Sybil Bruncheon in Cincinnati GCN... Prepares "Gelatin Surprese"... (part II)

GCN Cincinnati is proud to present Sybil Bruncheon in her continuing summer 1987 series. Join Sybil as she shows the audience that a grand dame should always know her way around kitchen utensils. To do this, she will begin her preparation of “Gelatin Supreese” (Part II)

(Produced and edited by Mark Bailey and the staff of Cincinnati’s GCN)

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Sybil Bruncheon in Cincinnati GCN... Prepares "Gelatin Surprese"... (part III)

GCN Cincinnati is proud to present Sybil Bruncheon in her continuing summer 1987 series. Join Sybil as she shows the audience that a grand dame should always know her way around kitchen utensils. To do this, she will begin her preparation of “Gelatin Supreese” (Part III)

(Produced and edited by Mark Bailey and the staff of Cincinnati’s GCN)

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Sybil Bruncheon's "Springtime… In Other… um… Places"...

Nancy Kuppermann so enjoyed the arrival of Spring! Like many housewives in her community, she did all her Spring cleaning; cleaned out the basement, attic, and garage, and even painted her husband’s study and a guest bedroom and bathroom… all before she started on the gardening. She and her best pal, Karen Folger, met on Saturday and picked out tulip, hyacinth, daffodil, and jralanthus bulbs, and, after an hour or so of planting together, they went grocery shopping. Brocklezezzer’s had a special in their Wonderful World of Salad Dressings section, and the girls didn’t want to miss out on both the variety and the bargains. So many wonderful flavors and regional specialties from all different parts of their world.

But that’s how it was in a place that was strictly vegetarian. Nancy had married a Chicory, and Karen’s husband was from a long line of Arugalas. Most women eventually ate their husbands around their second or third anniversary, and certainly no later than their 4th. They’d be too woody or even wilted by then… NO! A really sumptuous husband should be fresh, leafy green, rinsed thoroughly and served with a luscious blue cheese, or, in the case of Mr. Folger, a tangy Caesar! After all, he was really Italian, wasn’t he?… and that was how Springtime was celebrated on the planet JZzelelry 6… in the “Vega” system…

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Four)

1990: …. How could I ever really be cross with my landlady, no matter how often she barged through my life? Her bonhomie, generous spirit, and basically goodhearted though mischievous sense of humor won me over every time, and what about her bringing me the most heartbreakingly delicious samples of her baking and cooking? I didn’t go a single day without a basket filled with too many croissants for breakfast, the crock full of bubbling Boeuf Bourguignon a la Bretagne for lunch, or the Charlotte Russe Flambée, the Mousse Madeleine aux Macarons à la Noix de Coco, or the Crème brûlée à la Goyave for desserts or for late night snacks. I had put on at least twelve pounds in the last few months, and I managed to cover it with my painter’s smock, although she took great delight in pinching my midsection and pointing it out to neighbors laughing when I would pass her on the front stoop.

About a week after she told me the story of Veronique, Mme. P invited herself up to my garret for dinner… and what a dinner she brought! I had no idea we were spending a charming soirée together until I got home from painting all day on the Place du Tertre. I was slightly surprised not to see her doing her usual chores at that hour; sweeping the front stoop, watering the pots of crimson geraniums, the icy white “million bells”, and the dwarf morning glories in twilight blue on the window sills and hanging on the walls around the old paneled front door, or gossiping with her comrades… often about stoop-sweeping or flower pots… or the ultimate; food. As I said, there was no sign of Mme. P, and I began to trudge up the stairs lugging my French artist case with the little collapsible easel attached that old Monsieur Lapingris had gifted me (it had been his grandfather’s). I adored that case, covered with dents and dings, and a hundred loving drips and splashes of paint that lived on the cityscapes that Lapingris’ grandfather had done back in the 1890s. That case had character and, I hoped, good luck and inspiration in its bones for me and my career. As I neared the top floor, I was greeted warmly by Mme. P’s lusty alto humming, quite lovely actually, like a bassoon, coming from my front door which stood slightly open… and the smell of what turned out to be Pâté de Canard en Croûte. She had set the little chestnut country table off the kitchenette with a blue and white checked tablecloth, cotton napkins folded like bird-of-paradise blooms, and a mismatched assortment of old but beautiful silver, some of which might actually have been somewhat valuable. She was typically French in that regard… living comfortably and unselfconsciously with mixes of antiques hundreds of years old and junk and flea market finds bought for a few francs.

