Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Recipe for Pecan Pie and Keeping it Real

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M beater

 

Pecan pie with real whipped cream has little nutritional value, but it makes my family happy and I’ve made the same recipe for the past 30 Thanksgiving feasts. An added pleasure is to see the joy on my granddaughter’s face as she licks the beaters, just as her mother did decades ago.

I use Dear Abby’s Pecan Pie recipe with real whipped cream. If you’re going to blow 3,254 calories on a pie, you might as well top it off with the good stuff. Besides, have you read the ingredients found in the most popular frozen whipped topping?

Cool Whip Original is made of water, hydrogenated vegetable oil, high fructose corn syrup, skimmed milk, light cream, sodium caseinate, natural and artificial flavors, xanthan, guar gums, polysorbate 60, sorbitan monostearate, and beta carotene. The aerosol version also contains nitrous oxide as a propellant. Why would you want to give this to your family?

For perfect whipped cream, all you need is a carton of whipping cream, a splash of real vanilla, some real sugar, and a mixer. Refrigerate a metal bowl for a few hours and then whip the cream for several minutes with the mixer. As you mix, add the vanilla and sugar. Beat until it’s thick enough to smother a piece of pie and then give the beaters to the kids and watch their happy faces. And, there’s not a lick of sorbitan monostearate to be found!

Here is Dear Abby’s Pecan Pie recipe:

One pie shell for 9” pie – make your own or find one in your grocer’s refrigerated section.

In a large bowl, mix together:

1 Cup of white corn syrup

1 Cup of dark brown sugar

1/3 Cup melted butter

3 eggs, mixed with fork

1+ Cup of pecans (I always add more pecans)

Splash of vanilla

Pinch of salt

 

Sprinkle both sides of pie dough with a bit of flour and place in a 9” pie pan. Cover edges with foil so they won’t burn. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees, removing foil 10 after 35 minutes.

Cool and serve with real whipped cream.

For brave cooks who want to make pie crush from scratch, here’s Grandma Evelyn’s recipe for a 9” pie:

Combine 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/3 cup oil. Mix with fork until crumbly. Add 2 tablespoons ice-cold water. Mix lightly. Form into a ball and roll out on waxed paper. Lift paper over pie pan, make fluted edge, fill, and bake. To bake unfilled, prick bottom of crust and bake 450 degrees for 10 minutes.

This Thanksgiving season, I’m grateful that my family came together to share laughter, hugs, and good food. We continued important traditions for our children and their children, and we ended the festivities with pecan pie and whipped cream. Now, I have a year to work off the calories so we can do it all over again. Just keeping it real.

 

 

Six Silly Thanksgiving Memories of Mom

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mom pumpkin

My mother died on November 1, so this is our first Thanksgiving without her. To make the occasion less painful, I’ve decided to think of funny things she used to do before dementia took her away. For space constraints, the long list has been pruned to only six memories.

  1. Turkey pudding. My mother overcooked the Thanksgiving turkey for two days. For some reason, she thought she was a pilgrim doing a slow-roast over a pit behind the covered wagon so she set the bird in the oven before midnight on low heat and basted it every hour. As a result, she was tired by dinner the next day and the turkey had lost all its shape as the butterball morphed into turkey pudding hanging off the carcass.
  2. Sinking the gravy boat. Because the turkey took all the space in the oven, she cooked the green bean casserole, the potatoes, the gravy, and the stuffing on the stove – all at the same time. She wrapped bread rolls in tin foil and stuffed them around the turkey until they hardened into crusty dough balls. When the gravy was thick enough to stand on its own without a pan, it was time to eat.
  3. Death by sugar. Mom thought there should be a dessert per person. If a dozen guests were coming for dinner, there would be at least four pies, four cakes, and four platters of fudge. Pants and belts were adjusted accordingly.
  4. Cutest cook ever. She required real whipped cream on the pies, so she would aggressively operate her trusty hand mixer like a frantic high-speed drill until the cream was two seconds shy of becoming real butter. She wore a festive, handmade apron over her best holiday sweatshirt, so she resembled a jolly, plump elf scurrying about the kitchen.
  5. Pilfering the pie. My mom loved my aunt’s sweet potato pie and assumed it was a healthy dish because it used a vegetable, despite the butter, brown sugar, pecans, and marshmallow sauce. She would sneak a bowl for herself and hide it behind the pickles in the back of the refrigerator. She later grinned with delight about her sneaky accomplishment.
  6. Her signature dishes. Like a dutiful drill sergeant, she organized the girls and women-folk to hand-wash all the dishes after the meal while the men meandered to the living room to pat their bellies and watch football. She took great pride in dividing leftovers into equal portions and filling Tupperware containers and Corningware dishes for guests to take home. To insure her items were identified and returned, she used fingernail polish to paint her initials on all the containers. I now have stacks of dishes sporting faded red initials “LA.”

