 days -- and counting! -- till Thanksgiving and Two, that is is very hard to photograph silver well, and even harder to do so in sunlight.


I was poking around in my bits of old silverplate flatware, making sure I have enough so that everyone who wants a fork gets a fork at the Thanksgiving table. Dion says he's okay without a fork, but that's just one among more than two dozen gathered for the feast.

It occurred to me that I am going to have to polish these bad boys before T-day. They are just too tarnished to use for putting food into mouths. I don't know about you,
but I always think I can taste tarnish if it's on an eating utensil.

It's not a pleasant condiment.

So it looks as if I'm going to have a date with Wright's Silver Cream in the next few days.
I'll have to figure out a good reward for myself for that chore.
And don't say my reward will be nice gleaming silverware; I stopped falling for that one when I was 12.

Today, I'm kvelling over my old serving pieces that will be called into duty next week.
I know a lot of you also love vintage silver, so here they are.

First, a charming and surprisingly weighty ladle that just arrived in the mail yesterday.
Pardon the sun reflections.

It's a Reed & Barton Tiger Lily pattern silverplate piece, from the early 1900s. This pattern morphed mid-century in Festivity, but this piece is from the old school, and I love it. It's got a gorgeous monogram. Not our initial, but so what?

Our initial is "L" and it's on the next serving pieces -- a tablespoon and a meat fork also from the early 1900s. Can you see the ridges in the business part of the fork? They give the piece so much life and sparkle.

This is Community Plate's Georgian pattern, also very heavy and in really excellent condition given it's almost a century old. This old plate lasts and is so much nicer that most of what is available today in silver plate.

I have a lot of this Georgian pattern, including a dozen or so of the big spoons; they were used for soup 'way back when, but are more the size of our serving spoons now. Here's a darling little berry spoon:

Also ridged. It will dish up homemade cranberry sauce.

Just a wee bit younger is this Art Nouveau pattern meat fork that has seen some hard use:

He's an old fella, and it shows.
I wonder if someone buffed off a monogram on the handle?

He's still got lovely lines, though. He'll get a very gentle cleaning!

Another ladle, this one also a bit worn and showing her age:

Why do I think the spoons and ladles are female, and the forks and knives are male?
Don't answer, I think I can figure this one out all by myself.
Paging Dr. Freud, paging Dr. Freud. . . .

She, too, will be cleaned very gently:

Do you buy things for odd reasons sometimes?

Take these next spoons, almost 9-inches long:

These are the Rogers Blenheim pattern, from the late 1800s.
I have never seen any knives offered in this pattern; I think they are old enough that the manufacturers
back then only made forks and spoons and serving pieces,
and knives were made by other companies and purchased separately.

Blenheim is an ornate pattern, but I bought my first few teaspoons because of its name.
Our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Dion, is brown and white, which is known as the Blenheim color in Cavaliers. But it turned out that I loved the pattern, and occasionally do an Ebay search for it.

In fact, I'm waiting for delivery of a couple of forks, and spoons. These will be my first forks.

Here's the bowl of a small Blenheim spoon, 6-inches long.
Lovely detail. It, too, will serve cranberry sauce.

Most of my pieces are plated; old plated pieces are inexpensive to buy, and some of the patterns are just charming. I do have some sterling, though, including this lovely and large vintage serving spoon:

Look at those curves!

That was a gift from my mother-in-law.
It will serve the mashed potatoes; it does so every year.

And, finally, a cheese plane -- a modern blade on a vintage sterling handle.

My family is Norwegian; cheese is definitely on the befores table at every gathering.

This pretty piece will probably slice the Nokkelost!

********************* It's Party Time! *********************

Thanks to Tam at The Gypsy's Corner for hosting Three Or More Tuesday!

Thanks to Diane at A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words for hosting 2nd Time Around Tuesday!

And thanks to Roomies blog for hosting Past Due Tuesday!

Now go visit; I know I will.

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Your moment of Peace . . . sun pouring through our dining room bay windows this afternoon:

This is why I pray fervently for a cloudy Thanksgiving! That sun shines a spotlight on any bit of dust or schmutz left behind after the pre-party cleaning.

Strong sunlight? Heck, I don't want to see myself in it! -- Cass

Brownie Mess Cookies

What computer?

I haven't spent much time online this week; I apologize to all the wonderful bloggers I have not visited! There are some computer issues here at That Old House; I am not blaming anyone; I'll just glance over at Howard and whistle.

