There’s a market not too far from me that carries banh mi sandwiches. It used to be just Tuesdays and maybe one other day, but they’re stocked every time I’m there, which isn’t always a Tuesday.

They’re not the finest banh mi – that would require real roast pork slices, and a long time ago, the market sold those very sandwiches, with rich, red, crusty slices of roast pork, ruffles of cilantro, incendiary slices of small Vietnamese peppers, thick, high-quality mayo, tomato slices, cucumber and carrot shreds. Instead, this banh mi uses some kind of ham-like matter and what I call Vietnamese bologna. A sliced-from-a-roll,  smooth textured lunch meat that I’ve seen for sale only once, understandably.

It’s worth speculating on how many aspects of a sandwich you can degrade and still maintain the sandwich’s desirability. This one still makes the cut, but barely.

The sandwich price seems to change occasionally, or for me anyway. That’s the MO of the market. On three visits, the item I’m holding is somehow, so-mysteriously mismarked with a price that’s to low by up to 50 cents.  “That price mark wrong,” the owner will say. And a higher price is mentioned. Once I naively paid it. Another time I paid it, knowing I was being overcharged, but the item (white peppercorns? coconut milk?) still cost much less than in a conventional grocery. And once I put the item back on the shelf.

It’s not against the law, what the store is doing. Chicanery, yes. Illegal, no. There’s a long, fine tradition of special Anglo pricing. Now that I’ve figured out what’s going on, I confirm the price of everything before I get to the register. Or I am prepared to put it back  on the shelf.

Why do I go there? Because it feels so good when I leave.

I live on the same street where I grew up. Different house, other end of the street, and 30 years later, but same street.

It’s one of those epic streets: hidden in plain sight near two excellent schools, close enough to shopping but not close enough to be part of the gridlock at holidays, a great sledding hill, spectacular autumn foliage, older houses, nice but not flashy, not too distant from downtown. Some of the neighbors have been here  more than 30 years.

My three-doors-down neighbor here is … my backyard neighbor from back then. Andrew and his brothers were friends of my brothers. Our back yards adjoined and our doors were always open. They were great neighbors then, and they’re great neighbors now.

The lady of the house, Andrew’s mother, was from the Northeast US originally, and when I was visiting one day, she was baking blueberry buckle. This was the 1970s, and I was maybe 12 years old and had never eaten a fresh blueberry, so it seemed like the most exotic food ever. I went home and asked my mom to make a blueberry buckle. She called the neighbor and got the recipe.

A lot changed after that.  My parents’ marriage ended and my mom’s life went into a slow-mo trainwreck that scattered her possessions across several states. My neighbor married someone very nice, and after 20 years, moved into the house 3 doors down from mine. His wife and I have become close enough friends that we swap gifts often.

I recently found the original recipe card of the Blueberry Buckle recipe, written in my deceased mother’s hand. I’m giving her the card (or a really good copy of it — I can’t decide) for Christmas.

When I look at it, I think of a time when we were all happy. It isn’t just a piece of paper to me — it’s an artifact from a long, shared past. Besides the associations, there’s the intimacy of a handwritten recipe in this day of recipes printed from the Internet and torn from magazines.  And if none of that meant anythingto my friends, it’s still her mother-in-law’s recipe, and makes a really good Blueberry Buckle.

I’ve written before about Beatrice Ojakangas’ Great Whole Grain Breads, which has been my best baking buddy for more than 15 years. We’re like an old couple that know each other well: I know that when I prepare a recipe, my dough will require about 20 percent more flour (or less liquid) than the recipe calls for. Her standard formula is between 2 and 3 cups of flour per 1 cup of  lquid. At that ratio, my dough is very sticky, almost like batter.

Ojakangas lives somewhere in the great northern Midwest, where flour is grown and processed, so I’ve thought maybe her flour is fresher than mine and absorbs less water.  But it was this way even in England, where food is fresher and more local.

At the last IACP conference, Shirley Corriher and Harold McGee held an open question and answer session. I submitted my question about the recipes being so consistently different from my experience, and it was selected for answering. I wasn’t present at the session– a colleague of mine attended that session  while I attended another – but the answer was that it must be the age of the flour or the formulation.

Flour formulation does make a difference in bread texture. There are  hard wheat flours (better for pasta and sturdy peasanty breads) and soft wheat flours (better for biscuits and cakes) and mixtures of the two, such as all-purpose flour. Non-wheat flours are a whole other ball game.

Even within wheat flour, there are a couple dozen grades of flour, based on color and texture, and different processes, too, like stone-grinding, which supposedly grinds the grains without  … I don’t know, exactly. Something bad. I heard a couple of years back about a process that shatters whole grains rather than grinds them and is supposed to be better.