She heard me creak the floor at my entryway, and beckoned me in with a hearty flourish as if it was her home and those were her candles that she was lighting in the sconces and candelabra. I must admit I would have been delighted for her company, even if there hadn’t been a delicious dinner included. Mme. P definitely did bring a joie de vivre into my rather grey life. No matter how much I tried to be grateful for my sabbatical in the most beautiful city in the world, it was truly Mme. P who made it almost something out of a movie! Week after week, day after day… and sometimes hour to hour. And those hours stretched into lifetimes… no! Not stretched! That sounds as if they were tedious… No, they FILLED into lifetimes. Each of her stories, told over candlelight and a sumptuous meal of tastes that I had never before imagined became a new alternate lifetime for me. Another lifetime filled with its own sights, sounds, smells; its own characters with their hopes, dreams, fears, and sometimes, secrets… their secrets alone swamped and blotted out the bland reality of my small life. I guess my eyes revealed all this, because she stopped her merry humming and came very close to my face, her deep blue eyes turning lavender in the candle glow… and she smiled… so gently. “Does someone want a story?”… and I said, “yes.”…

1950: Phillipe Mansard stood at the edge of the terrace filled with all the love a man’s heart could hold for the lovely wife humming at the stove inside. The heavy rich smell of étouffée wafted out of the door that sat ajar, and he looked first at the glow from the living room and then back again over the street. She came out behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and it seemed the whole world was theirs as they looked down from their perfect perch above the fray of the city, out of the way and seemingly forgotten. Forgotten now, but only a few years earlier, with Paris overrun with the German army and at the complete mercy of its Gestapo and God knows how many collaborators, Phillipe and Celeste Mansard played their part in a shocking turn of events that changed history. And it had been her idea. Behind those flashing green eyes, it had been her idea.

For it was during the occupation that they joined the French Resistance, not as saboteurs or spies exactly… but as cooks. With a reputation so exclusive that only the highest officers and officials were able to partake of their gourmet fare. They had already attended the finest schools, apprenticed in and then owned the best restaurants, and built a network of fellow chefs across the country. And cleverly, they decided at the first signs of France falling to the German onslaught, to appear to capitulate, to actually embrace their invaders as favored customers. So clever were they that their Nazi patrons were never suspicious of their true motives, nor were their French suppliers and neighbors ever in doubt about their true and secret loyalty.

And so, on the stormy evening of June 5th, 1944, the Mansards and their cadre of fellow chefs across the French countryside invited their various “special” German diners to partake of a “Fête à l'été”, A Feast for the Coming of Summer. Chefs in over a dozen towns and villages had been planning, shopping, and preparing for weeks; coordinating their orders and strategies in seemingly innocent but coded grocery lists and shared recipes, all by telegram, and right under the noses of their tragically gullible enemies. The Nazi high command was so flattered to be fawned over so lavishly, they never suspected. And so, on that dreadful evening, with wind howling and rain pummeling the city in sheets, the Mansards welcomed their soaked but grateful guests into their rooftop maisonette for a dinner never to be forgotten. They had asked several of their suppliers to come help serve the many courses. Two wine merchants were the sommeliers, the fishmonger, two bakers, and the cheese merchant served as waiters… and four of Phillipe’s butchers were to help Celeste in the kitchen. Phillipe would act as host and raconteur, and oh, how charming he could be with friend and foe alike. He had been a brilliant student as a young boy; the pride of his parents. And his talent in history was especially noted. Imagine his teachers’ and parents’ shock when he quoted Machiavelli… in Renaissance Italian; “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.” Revenge is a dish best served cold.