But today, while the winds of a Nor'Easter send the leaves skittering across the conservatory roof, and rattle the old shutters something fierce, I thought I'd make a few quick and easy cookies.

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My poor husband. We hosted about 20 people for a casual dinner last Saturday night. Our daughter Alida was home from California for a a quick visit, and she invited some friends and family to the house.

We set up appetizers in the conservatory.

That's my brother-in-law Bill digging into the shrimp and the hot artichoke dip; past him, a study packed with 20-somethings, and in the foreground, my 89 year old Dad.

Now I ask you -- would you trust this man on the left
to choose and bring home dessert for the evening?

I did.
And he brought home the Mother Lode of great big bakery cookies.

I think my husband was hungry when he went shopping.

I sent the many leftover cookies home with the young people, and on Sunday night about nine o'clock, when Howard toddled off to the kitchen to scavenge for a snack, I heard him rustle thru the leftovers . . . and then I heard, "Dang!"

No cookies.
Cookies all gone with the young'uns.
But when he gets home tonight, there will be some nice freshly baked cookies for him.

I usually have brownie mix in the pantry, Duncan Hines being our house brand.

And you can make a respectable cookie with it.

You will need:

And the recipe, such as it is:

My printer isn't working. Can you tell?

Dump the mix, the oil, and the eggs into a bowl:

I tried to make a smiley face with the egg yolks as the eyes.
Hey, not everything works.

Mix it all up, by hand, as some lumps are okay. It is really stiff.
The whisk stood up all by itself in the dough.

Look! It's the Eiffel Tower!

When it is all mixed, toss in whatever you want.
Within reason. Probably not capers.

The recipe calls for 1 cup of chocolate chips, but I didn't have any. So I plunked in a handful of milk chocolate chips, some white chips, and some dried cranberries. I wanted to put in coconut, which is really good in these cookies, but Howard doesn't like coconut. I also wanted to put in some nuts, but nuts don't like Howard.

Do you have your cookie sheets stored like this?
It's my Moment of Awful Truth for today:

Someday they will tumble out and kill me.
And I will richly deserve my fate.

The cookie sheet gets a spritz of cooking spray, and it's time to make the cookies.

An ice cream scoop makes nice even plops of dough.

Dion takes up sentry duty across from the wall ovens.

Look at that concentration. He knows what is in those ovens.

Ten minutes -- voila!

Houston, we have cookies.

Sweet, huh?

Now, it would be a shame if these cookies just languished on the kitchen counter for hours until Howard gets home.

I think they need a test run, don't you? How about we go into the study,
where That Old House gets written, and bring some coffee and a couple of cookies?

The old cherry drop leaf table between the sofas is just right for holding snacks, and books.
I've been poring over kitchen books, and that's what I'll do now,
while I test drive the cookies. It is called multi-tasking.

Ummm. . . I really did eat one! And it was delicious --
a little crusty on the outside and the edges, and soft and chewy on the inside.

Remember there are many real recipes at Foodie Friday, at the Designs by Gollum blog. Go visit Michael! Now. Or no cookie for you, either!


Have a lovely weekend! We are tackling that big counter in the kitchen tomorrow, if by "we," I mean "Howard." I will be lunching and shopping with Annie in central Jersey, far from the sounds of drills and hammers. It's a good plan, don't you think? -- Cass

The Times, They Are A-Changin'

What is not changing is the on-time performance at That Old House.

Late again, to join Mary of Little Red House for Mosaic Monday, and Susan of Between Naps On The Porch for Metamorphosis Monday.

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I have a tiny excuse; my husband fiddled with something called drivers in the desktop computer yesterday, and I'm not saying that had anything to do with my not being able to load pictures from my camera, but . . . .

. . . fill in the blanks.

Anyway, I've got three transformations to show you.
Inside, outside, and inside where it's too dark to read.
Don't worry, it will all be clear if you keep reading.

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First Inside Metamorphosis!

The renovation of the kitchen proceeds.
Template Man came and did his thing with wood and staples and indecipherable marks:


We were asked to go to the fabricators and approve our soapstone slab on Saturday, so we did. Much to our surprise, it was not what we had in mind; way too much veining. We want a quiet, plain look. I'll be tramping around a stoneyard tomorrow!

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Second Inside Metamorphosis Involving a Place Where It Is Too Dark To Read!

