That’s my desk at work.
And that’s also a tator tot hotdish.
Allow me to explain…
My amazing boss Neesha decided to wet my appetite for Midwestern foods before I flew back home last Wednesday. She contacted Cora and my mom for a hotdish recipe earlier this month in hopes of making it for my birthday, but an emergency left her unable to prepare the dish on time. As a surprise/holiday treat, my coworkers and I sampled the “foreign” food a little later than planned, but everyone seemed to enjoy it. Someday they’ll stop doubting me and my Minnesotan concoctions.
I am incredibly excited for my upcoming Thanksgiving trip to Minnesota. Tonight I began filling my suitcase even though I don’t fly out until Wednesday, which means my level of anticipation has somehow overcome my intense hatred for packing.
Two of my coworkers took trips to the Midwest within the past few weeks, and they made me jealous with tales from Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota and South Dakota. It’s always hilarious to hear a Southerner recount experiences from up north. My coworker Travis attempted to test the authenticity of my Minnesotan farm girl-ness by texting me a photo of a calf from Wisconsin and asking, “What kind of cow is this?”
It was a Dutch Belted. He really should have chosen a more difficult breed.
Travis also did some philosophizing while he sat in his hotel room trying to escape the temperatures that seemed frigid to a South Carolinian but undoubtedly mild to everyone else in Wisconsin, I’m sure. He said:
The people of the Midwest are too d@mn nice. I think it’s the cold. I think their preservation instinct compels them to work as a unit because they know that’s the only way they’ll make it.
I don’t care what causes the “Minnesota nice,” but I feel long overdue for a giant dose of it. Also, I just might freeze my buns off this week.
Today I had the opportunity to speak with my friend, Arthur, who is in the midst of his first trip to Madison, Wisconsin, to visit one of our fellow Ithaca College friends. He insists on referring to the state as “Wisgansin” to poke fun of the native accent, but admitted that it’s pretty cool…meaning both chilly and awesome (naturally). This is ultimate praise coming from a New Jerseyan.
We ended up talking about work, jobs and the future because he’s about to take a new position, and I thought you all might enjoy an excerpt:
Arthur: Shucks that you love Minnesota so much.
You and David could go find jobs in Europe or something.
Me: Ehhhh that’s not my thing.
Travel, of course. But I want to live near family.
Especially since my family is pretty darn awesome!
Arthur: Haha, yeah I got as much.
You should all relocate when they retire.
Me: Retire? Farmers never retire.
Obviously you haven’t been in the Midwest long enough.
My grandfather “retired” and moved to town when I was in the single digits of my youth, but he continued help with odd jobs on the farm for many, many years.
I also used to love when two “retired” farmers would come into Scofield’s pharmacy at the same time and talk with urgency about grain prices, the weather, how much beef calves were selling for, and the rising price of equipment even though none of these factors actually had an impact on their everyday lives anymore. It was a matter of principle to stay informed.
My mom hauls my dad’s old Progressive Farmer, Farm and Ranch, and Farm Journal magazines with her to work because the “retired” farmers who live in the nursing home enjoy reading them.
I feel like I’ve made my point here. Saying a farmer “retires” is just like saying someone stops being a parent simply because their child grows up. It’s not gonna happen, people.
This is the biggest thing to happen at Hannah’s Bend park since my family reunion last month!
I hope my city town represents itself well. I have a feeling Cannon Falls is going to see a population surge for the few hours our Commander-in-Chief comes a-calling. I mean, when you start out at a population of 4,000 it’s not that difficult to raise your numbers exponentially. Yay!
I introduced my coworkers to the wonders of Midwestern salad yesterday. I cannot remember how we started talking about the Midwest’s picnic and banquet staple, but they expressed shock and awe. “Jell-O, whipped cream and pudding in a salad? This cannot be!” they said.
I was adamant that, yes, people make and eat this food. It is actually called salad, and I tried to tell them that variations on the dish are quite delicious. Evidently I proved my argument too successfully: I was volunteered to bring a salad to work tomorrow.
So tonight Lena and I chopped Snickers bars, green apples and mixed in some whipped topping to make — what else — Snickers Salad.
I learned in my hearty debate yesterday that Snickers Salad even has its own Wikipedia page. (How could these foolish coworkers have doubted my authenticity?)