As the lights were dimmed, and the candles on the table and in the wall sconces were lit, the champagne was poured for the eight Nazi officers, now in their T-shirts as their uniform tunics with their bright ribbons and twinkling medals hung up to dry in the toasty pantry. How grateful they were for the informal hospitality and friendship that the Mansards had always shown them. Phillipe clinked his glass with a sterling fork to propose a toast and a salute to his “guests”. First he smiled that unforgivably handsome smile that had broken the hearts of dozens of young girls in his youth, but had won him the heart of the luminous Celeste in his manhood. He flattered his guests and thanked them for coming out on such an awful night, and then brought everyone to gales of laughter when he noted the irony of the tempest outside and the banquet being a celebration of the coming Summer, remarking especially on the word “Fête”… feast.

The candle flames flickered merrily as if they too were in on the joke, and then with a flourish, he concluded with “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.”… His guests raised their glasses and drank deeply, not quite understanding the Italian, or was it Greek?… or noticing that their host’s staff had come out from the pantry and kitchen, and from the terrace outside… carrying knives, a mallet, two hatchets, and the heavy coal shovel. By flickering candlelight and with the rain pouring in sheets down the windows and skylights, no neighbor would ever have been able to see what unfolded… even if anyone had bothered to look. And the roar of the wind, the pounding of the rain, and the rolling thunder muffled the brief cries of agony and terror that could never penetrate the tightly closed windows of the surrounding homes. Ah well… It was over soon enough… at 8:15 or so… and in every one of the other shuttered cafés, private dining salons, and cozy maisonettes that had hosted their own Fêtes à l'été in other parts of the countryside… with the same unforgiving and implacable conclusions. While Frenchmen and women and their children sheltered on that stormy night, huddling around cozy fires and delicious dinners, and then off to bed, never suspecting how the world would change over the next few hours… in certain kitchens, basements, butcher shops, and then finally on the beaches of Normandy.

You see, in the appalling and astounding turmoil of D-Day, no one had time to notice or figure out what had happened to over 100 important Nazi officers and Gestapo officials. It was assumed that they had been swallowed into the maelstrom of the greatest invasion that the world had ever seen. They were either among the dead or the deserters… whatever. But oh, the rippling consequences of those vanished 100… confusion, miscommunications, orders not followed or even given. The crumbling chain of command, the avalanche of missing reports and missed opportunities, panic-driven gossip, rumors… oh, the consequences as the outside world threw all its resources and a generation of young men onto the shores of Normandy.

Meanwhile, each household of conspirators “processed” their guests into a luxurious array of delicacies; either as entrées and appetizers in their restaurants, or as fine sausages, pâtes, and meats for baguette lunches. Any and every part was used, just as slaughtered livestock would be. “Sweetbreads” to soup bones… all of it. ALL of it… And all of it given exclusively and generously to German soldiers and officers over the coming weeks as their fortunes faded and began to reverse. What a lovely gift from their French sympathizers. How comforting. Something to write home about to their grateful mothers in the Fatherland. 

Now, only a few short years later, Phillipe would often drift in reverie doing his gardening. How could five years feel like five lifetimes? Was it that even in simplicity, his life was so rich, so full with his beautiful and brave Celeste? Dicing the shallots, making the bed, laying the tablecloth, or playing cards with friends, he often wondered… “If only the world knew that its very existence was due to the woman sitting here playing bridge.”