This Thanksgiving, the family will come together to toast the holiday and give thanks for our abundant blessings. Some things will remain the same: commotion will come from the children’s table, the men will wrestle for the last turkey leg, and I will declare that red wine goes with turkey – and everything else. The most noticeable difference will be the empty chair at the table. Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. Maybe I’ll sneak a bowl of sweet potatoes for you. Thanks for the funny memories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let Grandma Sleep on the Floor

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b doll house 2

My wee grandbaby came for a play date, and after the obligatory tea party with assorted stuffed bears she turned to the doll house. I watched, amused, as she carefully positioned each piece of furniture and posed every character. Obviously, she decided it was time for bed.

The baby was tucked into the crib, the daughter napped on a bunk bed, and the dog was snoozing in the dog house, outside of course. Then she took the gray-haired doll and placed her on the floor instead of the bed.

“Why is Gramma on the floor?” I asked.

“So she won’t fall down and hurt her leg.”

Sometimes the innocent thoughts of toddlers are profound and gentle. I recently survived knee surgery, and my grandkids had seen me incapacitated with pain, hooked to an ice machine, and then hobbling around on crutches and a cane. I thought I was providing a good example by getting better and finally walking without assistance. But, she was still concerned that I might get hurt again. In her mind, if Gramma stayed on the floor, she couldn’t fall down.

I probably should obey that advice, but I have too much to do. However, I’ll consider being more careful, especially in the presence of little observers. They are learning that an injury can’t be cured every time with a Barbie Band-Aid and a kiss from Mommy. (Although those examples do have definite therapeutic and lasting value.)

As I get older, every second of every day, I’m reminded that this old gal ain’t what she used to be. I ache in new places, I don’t have as much energy as I once had, and body parts are moving south without my permission. Injuries take longer to heal, and sometimes I long for an afternoon nap. That phenomenon is new and a bit bewildering.

In a recent attempt to cheer up, I scheduled a hair appointment. My regular stylist was gone so I had a new hairdresser who looked as if she had just skipped in from recess. She told me she was excited to celebrate her 21st birthday by visiting her mother. I asked her if the mom would like a copy of my book Midlife Cabernet. She remarked that her mother wasn’t “that old” but maybe her grandmother would like it. I debated giving her a 20% tip, but of course I did and then shuffled out the door.

In my mind, I’m still 40. But then I realize my daughter is in her thirties, so one of us has the wrong age. I’ve appreciated the marvelous adventures on this glorious journey through the decades, and I look forward to many more. But now I’m tired and think I’ll go lie down. Maybe, just to be safe, I’ll do that on the floor.

A Bedtime Story about Handicaps

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mirabel booke kiss

Once upon a time, there was a magical little girl. She brightened the room when she tumbled in, boisterous and full of energy. Then without hesitation she proceeded to share fierce hugs and sloppy kisses with everyone regardless of who they were, what they looked like, and what titles and possessions they owned. All shared equally in her unconditional love.

Some said she was handicapped. A few didn’t return the affection. Others mentioned their worries about her future. But, most responded with joy because hugs were fun, and the world was in desperate need of genuine acceptance without prejudice. For only four year’s old, she had more power and direction than the leaders, the agitators, and the misguided media messengers.

One day the little girl heard people shouting in anger, and she curled up on the floor, covered her face, and cried. She couldn’t understand meanness and revenge. She didn’t know why there were images of hatred and intentional destruction. Her world was supposed to be safe and happy. The public rage broke her heart, and she wondered why so many people were handicapped so much that they couldn’t love.

So, she dried her tears and did what she did best: she found someone to hug and kiss. And, her actions became a strong and pure example of what all the mad people should be doing. The little girl she hugged then ran off to hug someone else. They, in turn, spread the positive action to others. Soon, the family, the community, and the entire region stopped their frustration, ended their hostility, and softened their bitterness to bask in the happiness of hugs and kisses.

That night the little girl cuddled in bed, not knowing or caring that she has changed so many people. But, she slept peacefully without regret or worry. And she woke the next morning to share her healing hugs all over again.

Not the end.

 

Don’t Snore on the First Date

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stop noise

Middle-age women often ask me for advice about dating after age 50. I tell them to note my three non-negotiable nuggets of knowledge before baring their souls and body parts: Do Keep a Positive Attitude, Don’t Settle, and Don’t Snore on the First Date.

Single women in their fifties face new and daunting dating dilemmas that they didn’t experience in their twenties and thirties. Back then, their breasts were closer to their shoulders than to their knees. Decades ago, they didn’t wet their pants every time they sneezed. When they were young and carefree, the skin on their necks didn’t resemble a dryer hose. And, in those fabulous but fleeting days of youth, they could party all night with plenty of energy remaining for an hour-long festive romp between the sheets.