The entry reads:
Snickers Salad is a mix of Snickers bars, Granny Smith apples, and whipped cream or whipped topping served in a bowl.[1][2] It is a potluck and party staple in some parts of the Midwest of the United States, where the “salad” is popular alongside glorified rice, pistachio salad, jello salad and hotdish. It is sometimes included in church cookbooks.[3]
Snickers salad is easy to make: the ingredients are simply combined.[4] As to whether it is a salad or a dessert, popular lore has it that it depends on which end of the table it is sitting.[3] Variations include the addition of grapes, sliced bananas, crushed pineapple, vanilla pudding, buttermilk, lemon juice, sour cream, cream cheese, marshmallow cream, and mayonnaise.[3] There are also sweet variations that include chocolate chips, candy sprinkles, chocolate or caramel sauce, peanuts, and crushed pretzels.[3]
Ewww. I’m sticking to the original recipe for tomorrow. I don’t think my coworkers would appreciate eating mayonnaise with their Snickers before noon.
I’m also taking the Vasa Lutheran Church Cookbook to work. My boss specifically asked me, “Please tell me you also have recipes for hotdish?”
Why yes, I believe I have one or twenty. The names of Midwestern foods are so novel for my coworkers that hype and anticipation are growing for my salad. A few emails have circulated to announce my treat’s grand debut.
Reaction one:
Everyone. Laura’s got this. She’s going to bring Snicker Salad and other Midwestern concoctions. Don’t ask. Bring an open mind. Also, Tums.
Reaction two:
Snickers Salad? A groundbreaking treat!
Man, I’m such a groundbreaker. I’ve really outdone myself this time by making something that takes 10 minutes, three ingredients and slight upper-body strength. But then there’s the secret ingredient: a Midwestern childhood.
I’m sitting here, watching the Vikings/Packers game with probably the only other person in the state of Georgia who jumps, screams, claps, and swears while rooting for the Norsemen. Somehow the ruckus Cora and I are making has shooed Harold off the couch and to the isolation of his computer. This is the same man who would have enjoyed ESPN playing in the background of his wedding had Cora not found a string quartet to book.
Anyway, I don’t think Swansons know how to watch a football game quietly. We CERTAINLY don’t know how to watch a rival game quietly.
My birthday is in November and I remember an unfortunate party my mom planned when I turned six or seven. You see, half of my family roots for the Vikings and the other half for the Packers. When all these riled up relatives crammed together in front of the TV in my living room, I suddenly wished I received world peace rather than a Skipper doll for the occasion.
If I were in Minnesota right now, I’d be enjoying the hype generated for NFC North games. It’s so amusing when local news crews head out the bars to get “fan reaction,” which just happens to be the same every year. After all, those “high hopes for a Superbowl win” always seem to come to fruition.
All right, I can’t take this multitasking anymore. I need to turn my attention back to the television so I can be in 100% agony over this game, rather than 90% anxious and 10% nostalgic.
Food Coma
I just got home from my first Labor Day weekend camping trip. Many Minnesotans use the three-day weekend as an opportunity to drive out to the wilderness for a last summer hurrah in their campers fueled on high gas prices. Seeing as my family camps about as frequently as a lunar eclipse, we don’t own an RV. Instead, my mom proudly pitched the tent that she totes around on backpacking trips. Luckily for me, the camping trip was sponsored by members of our extended family who own Winnebagoes so I slept on a sofa bed instead of a sleeping bag. For me, this luxury changed the trip from a battle with the great outdoors into a battle of the great portion size. Let me explain:
My dad is one of three boys. Each of their wives and one daughter was in charge of bringing food for the weekend. Chances are if you know my dad, you know how much he can eat. His brothers have equally enormous appetites and their wives and children have been brainwashed over time to think that they need to feed a small army at each holiday. I would like to add that rules were established about how much food each family was allowed to contribute prior to the trip. Each family was supposed to bring one salad (of the Midwestern marshmallow or pasta variety), one dessert, one snack, breakfast food, and any meat they wanted to grill for supper.
Every single woman broke the rules.
My Auntie Jane, for example, brought three desserts, two salads, and two kinds of homemade bread.
My cousin Cynthia brought nearly a dozen kinds of snacks. Our 2 o’clock smorgasbord featured five kinds of cheese, six varieties of cracker, dips as far as the eye could see, and an abundance of sweet treats. This was just a warm up exercise for supper a few hours later with the salads that matched almost every color in the rainbow.
After an enormous breakfast this morning we loaded up the trunk and headed for home. This afternoon I crashed on the couch even though the last two days have been nothing but relaxing. Apparently over-eating is hard work.
