yes, pablo, i'm listening

I don't believe in accidents. There are only encounters in history. There are no accidents. 

Pablo Picasso 

I said they always come in threes. Thursday I randomly added Picasso's otherworldly Woman With a Helmet of Hair, 1904, to my sidebar and stated in Manor Macro that I had a bit of a crush on Pablo Picasso. Friday morning, I saw an article on Picasso's Weeping Woman: The Life and Art of Dora Maar by Mary Ann Caws, pulled the copy from my little library shelf, and added it to the leaning stack on my desk for another read. Friday afternoon, on my weekly ritual trip to the thrift store, what was in my path, but a big beautiful framed print of Picasso's Mother and Child, 1921, for $18. Perfect, since I collect mother and child images. Okay, Pablo, darling, what are you trying to tell me?

red and me

Little Red and I have been slow-cooking up a wintery storm. There's nothing as inviting on a snow-laden afternoon, as the aromatics of a pot simmering in an all-day oven. This is another rustic recipe from my I Know How to Cook, by Ginette Mathiot, and my personal favorite, so far.  The succulent wine sauce was out of this world and the chicken literally fell off the bone.  Mathiot's version required making a portion of it the day before, refrigerating overnight and finishing the next day.  Forget the "next day" business.  Here's my slightly modified version:

Coq Au Vin


3 Tbsp oil
1/2 cup butter scant
3 1/2 pound capon or chicken, cut into pieces
1/3 cup flour
1/4 cup cognac
generous 2 cups of red wine
salt and pepper
3 cloves garlic, crushed
6 1/2 oz. button mushrooms
1 large onion, chopped
3 1/2 oz. bacon, diced

Heat the oil and butter in a heavy pan (I used my trusty Hoosier cast iron skillet, a Howard County, Indiana legacy, inherited from my dear aunt). Add the chicken pieces and cook over medium high heat until browned on all sides. In a separate pan, while the chicken is browning, cook the bacon and onion. Remove chicken from pan. Sprinkle in flour and continue to cook, stirring. Remove from heat, pour in cognac and simmer to evaporate. Pour in wine, season with salt and pepper and add garlic. Place chicken pieces, bacon, onions and mushrooms in a Dutch oven. Pour pan sauce over and bake covered for two hours at 300 degrees.

ring my bell

From the start, we knew the manor had its imperfections; faulty wiring, antiquated plumbing, and a gaping hole in the dining room ceiling, just to name a few. But the place had a certain irresistible charm that rose from its nooks and crannies like the scent of baking bread.

The dry Ohio summer of 1988, we jumped into the venture with young romantic hearts and have never regretted the plunge. It really isn't a manor, so to speak, but a ramshackle French country style limestone and cedar house, on four acres along the Scioto River, built in 1927 and named "Willow Manor" by the first owners.  The willows once lining the stone culvert, stretching east to west across the property, sadly, are gone.

The manor doorbell is wired to ring in the kitchen. A small celluloid box, covered with years of paint, is fixed in the corner of the room, above the cabinets on the soffit near the ceiling. Upon our first arrival at the manor, it produced a delightfully old fashioned "ding-dong". Fifteen years ago, or so, for reasons unknown, the ding-dong was replaced by a loud, disconcerting, guttural choke.  It was quite amusing for unsuspecting guests to hear the sudden strangulation, after which I would nonchalantly call out, "Honey, get the door!"  I'm sure it was all a bit too "Addams Family".

A few years ago, after a long absence, the "dong" part of ding-dong randomly returned. Strange, since I had grown fond of the death bell's quirky heralding, a delicious air of perpetual Halloween. Was it possessed by one of the resident manor ghosts? Probably not, but it did add a certain ambiance.

frozen Scioto and loot

Our snowy drive along the frozen Scioto River, January 22, 2011.

Yesterday, we braved the single digit temps, hopped aboard the trusty old green Land Rover and took the scenic route along the frozen Scioto River on a snowy drive to the Scott Antique Market. Hundreds of vendors set up their booths at the Franklin County Fair Grounds once a month, from November through March. They happen to have a show in Atlanta, as well, for those of you who live in that southern neck of the woods.  I thoroughly enjoyed pulling my little red two-wheel vinyl cart on a long slow meander in search of hidden treasure. I pride myself on having learned the art of dickering. It certainly adds to the trill of the experience. This month, I came home with a cart load of loot and only spent twenty bucks. I call it loot, since it was such a steal. Twenty. Can you believe it?

The winter white loot consists of a pair of vintage silverplate candlesticks $5, 

chunky cream ceramic candlesticks $1 each,

(one can never have too many candlesticks)

a ceramic industrial glove mold $8 and a white ironstone pitcher $5.

It all looks very much at home at the manor, don't you think?  

quietly civilizing

There is something quietly civilizing

about sharing a meal with other people.

The simple act of making someone something

to eat, even a bowl of soup or a loaf of bread,

has a many-layered meaning.

It suggests an act of protection and caring,

of generosity and intimacy.

It is in itself a sign of respect.