After living for half a century, reality sets in like an irritating ingrown toenail that won’t go away. We’re faced with new insecurities when we receive amorous advances from a potential suitor. We know our boobs will never get back to elbow level without nipple clamps tied to our ears. Stifling a sneeze to prevent leakage in the lower regions only will result in a ferocious fart. And, we’ll never stay awake after 9:00 pm, especially if we swill a few glasses of wine. And, who wouldn’t want to do that?

Before we accept a date, shave our legs, and exchange yoga pants for a sassy outfit, we should mentally remember our three rules of engagement:

  1. Do Keep a Positive Attitude. Maybe your date is apprehensive, too, and regrets that his high school physique graduated long ago and left the state. His priority might be to have an intelligent conversation with a witty, seasoned woman who dazzles him with her self-confidence and natural charm. There is about a 10 percent chance that this fairy tale will come true, but don’t give up.
  2. Don’t Settle. I know a middle-aged woman so desperate for a relationship that she cavorted with a professional loser with no assets, no job potential, and without any socially redeeming value. He moved into her house, brought along his menagerie of dogs and snakes, and proceeded to deplete her refrigerator, bank account, and self-esteem. By the time she finally kicked out the dude, she was a ruined shell of a woman who sat alone in her backyard and talked to flies. Don’t become that woman.
  3. Don’t Snore on the First Date. We all know first impressions are important, so that’s why we check our teeth for broccoli, remove the toothpick, and change the wine-stained shirt before meeting a new date. As for the snoring, I’m not suggesting that you hop into bed an hour after meeting. Wait at least a day or two. The snoring can result on the first date after you’re so exhausted from a busy day that you fall asleep during dinner or in a movie and then make grotesque nasal sounds like a congested warthog with severe allergies. This unfortunate action can kill the romance before there is any chance of giggling down the hallway toward the play room. If you think you might snore, stay awake. You’ll thank me later.

Many middle-aged, unmarried women don’t need to take a chance on dating and are happy with their single life. That’s just fine. But for those who want to tiptoe back into the dating pool, feel free to jump in and make a big splash. After a few strokes, you might even feel confident enough to remove your life jacket.

 

 

The Couches of My Life

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1978 emily chest

My parents owned one good set of furniture that lasted 40 years. After the first 20 years, my father had the couches recovered with leather so they would last longer. I didn’t have that same attachment to any sofa, and I’ve lost count of the good, bad, and ugly selections that have entered and departed my living room.

As with most newlyweds, my husband and I didn’t have extra money. We found an inexpensive fuzzy, green striped couch with a matching love seat at a big warehouse and brought them home in a borrowed pickup truck. We moved those bulky pieces several times over15 years, and the fabric endured multiple assaults from busy, messy children. (That sleepy baby in the photo now is married and has kids and couches of her own.)

1995 family room

When my two children were 10 and 12, I decorated the room with colorful furniture. I loved my custom-ordered, teal-green leather couch, and sadly learned years later that no one liked it. We eventually gave it away to a young couple who covered it with a blanket. Now, I cringe when I see those boring white walls that practically beg for paint or wallpaper and a creative spattering of art.

1998 living room hickories

After my first child left for college, I went into my pristine, virginal white stage. Misguided by a young and eager interior decorator, I installed white wool carpet and christened the living room with elegant white furniture. No one would step into the room because it was too immaculate, and I finally sold the couch and table on consignment and gave away the chair. I lost the fabulous tapestry in a divorce.

living room

My current couch is ten years old, and I moved it four times before finding my forever home. I’ve mixed sturdy leather furniture and wooden lamps and iron mirrors with colorful patterns in my favorite colors of red and gold beneath a tapestry of Portofino, Italy. There is a sanctuary corner on the left with a hand-carved statue of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travel. I bought it in Bolzano, Italy when I was there during the tragic events of September 11, 2001 and couldn’t fly home. This room is safe for playing grandkids and elegant enough for adult soirees.

As I look at the couches of my life, I’m reminded of the significant events that occurred while I was busy setting up a home, working full-time, and raising children. Those scruffy early pieces were good enough for my babies. The teal monstrosity made me happy. The white mistakes were my reaction to divorced life and an attempt to make everything perfect again. And, my current leather couch symbolizes the comfort and stability of my present home. I’m grateful that I have a house with furniture, and I support charities that offer assistance to homeless families.

After moving 16 times during my adult life, I’m finally home. I encourage my friends and family to come inside, get cozy on the sofa, share a glass of wine, and give a toast to life. The furniture is replaceable, but the memories and good times last forever.