As he finished weeding the little planters of their dead twigs and crumbling leaves, Monsieur Mansard looked over his work with a sigh of melancholy as a small tear of nostalgia trickled down his stubbled cheek… His lovely wife, returning again from the kitchen, saw his sweet tired face and whispered, "Dormer vous?". He smiled at her funny little pun… the kind that she would try on him in their special language that old married people share after so many years of worries, joys, triumph and loss… “Monsieur Mansard, dormer vous?” she repeated. And he nodded, rising slowly, putting his arm around her, and padding off to their bedroom with its little crackling fire. Celeste suddenly caught herself, slipped out of his strong arm, and went back to the door to the terrace. She closed and latched it against the chilly air, and looked up. If only the fog and mist would clear so that perhaps she could see through the skylight to the stars above, but all she could do was watch the neighbors' cat walk across it and disappear into the darkness of the night. And then, as the first snowflakes beginning to collect on the skylight. “Yes”, she thought as she pressed her hand to her tummy. “Tonight is a lovely night to tell him about the baby.”…

(End of Part Four. Stay tuned for Part Five of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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Sybil Bruncheon's "Joan Crawford Birthday Festival!"...

“Forget it Colonel! I’ve already closed the deal with the Jiffy-Pop people, or HADN’T YOU HEARD???”…

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Sybil Bruncheon's "30 DAYS OF THANKSGIVING!".... a new recipe...

"I got it. I got it!... I baste her every half hour, and turn her over again on the hour!"....

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OUR THANKSGIVING HERITAGE!!.... the occasional heartbreak of growing up at Thanksgiving time...

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, (and I use those terms loosely!) along with the wholesome lessons about our national day of thanks, there is also the poignant side of the holiday tradition. How many of us as youngsters were shocked when we read John Steinbeck's "The Red Pony", "The Yearling" by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, or "Old Yeller" by Fred Gipson??..... what started out as simple fables of beloved animals and the children that adored them ends in horror and tragedy. That is why, as parents (or friendly adults in the neighborhood!) we must always be careful when allowing our young people to bond with animals that start out as companions...and end up as entrées!

I am reminded of the lovely Ferguson family over on Elco Drive whose three boys ranging in age from 3 to 7 years of age, and with the brightest (almost glaring!) smiles, became quite enamoured with a local turkey named Big Tom at the Clara-Lou Spinnaker Petting Zoo. It was during a charity drive that Mayor Fred Buffington of the town raffled off a complete Thanksgiving dinner with all the side dishes to raise money for a new roof for the Shriner's Lodge Animal Husbandry Pavilion. Every Thursday after school the Ferguson boys would run to the petting zoo to feed their special turkey and pet him and tell him about their school activities; an A+ on a Sumatran geography test, a three-run homer in the Pee Wee League semi-finals, the new wheels on the lavender Soap-Box Derby cart, or being cast as Macbeth in the 3rd grade "Let's Like Shakespeare Pageant"...

And then...one afternoon, it happened. Tom's pen was empty. The boys' dismay immediately alarmed their parents Doug and Kimberly, and the head manageress of the zoo, Miss Edith Kranque. Before the tears could start falling, the adults quickly brought Big Tom out from the janitor's store room where he had been put along with all the Chinese food containers of candied yams with orange zest and apricots, the rustic mashed potatoes, the crunchy buttered Brussels sprouts, the green beans with slivered almonds, the celery, chestnut, and oyster stuffing, and the many other delicious side dishes that the lucky prize winners had won! The grown-ups explained that Tom had just gotten a "haircut" and was taking a nap, and that everyone should whisper about their day at school, but "not to wake him up"!....

The boys were much relieved, although little Dickie said he couldn't see Tom's head, but MIss Kranque explained that birds like to tuck their heads under their wings when they sleep...even if their wing was missing feathers and had a light coat of herbed butter with sage on it!!.... And then it was 6 o'clock and time for the boys to go home. There was just one more problem; the Ferguson family happened to have been the lucky winners of the raffle!!... an unhappy coincidence!... Miss Kranque asked Doug and Kimberly what they would like to do... they looked over at the boys petting Tom and getting all buttery. They were smiling those special smiles  that childen do with beloved pets, so Doug and Kimberly decided they'd rather donate the dinner to The Wayward Wives Of Sailors Home on the corner of Key Street and Holgate..... And on the Friday after Thanksgiving, they would tell the boys that Tom had moved to sunny Ft. Lauderdale, where Grandma used to live ....before she passed away...

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