The case of the disappearing house
This summer’s weather has been nearly perfect for growing corn. Each time I cruise down my driveway I’m reminded of how the right combination of rain, heat, and humidity can turn a simple seed into the stately stalks that dominant the Minnesota landscape. This summer the corn fields surrounding my house are trying to reach for world domination. Right now you can barely see my home from the road. Believe it or not, our house actually has a first floor, though you’d never know it! Some days it feels like the corn is creating an isolation zone for my family. Our present situation reminds me of the Lonestar song called My Front Porch Looking In. The song includes the lyrics:
The only ground I ever owned was sticking to my shoes
Now I look at my front porch and this panoramic view
I can sit and watch the fields fill up
With rays of glowing sun
Or watch the moon lay on the fences
Like that’s where it was hung
My blessings are in front of me
It’s not about the land
I’ll never beat the view
From my front porch looking in
I’ve been listening to a lot more country music this summer mostly because it seems so fitting for my present rural existence. I love hearing about small town Saturday nights, little things in life that mean the most, and when weekends go by faster and beer starts tasting colder.
I can’t help but think that the reason the Lonestar song is so catchy is because it’s 100 percent accurate. Above, you can see the view from my front porch looking out. It leaves a little something to be desired: a little something called a view.
It’s not every year that my dad plants the field surrounding my house with corn. My mom and I like it when he plants hay between our farmstead and the highway. The extra acreage of green creates the illusion that our lawn could rival Versailles in size.
Tonight we ate our first sweet corn meal of the season. Theoretically, we could have been eating sweet corn for a few weeks now but we always hold off on buying cobs from the grocery store or road-side pickup truck stands. You see, we plant a sweet corn patch that we share with our neighbors. I asked my dad exactly how much he planted this year and our plot is 18 rows deep and about 3/4 of an acre long. To translate for my dimensionally challenged, non-farmer friends: THAT IS A LOT OF FRICKIN’ CORN.
While I’m on the subject of both translation and corn, I feel the need to reiterate the difference between field corn and sweet corn for my Northeastern pals. Those of you who have already heard me describe the difference can just pat yourself on the back for the moment. Those of you who are hearing this info for the first time can thank me the next time you feel smart for knowing the difference or when you make it to the million dollar question on some overly-enthusiastic game show because you answered another question along the way based on info gathered from your favorite country bumpkin, moi.
Field Corn: Is the vast majority of corn grown in the U.S. and therefore what you usually see along the road. Field corn isn’t eaten by people but rather fed to animals. It has a higher yield, meaning farmers harvest more product per acre than sweet corn. It’s also used in manufacturing.
Sweet Corn: Is only for human consumption. It has a higher sugar content in the kernel making it, well, delicious. The stalk is about two feet shorter than field corn and the growing season is shorter.
If you have any other questions about Zea mays or any other member of the cereal grain family, feel free to give me a shout out. I’ll pass your inquiry along to my dad who’s happy as a clam with the potential for a bumper crop this year on the fields surrounding my home.
There’s a phrase that a man’s house is his castle. Congrats, Dad. You finally got your very own Corn Palace.
Welcome to pickle season
The smell of vinegar has finally dissipated from my house. Yesterday my mom went on a vegetable bender as she tried to use up some of the garden goodies that are lying all over our kitchen counter and filling our refrigerator’s crisper drawers to the brim. By the end of the day, she had made one batch of pickles, one zucchini cake, and an enormous wok of stir-fry consisting of three varieties of pepper, onion, scallions, carrots, celery, and more zucchini. I just checked and despite her valiant effort our kitchen still looks like it could be the poster child for Whole Foods.
The funny thing is, my family doesn’t even grow a vegetable garden. Our veggie surplus is the result of neighbors and friends who gifted us their excess and a trip to the farmers’ market. I can only imagine how daunting it must be for other people to have an entire garden ripening before them and only so much stomach capacity.
One way that people around here make their food last a little longer is through canning, freezing, and pickling. I understand the appeal of trying to make some of the fruits and vegetables from Minnesota’s short-but-sweet summer carry over into the winter months, but some things I just can’t endorse. I fully support my mom’s traditional cucumber pickles but I just don’t believe everything CAN or SHOULD be pickled. Because of my dad and my grandpa, I’ve been exposed to pickled beets, watermelon, crab apples, cabbage, and peppers.
Ishhhh. I’ll just stick to the gherkins, thank you very much.
That’s all for now. A piece of chocolaty deliciousness also known as zucchini cake is calling my name. Since there’s an entire vegetable hidden skillfully in the 9 x 13, it must be healthy, right?