Nigel Slater

When snow is coming down in boatloads, nothing warms the body and spirit quite like a steaming bowl of homemade soup. A favorite here at the manor is ham and bean.  I like to save the bone from the holiday ham (not one of those pre-cooked, spiral sliced hams; a wonderful uncooked ham roasted all Christmas morning and eaten for brunch) in the freezer until the perfect cold January day.  Well, today was the perfect snowy day. My recipe varies a bit from year to year, but this one turned out to be extra delicious.

Willow's Ham and Bean Soup

1 ham bone with meat scraps
2 cups dry navy beans
3 carrots, diced
3 ribs celery diced
1 large onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, smashed
1 bouquet garni (I used fresh sage)
1 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp white pepper
salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Place all the above ingredients in a Dutch oven, (I used Little Red) fill with water, cover and bake in 325 degree oven for at least 3 hours, or until beans are tender.  Discard bouquet garni, remove bone, pull off any attached meat, dice and return to pot.  Serve with warm cornbread. Wear woolly socks.

Willow's Cornbread

3/4 cup cornmeal
1 1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp sea salt
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup skim milk
1 egg
1/2 cup oil

Mix gently until just moistened. Turn into a greased 8 x 8 or 9 inch round pan. Bake 375 for about 20 minutes or until toothpick comes clean.


Click HERE for my other soup recipes.

does my butt look big in this?

Tailgate Party



We are clearly

my distant cousins in bustles
Hattie Blanche Hanna and Ida Ellen Hanna
Carroll County, Indiana
circa 1880s

at a disadvantage

without them;

parts of our personage

set loose in butt-sprung

spandex. Nothing disguises

our plussed derrieres.

Our foremothers

wore add-on cabooses,

cushions well served

in the art of subterfuge,

not to mention

ice skate protection,

and padded tushes

for stumblebum trippers.

Why not rustle them

back with a few snaps

and zippers? A great way

to hide a large rump,

don’t you think, since all

will attribute its shape

to the bustle.

Tess Kincaid

January, 2011

my great aunt Winnie Hanna with friends and skates (right)
Ervin Township, Howard County, Indiana, 1905


Would you like me to read this poem to you?

little red

One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.

Luciano Pavarotti, My Own Story




Have I mentioned my little red pot?  It's my new favorite kitchen thing. I've had my eye on a lovely Le Creuset cast-iron Dutch oven, for the last several years, but just couldn't rationalize forking over three hundred bucks for a pot.  Just before the holidays, my local Aldi store had Dutch ovens for $39. Can you believe it? My red beauty is just as nice, and I love it even more because it was such a bargain.

I promised a chicken recipe from my new I Know How to Cook by Ginette Mathiot, but I must post this recipe, from the same book, first.  Last year's film Julie and Julia sent everyone scurrying to make this dish, but I would venture to say Julia Child most likely learned to make Beef Bourguignon from Ginette Mathiot. I served this rustic delight with crusty bread for sopping and a glass of Merlot. The slow-cooked beef melts in your mouth and the scent wafts through the house all day. Heaven.

Beef Bourguignon


1 Tbsp oil
3 oz. pearl onions  (I used regular, chopped)
3 1/2 oz. small bacon cubes  (I used sliced, chopped)
1 1/2 pounds stewing beef, cut in pieces
1/4 cup flour, scant
1 1/4 cup any stock, hot  (I used beef broth)
1 1/4 cup red wine
1 bouquet garni  (these are so fun, I used fresh rosemary and sage)
salt and pepper  (I left out the salt, since the stock and bacon added enough)
4 oz. mushrooms, chopped  (I left them whole)


In a heavy pan over medium heat, heat the oil and pay fry the onions and bacon cubes until browned.  Remove, add the meat and brown on all sides.  Sprinkle with flour, stir until browned, then add the hot stock. Add the bacon cubes, onions, wine and bouquet garni and season with salt and pepper.  Simmer gently on low for 2 hours, add mushrooms and cook for 30 more minutes.

Note:  I doubled the recipe, since we love leftovers at the manor.  I baked it all afternoon at 250 degrees in my little red pot, instead of simmering on the stove top.

root canal

The mobile spins

from a bent wire, like a cage

from the ceiling. It does nothing

to distract me. We play a little game

of waiter and customer; the deeper

he goes, the more it costs. I think

about tablecloths, as his long,

hairy hands fink, absurdly personal,

around my pink sidewalls.

He, and his assistant, chat

innocuously about the longevity

of parrots and H & R Block.

I listen, as the alien-high squawk

drowns Neil Diamond and spatters

my goggles. Hours later, mute,

I disengage, tumble out

to the magazine readers, fuzzy

and buzzy, like I’ve been shaved

by a drunken barber.

Tess Kincaid

January, 2011

Would you like me to read this poem to you?

Well, I did it. I braved the most dreaded of all dental procedures today. I had a root canal. Actually, I will say that the whole process was completely pain free. Okay, I have a very high pain threshold, but must admit, I was terrified the entire two hours.

photo borrowed from Google images

my beloved serenades me

My beloved serenades me

every evening after midnight

in the deepest, darkest hours,

sleeping softly, fresh as flowers.