At every step, processing differences yield a slightly different result. White Lily flour is (or was, anyway, before the company was sold) so fluffy and velvety because chlorine bleach was used for bleaching it, and the chlorine broke down a cell wall in the starch so the contents — pure wheat starch — could spill out.

You could bake a dozen loaves of bread with a dozen different types of flour and get as many results. I find that I get consistently superior results by sticking with Harvest King flour. It has every attribute to make it the right tool for the job: the right wheat mix, extra gluten.

Speaking less scientifically and more poetically, I love everything about Harvest King: the fresh, wholesome, wheaty smell, the serious but attractive packaging, its position on the bottom supermarket shelf, where the cognoscenti seek it out. I love having it in the cabinet, like guys love having a coping saw or other specialized tool.

Dough made with Harvest King is gluten-y and springy and powers upward in the oven. And it turns out the best damn bread, light and chewy, whatever recipe you use.
I get great results from it, but still with the ratio problem. I still don’t see how formulation could account for a 20 percent variation in a liquid-to-flour ratio. If you have an answer, I’d be curious to hear about it.

A friend gave us venison back strap — a generous gift, as you already know if you’re a hunter.I settled on a vinegar-soy-sesame oil marinade, then a wrap of bacon and a drizzle of blueberry pomegranate syrup and a turn under the flames.

Big Fella saw me deeply involved with the vegetable side dishes and asked what he could do. He doesn’t cook, per se,  except for the odd skillet-browned bratwurst and soysage scramble, because he doesn’t have to.

Also, he’s a perfectionist who finds the most difficult possible way to do everything. It always turns out a superior result, but it’s maddeningly slow. Example: when it’s his turn to top the pizza, he chops each topping into microscopically small bits, thenspreads them with precision over the pizza. It takes ages.

But honestly, dinner needed attention. “You could wrap the venison pieces in bacon,” I offered. “But here’s the thing: the bacon will melt, and the fat will spread over the meat naturally, so don’t spend a lot of time trying to cover every millimeter of the meat with bacon.” Because wthout directions, he’d spend 30 minutes and  use a whole pound of the better-than-usual bacon we bought.

When I cook Chinese, I use a mise en place system because you’d be crazy not to, and end up with cruddy results.

For other cuisines, my aprons and dishtowels tell the story. I stop often to wipe my hands clean so I can prep the next step, because I didn’t set it out before I started.

When I checked in on Big Fella’s progress, I just had to shoot a photo. This perfect mise was the handiwork of my husband, whose car is a rolling trash can and whose office has corners piled so high with crap that we’ll have to hire a professional. I can’t explain it, so I had to document it.

About 12 years ago I wrote a story for the Nashville Banner on Nancy Johnson of White House Tennessee, who seemed at the time to be the winningest-ever state fair entrant.

In 1991 she entered 23 categories of pickles, preserves and baked goods, winning 13 of them. In 1992 she entered 34 categories and won 25 prizes, which she called “a good year.” In about 1997, she won $300 in prize money: $125 from Pillsbury’s pie contest and the rest from competitions that paid from $3 to $15. Do the math: that’s a lot of winning. Her biggest year was ‘75, when bumper crops in the garden let her enter 30 canned goods, along with nine baked goods. She won almost every category.

She was a great interviewee and a fascinating cook with a sure eye for a winning recipe. Everything she made, from biscuits to salsa, was first-rate. I still haveand use three of her recipes. One is a two-alarm, very limey salsa that stands up well to canning. The second is a matchless blueberry muffin with a butter-and-sugar-dipped top. And the third is the best damn apple pie you’ve ever had, I don’t care who you are. It’s won prizes from Tennessee to England to California.

This year I made Nancy Johnson’s Apple Orange Pie for the family Labor Day/August birthdays gathering. I used an apple I don’t see often, Wolf River, which I only ever find at the Howells’ stands in Green Hills. Wolf River is an early apple from South Carolina. I really love the flavor. It’s slightly flattened like York apple. This year they were a little underripe. I’ve never cooked with Wolf River apples before, only eaten them fresh. Fortunately, they cooked really well, holding their shape and texture and developing a nice flavor.

I always make the same pie pastry — 10 tablespoons of butter and shortening, 2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon salt, 4 tablespoons ice water — but this time I used too much shortening and the crust was very soft. You can see on the finished pie where it settled around individual pieces of apple, rather than acting as a lid. When cut, the pieces didn’t hold their shape — they were more like a cobbler. But it was still the best apple pie, I don’t care who you are.