When we returned from our foray to the stone fabricators, we found that our dog, Mr. Dion DiPoochy had availed himself of an entire package of hot dog rolls, meant for guests that evening:


See the leather sofa in the upper left shot? It is in our sunroom, and from there it is a quick hop for Mr. Dion to the kitchen counter, where he snatched one of those bags, brought it back to earth, ripped it open, and ate all but one tiny crumb of eight buns. 8 buns. 8 of them down the hatch.

He spent the rest of the day trying to stand up.

The metamorphosis in this? Well, other than Dion's visibly inflated belly,
let's just say those 8 rolls were quite unrecognizable when next they saw the light of day.

We usually have a barrier so that Dion can't take that route to the counter,
but we'd moved it because of the templating. Lesson learned.

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Third, and Outside, Metamorphosis!

Sunday morning:

Much to my surprise, Saturday night brought us temperatures in the mid-20s.

My beloved pink begonias, that have bloomed like gangbusters since May, finally succumbed to the cold. The Hydrangeas withered and curled up. The big Forsythia turned psychedelic colors. The grapevine is nearly bare, although some grapes are hanging on. A couple of frozen green tomatoes cling to shriveled vines.

Now that is a change. Anyone ready for spring yet?
Okay, I'll do Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's, but then I want Spring!

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Now, about that "inside where it's too dark to read" bit? This quote from Groucho Marx always makes me laugh:

"Outside of a dog, a book is a boy's best friend.
Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."

Just ask those eight hot dog buns! -- Cass

Hey! Who You Calling A Tart?

Here we have them -- The Gang of Four.
Four un-loved apples, rescued from the refrigerator crisper,
and looking slightly the worse for not being fresh off the tree.

Some apples are beautiful.

Some, as you see, are not.

We're going to take these round little sows' ears and turn them into lovely silk purses.

But since no one really wants to eat a silk purse, especially one made from pig ears,
we will make an Apple Tart instead.

Let's begin:


My Mom taught me to slice my raw apples directly into the pie plate, before putting in the crust,
to make sure I had enough filling because it cooks down so much.

We're not doing that today. We'll just eyeball the quantity of apples needed.
As it turns out, we only need to execute 3 of them. The 4th is given a reprieve by the Governor.


This is the hardest part of making an Apple Tart. No, not hardest. Most tedious. Why can't apples peel and slice themselves when you want them to? Probably for the same reasons that nice clean dishes won't hop out of the dishwasher and put themselves away.

Wouldn't that be cool? I'd buy dishes that could do that, and sell all my others on Ebay.

Okay, next!

Sugar the apples. You have to taste them to see how much sugar you need.
Me, I like a tart tart. Get it? Tart tart? I crack myself up.

Then pile on the cinnamon. Again, your choice.
Less cinnamon than sugar.

Finally, a bit of flour to thicken the juices. Use your judgment.

More flour if the apples are very juicy.

Toss in a pinch of salt, with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice if the apples are very sweet.
Take your crust -- confession: I used a refrigerated crust for this --
so it was simply a matter of patting it into place on the baking sheet.

Dump your nicely spiced and sugared apples onto the middle of the dough, and then
take the edges of the dough and pull them up over the apples,
pinching as you go to keep the dough tight around the filling.

You leave the center nekkid of crust.

Now, into a 375-degree oven. Baking is magic.
It will take about 45 minutes to get the tart nice and browned.
But watch it! Ovens and apples vary wildly.

While it bakes -- a disclaimer.  This pastry is more accurately called a galette.  Not a tart.
But tart is just so much funnier, don't you think?
Okay, we now return to our regularly scheduled program, and the tart is out of the oven.

I use a stoneware baking sheet to crisp up the dough:

It's no great beauty, but it will be warm and juicy and delicious.

See?

Okay, one piece gone. Who is next?

Don't forget to visit Designs By Gollum
for more Foodie Friday posts.

That's an order, or No Tart For You!

Thanks, Michael, for hosting. Now, I think I'll see what I can do with a couple of past-their-prime pears. . . . -- Cass

P.S. Mr. Dion DiPoochy appreciates all the nice comments he has gotten from people who tell him he is cute; he is basking in the attention. He insisted on being a part of this post. He thinks this means he will also get a piece of Apple Tart. He is mistaken in this. But that's all right; he will just go back to sleep on his Wally Bed, next to my desk and right next to the steam radiator. Doggy heaven.