Billows sweep; I hold on tight.

My beloved serenades me.

Charming lullaby, my sweet.

Power saw blows on with might

in the deepest, darkest hours,

like a backfire in the street.

Alarming throat play, never light;

my beloved serenades me.

Scaling walls at half past three,

roaring melody, my plight.

In the deepest, darkest hours,

betwixt pillows, still, I cower.

My beloved serenades me

in the deepest, darkest hours.

Tess Kincaid

January, 2010

My deepest apologies to King Solomon.

Would you like me to read it to you?

très bizarre

That's the effect of living backwards, the Queen said kindly: it always makes one 

a little giddy at first--Living backwards! 

Alice repeated in great astonishment. I never heard of such a thing!

--but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways.

I'm sure MINE only works one way, Alice remarked. 

I can't remember things before they happen.

It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards, the Queen remarked.

Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

illustration from Ces Gens Qui Passent by Andre Gerard

I don't understand synchronicities, but they happen to me quite often, usually visiting in groups of threes.  Do these meaningful coincidences randomly land in our laps, or are we tuned into a certain subject and therefore take note?  I'm not sure, but I think it's fascinating. They certainly grab my attention. Does it mean my memory works both ways? I like to think so.

One morning last week, for instance, it all started at my local Goodwill store, when I spotted a quirky little French conversational textbook, Ces Gens Qui Passent (The People That Pass), 1951, by Alice and Paul Langellier. I loved that it was full of delightful pen and ink illustrations by Andre Gerard. It was only $1.50, so I scooped it up and popped it in my bag.

Later that same afternoon, my daughter texted to say she had arrived safely in Paris for a visit with friends. For dinner, that evening, totally unplanned, mind you, I made a spur-of-the-moment delicious rustic French chicken recipe from my new I Know How to Cook book, by Ginette Mathiot. (Stay tuned for the recipe later this week.)

Afterwards, we turned on Turner Classic Movies and The Lavender Hill Mob, also made in 1951, by the way, was playing. It's a charming little film by Ealing Studios, about a timid bank transfer agent (Alec Guinness) who plans a gold heist and arranges for it to be melted down into Eiffel Tower souvenirs.  There's a fabulously silly film sequence of Guinness and Stanley Holloway, his cohort in crime, dizzily running down the steps of the Eiffel Tower, still spinning when they reach the bottom.

Last, but not least, shuffling through the mail, I spotted a red Netflix envelope.  Inside was a film I added months ago, Shoot the Piano Player (Tirez Sur le Pianiste), 1960, a casual, but magical French film, with lots of excellent acting and a great musical score. Ahead of it's time, I think. I'm adding it to my favorites list.

All in all, I had a very lovely, however très bizarre, French day.

cold war

I can hear the drill alarm

grinding loud in a Midwest tank town.

Crouched beside me, head down,

Rory Fiocchi whispers under his breath,

“This time they’re gonna nuke us.”

White knuckling the school-desk legs,

fear pangs my solar plexus,

as I wonder what kind of radiated eggs

will appear. It’s not recess. Mute,

we leave death to the professionals.

A family still hangs here in the dark,

like sick dogs, over the loot of a dozen

canned goods, toys and a transistor radio,

waiting for the nuclear fog to lift.

Stark silence drowns out the noise.

The current owner enjoys

this old root cellar. It keeps produce

cool in the winter, but not frozen.

He prefers radishes year round,

you know. That’s the beauty of it.

Tess Kincaid

January, 2011

There's a stone root cellar, built partially underground in a terrace behind Willow Manor. Until recently, we  thought it was an old fallout shelter left over from the Cold War.  Back in November, Barbara posted a wonderful article on root cellars on her informative blog Folkways Notebook. You can read it HERE.


Would you like me to read this poem to you?

fritters, popeye style

Now that the holidays are officially over, and I've had my fill of the rich and decadent, I find myself craving green. Somewhere back in my ancestry, a certain Grandfather "Pop" Eye must be lurking.  I adore spinach, but my forearms aren't that big.

The very first recipe I made from my new I Know How to Cook  by Ginette Mathiot was this lovely side dish.  They are vibrant jewel-toned green, crisp and creamy delicious inside. Actually, I would say they were more of a fritter than a croquette. A pinch of flour to the mixture might make them a bit fatter.  I served them as a brunch side dish, but they would be delicious with just about anything.


Spinach Croquettes

1 cup Béchamel sauce (mother of all sauces, a basic white sauce)
1 3/4 pounds cooked, drained and pressed spinach (two 10 oz. bags of fresh to start)
2 eggs, beaten
3/4 cup grated Gruyère cheese, 1/2 cup butter scant

Make the Béchamel sauce. Process the spinach in a food processor until smooth, and mix with the sauce. Add the eggs and cheese. Heat the butter in a skillet. When it is hot, drop spoonfuls of the spinach mixture gently into the pan and cook for 2-3 minutes on each side, until browned.  Serves 6.  Note: make sure you press all the cooking liquid from the spinach.  I twisted it in a clean tea towel.