Jambalaya Recipe

I had a request in the comments for my Jambalaya recipe. It's the one that my dear departed mom handed down to me, so it's not really written anywhere but here's my best approximation:

Jambalaya

Ingredients

Onion
Vegetable Oil
Ham (or sausage or shrimp)
Rice – 1 cup
Tomato Sauce – 1 8oz. can
Seasonings: Salt or Garlic salt, Thyme, Bay Leaf, (Tabasco if desired)

Chop a small onion.

Chop ham into small pieces

Saute the onion in the vegetable oil until the onions are translucent.

Add the ham and sauté it with the onions

Add Thyme, Bay Leaf, salt, fresh garlic if desired

Add the tomato sauce and let it heat up and then add a cup of water. ( I use the tomato sauce can to measure the water and to get the rest of the sauce from the can.)

Here’s where you can add Tabasco sauce if desired.

Bring to almost boiling and then add the rice

When the mixture is boiling, turn the heat down to low and cover. Cook until the rice is done and the moisture absorbed.

(I usually make more than one cup of rice, just double or triple the recipe)

The recipe works as well with sausage or shrimp, just add them instead of the ham.

Also,in New Orleans, you can buy seasoning ham, but I haven’t seen that anywhere else. I just buy a small ham steak and use about half of it per cup of rice.

Where Legend and History Meet

On Fairy-Stories
By J.R.R. Tolkein
The Epilogue
(Read the entire essay here)

This “joy” which I have selected as the mark of the true fairy-story (or romance), or as the seal upon it, merits more consideration.

Probably every writer making a secondary world, a fantasy, every sub-creator, wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it. If he indeed achieves a quality that can fairly be described by the dictionary definition: “inner consistency of reality,” it is difficult to conceive how this can be, if the work does not in some way partake of reality. The peculiar quality of the ”joy” in successful Fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. It is not only a “consolation” for the sorrow of this world, but a satisfaction, and an answer to that question, “Is it true?” The answer to this question that I gave at first was (quite rightly): “If you have built your little world well, yes: it is true in that world.” That is enough for the artist (or the artist part of the artist). But in the “eucatastrophe” we see in a brief vision that the answer may be greater—it may be a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium in the real world. The use of this word gives a hint of my epilogue. It is a serious and dangerous matter. It is presumptuous of me to touch upon such a theme; but if by grace what I say has in any respect any validity, it is, of course, only one facet of a truth incalculably rich: finite only because the capacity of Man for whom this was done is finite.

I would venture to say that approaching the Christian Story from this direction, it has long been my feeling (a joyous feeling) that God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men, in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: “mythical” in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man's history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has pre-eminently the “inner consistency of reality.” There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath.

It is not difficult to imagine the peculiar excitement and joy that one would feel, if any specially beautiful fairy-story were found to be “primarily” true, its narrative to be history, without thereby necessarily losing the mythical or allegorical significance that it had possessed. It is not difficult, for one is not called upon to try and conceive anything of a quality unknown. The joy would have exactly the same quality, if not the same degree, as the joy which the “turn” in a fairy-story gives: such joy has the very taste of primary truth. (Otherwise its name would not be joy.) It looks forward (or backward: the direction in this regard is unimportant) to the Great Eucatastrophe. The Christian joy, the Gloria, is of the same kind; but it is preeminently (infinitely, if our capacity were not finite) high and joyous. But this story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men—and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.

But in God's kingdom the presence of the greatest does not depress the small. Redeemed Man is still man. Story, fantasy, still go on, and should go on. The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them, especially the “happy ending.” The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone

Today has been no-pressure day of cooking and eating and hanging with the family. I just woke up from a Tryptophan induced nap:

Here's our Thanksgiving Menu:

Turkey
Oyster Stuffing
Turkey Gravy
Potatoes Au Gratin
Jambalaya
Broccoli Casserole
Cranberry Sauce
Dinner Rolls

The Turkey carcass is now on the stove boiling for the stock to make Gumbo.

Like to the Artic Needle

Here's a poem I came across from the 17th century poet, Francis Quarles

I especially like the line:
Thus finding all the world's delight to be
But empty toys, good GOD, she points alone to thee.

Here's the whole poem:
by Francis Quarles

LIKE to the arctic needle, that doth guide
The wand'ring shade by his magnetic pow'r,
And leaves his silken gnomon to decide
The question of the controverted hour,

First frantics up and down from side to side,
And restless beats his crystal'd iv'ry case,
With vain impatience jets from place to place,
And seeks the bosom of his frozen bride ;

At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest
His trembling point at his bright pole's beloved breast.
E'en so my soul, being hurried here and there,
By ev'ry object that presents delight,

Fain would be settled, but she knows not where ;
She likes at morning what she loathes at night:
She bows to honour ; then she lends an ear
To that sweet swan-like voice of dying pleasure,

Then tumbles in the scatter'd heaps of treasure ;
Now flatter'd with false hope ; now foil'd with fear:
Thus finding all the world's delight to be
But empty toys, good GOD, she points alone to thee.

But hath the virtued steel a power to move ?
Or can the untouch'd needle point aright ?
Or can my wand'ring thoughts forbear to rove,
Unguided by the virtue of thy sp'rit ?

O hath my leaden soul the art t' improve
Her wasted talent, and, unrais'd, aspire
In this sad moulting time of her desire ?
Not first belov'd, have I the power to love;

I cannot stir, but as thou please to move me,
Nor can my heart return thee love, until thou love me.
The still commandress of the silent night
Borrows her beams from her bright brother's eye;

His fair aspect fills her sharp horns with light,
If he withdraw, her flames are quench'd and die :
E'en so the beams of thy enlight'ning sp'rit,
Infus'd and shot into my dark desire,

Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soul with fire,
That I am ravish'd with a new delight;
But if thou shroud thy face, my glory fades.
And I remain a nothing, all compos'd of shades.

Eternal GOD ! O thou that only art
The sacred fountain of eternal light,
And blessed loadstone of my better part,
O thou, my heart's desire, my soul's delight!

Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart,
And then my heart shall prize no good above thee ;
And then my soul shall know thee ; knowing, love thee;
And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.

From the Stacks Challenge

Yikes, it's already November and I am nowhere near reaching the number of books I read in 2006 for this year. I signed up for a challenge to read 5 books that I already own before the end of January. Maybe that will help me get through some books that are sitting on my shelf. You can sign up too at overdue books.

Here's my list (I have more than the required 5.)

1453 by Roger Crowley

Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers

House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Truth War by John MacArthur

Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages by Mark R. Cohen

Decoding the Universe by Charles Seife

Genesis and the Big Bang by Gerald Schroeder

I Love my Life!

Today is Magic Mountain's annual Home School Family Day Private Party. If anyone needs to get in touch with me today I'll be PARTYING!

BTW (That's By the way for any non-IM-speakers) you won't find me on the above pictured ride.

What to do with Telemarketers

One of my pet peeves is people calling my house and telling lies over the phone in the interest of "telemarketing" some product to me. Well this is a funny audio clip of someone who decided to fight back against the telemarketers lies:

Tom Mabe funny phone call

Here's to 1957

I believe it's true.

You Belong in 1957

You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in!

What Year Do You Belong In?