I’ve been thinking about Nancy a lot lately, so when I go to the fair, I’ll have to stop at the baked goods and pickles to see whether she entered anything.

State Fair Winning Apple Orange Pie

4 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoons flour

1/2 teaspoon apple pie spice (or cinnamon)

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup freshly squeezed orange juice

3 or 4 large cooking apples

1 (2-crust) pie pastry

1 egg white, beaten with 2 teaspoons water

Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium low heat. Stir in the flour and the spice, Add the sugar and juice. Bring to a boil, remove from the heat and set aside. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Peel and grate or chop the apples.

Arrange the pastry in a pie plate. Spoon the apples into the pastry. Pour the butter mixture over the apples. Top with the remaining crust, sealing the edges. Brush with the egg white mixture. Cut steam vents. Bake for 45 minutes. Makes 8 servings.

Fourth of July celebration in the Whitland Avenue neighborhood. We like it for a lot of reasons. It’s a chance to see people we like and hardly ever see. This year, the weather was pleasant. Our friends have a fun party with lots of kids running around, popsicles, and a bouncy castle.

I was lucky enough to be asked to judge the food contest. It’s always fun to meet the other judges, who are sometimes friends, sometimes restaurant people or both. The competition is respectably stiff, with lots of well-prepared and well-presented entries. There are two categories: Great American Picnic Food and Desserts. It’s all about execution: this year, a simple but perfectly executed cucumber salad won, along with a pretty butterbean and tomato salad (blurry photo below) in the picnic division, beating out competitors like a mango and shrimp salad and a pesto and sun-dried tomato pasta.

An apple pie in an unbelievable homemade crust won the Dessert category. The runner-up was a chocolate latte meringue pie, a little bit of innovation that was done well. Excuse the blurry photo — it was the kind of party where I ran into a friend’s sister, borrowed her camera for ages, couldn’t really work it well, then asked her to go to a lot of trouble to post these photos. Seriously, you’ll never come across a better group of people. I wish the Whitland picnic were a commune.

But mostly the day was about the Declaration of Independence, rousing patriotic music, politicking, and talk. Lots of talk and visiting, which I can never get enough of.

I’m learning a lot, watching the world through the experience of my very old grandmother. It’s true that every day is a gift, and you can learn something every day. But sometimes it’s hard to be grateful for that gift when the day brings pain, or loneliness or isolation. And things you learn, you might just as soon not know.

She never complains, but it’s clear that for her, life is not about the adventure anymore. It’s about managing a body that’s deteriorating.

My gran has just a few friends left, and last week, one of them passed away. The funeral was held at a very large local church, then the family and close friends drove to the cemetery for the interment.

What happened next is something I’ve never heard of: the church put on a luncheon for the family and anyone else who cared to attend. Tablecloths, flowers and authentic Southern church lady food like orange sherbet jello, broccoli slaw, hash brown casserole, orange fluff, and that cake with the vanilla pudding and pineapple in the frosting. Also, the best coconut cake I’ve ever had in my life.

Usually it’s up to a family to make its own meal arrangements after a funeral, at just the moment they most need the care of their faith community. It was a deeply moving gesture, clearly developed by someone who knows what it’s like to want to linger with old friends after a funeral. It made a very old lady a little less lonely and it fed her a meal when there’s so little else that can be done to comfort her. I can’t think of a better definition of the word “gracious.”

More fun with found shopping lists. I don’t see the point of numbering the list, unless you are gathering ammo for an argument. “I ran 15 errands today — and just how many did YOU run?” Or maybe it’s a compulsive person and the numbering somehow anchors the task in reality.

First things first: it’s the last sheet of paper on the house, so “new notebook.” Next item, which seems to be “coretta dot,” was procured triumphantly, and crossed off with a flourish. So was “trash can for kitchen.”

Then the list turns to resolute efficiency: Pledge - check. Kitchen cleaner - check. Light bulbs - check. Tie rack - check. ~ Hmm. New apartment? ~

Now which aisle has the “charger for hats”? Ah, yes. Toilet paper. Paper towels. Tra…

Dammit, I almost forgot the “chromium tail.” Need to get that before I forget — I’ll come back to this aisle for trash bags. It’s more important to have the “chromium tail. ” I’m sure ours will turn up eventually, when we unpack all the boxes. But I can’t really wait until then, so we’ll just have to get another.

Great, now just one thing left — a junk organizer. Done and off to the checkout. Seems like there was something I forgot. I can’t be bothered to go back for anything. I’m just ready to be home, listening to a little music, organizing the silverware and cleaning up the trash.

We share two shares of organically grown, local produce with two other micro-families, and the spring time boxes arrive like wave after wave of green leafy things, as anyone with a CSA share can attest. The greens barely fit in the boxes. The bottom half of the refrigerator is bulging with leafy bunches.

It’s great in theory, but in practice, it means cooking a large batch of something green three nights in a week. I dream in green. I think green thoughts. I have to push aside green food to find the milk. Surfers use the term “the green room” to describe how it feels inside the barrel of a wave. It’s a little like that.

Kale is the biggest issue. I think kale is wonderful, but Sweet Cheeks and Big Fella are indifferent at best, and hostile at worst. And all the kale recipes fall into two types: kale and chickpea gratin/soup and kale cooked like collards.

Found a new one on Recipezaar, though: Czech kale patties

Cook the kale then drain it really well and pat it dry. Puree the kale with an egg, an onion and bread crumbs, then roll in more breadcrumbs, flatten into a patty, and fry. It tastes like spinach. I still needed insurance that they would eat it, so I added a homemade cheese sauce. Two out of three residents of my house found it acceptable.

To stay on top of the green wave, it’s likely that one of the meals will have to include two green vegetable-based dishes. Our plates tonight included Fried Fennel Slices from Deborah Madison’s brilliant vegetarian book The Savory Way.

After the meal, one of the vegetable bins was partially emptied out, and it felt like real progress.

But it’s just a temporary victory. There’s another delivery tomorrow.

Fried Fennel Slices
2 large or 3 small fennel bulbs

1 egg, beaten
1 cup bread crumbs
1 heaping tablespoon chopped fennel greens
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Clarified butter or light olive oil for frying
Pry off the scarred, thick outer layers of the fennel and use it for soup or shave it for salad. Cut the bulb lengthwise into pieces about 1/2-inch thick, leaving the core attached.
Dip the slices into beaten eggs, then coat with crumbs seasoned with salt and pepper. Fry in butter in a large, heavy skillet over very low heat, turning once. The fennel should be tender at about the same time the crumbs turn dark brown. Serve with a lemon wedge, or a spoonful of homemade mayonnaise flavored with a few drops of Pernod. Makes 4 servings.

Writing from a foxhole here in the middle of what we call SuperWeek, the crazy two-week period at the end of the school year. Our calendar goes into overdrive in mid-May. Piano recital, last piano lesson, field day, school picnic, church picnic, choir finale, choir picnic, volunteer appreciation, teacher appreciation, graduation, confirmation, ice skating show, two family birthdays, Steeplechase, and Mothers Day. The latter is a big deal in our family — there are 11 sisters-in-law (plus a couple of exes), and more mothers than your average FDLS gathering. Between three of my sisters-in-law, we have 11 mothers. I personally have four.

The house has to be clean(ish), too, for the beloved old friends who come through town during this time to commemorate rituals with their own families. It guts me that I can only spend a harried hour or so with someone who was once a daily joy, or an exceptional friend, or someone who embodies a wonderful time during our lives.

The baking opportunities during SuperWeek are as numerous as the occasions. I slot in a quick batch of this or that when I can — it’s helpful to have a roll of homemade slice-and-bake cookies in the freezer, or a dozen mini muffins in a tin. And it seems like the least little nice thing to give a lemon bar to someone I love and miss.

Last week I volunteered to bring lemon bars to my friend Tricia’s Steeplechase gathering. I’ve gotten sort of jaded about these things — you make a homemade treat, take it somewhere, and everyone is avoiding carbs, so most of it goes back home. Or you labor over something different and interesting like homemade gingersnaps or macaroons, and everyone seems to prefer the Kroger sugar cookies.

Time being short on the morning of the race, I had to make a decision: wash hair or bake lemon bars? Is there even a choice when you’re likely to see people you haven’t seen in years? I mean this is my home town, and this is the South. I don’t even go to the grocery without lipstick – what if I run into an old neighbor or classmate? Then they’ll tell everyone, “Oh I saw her at the store — she was looking a little tired. And she’s put on weight.” I can’t really do anything about the weight, but I can wash my hair.

My tentmates kept saying, “I can’t believe you forgot to bake the lemon bars.” I replied, “Oh, I didn’t forget. I made a choice.” They were a little unhappy but they were nice about it. I’m sort of flattered that they were disappointed.

Sooooo …. I learned two things during SuperWeek. First of all, keep cooking — someone somewhere really appreciates it.

The second thing is more practical, and I learned it from my old cherished friend. You can prepare Six-Week Muffin batter, keep it in the fridge quite literally for six weeks and bake individual microwave muffins in just 2 minutes! Incredible on both counts. Everlasting batter, microwaveable muffins.