Creamed soups

When I was a teenage girl, I wrote about subjects that inspired me: patriotism, nature conservation, love. Now, since this is writing from a mom's point of view, I am writing about... creamed soups.

Yes, creamed soups. I hate them. I don't use them anymore in my cooking. After years of being a dutiful follower of recipes, adding a can of cream of chicken or cream of mushroom soup to EVERY casserole and assorted other gravies, soups and sauces, I came to a realization. I don't like creamed soups. I especially don't like paying for creamed soups. When they used to cost 50 cents a can, maybe I could justify it. But now I'm lucky to find them on sale for 88 cents, and some cost up to $1.50. Why add that extra cost to my grocery budget?

Creamed soups aren't healthy for you, either. They have a lot of preservatives, salt, and processed ingredients. They come out of the can as a gray, quivering mass of gelatinous, mutated milk. Then you're supposed to mush it all up and mix it with your other fresh ingredients, and this makes a casserole... really? Plus a lot of recipes I have read (especially from the church cookbooks) call for up to FOUR cans of creamed soups per dish! And some even add sour cream on top of that! That's not a casserole, that's a chicken and celery smoothie. Yuck.

My eye-opening came at the cost of my dear husband. As a young bride I found I had very few recipes to choose from. I went home and copied out of my family cookbook a few recipes... all casseroles... all using creamed soups. Well, my husband is allergic to milk. He has become more lactose tolerant as the years have passed (he loves pizza with mozzarella cheese), but he really disliked anything creamed-soupy. After a few months of dutifully praising dinner, he finally found a nice way of asking me to reduce the creaminess. When my daughter was born seven years later, also with milk allergies, I had to leave out the milk ingredients altogether. (Alas! farewell to cheese, my wonderful cheese...)

Now, lest you think I have become a casserole hater, I have not. I love casseroles--in fact, I believe I am a casserole pro. My casseroles taste far better than my cookies (I've just about given up baking altogether). But cooking a nice dinner with a mix of meat/veggie/starch is my specialty.

So this is how I make casserole without creamed soups. First, for a hamburger-based casserole, such as Tater Tot Casserole: Brown your ground beef in the frying pan, with onion, salt and pepper. Drain the grease. Then sprinkle two tablespoons of flour over your ground beef and mix it in until it disappears. Now add a cup of water and a tablespoon of beef bouillon granules (or use canned beef stock, or beef soup base and water). Mix into your beef/flour and stir frequently. It will thicken up, with nary a flour lump to be found, and... voila! Gravy instead of creamed soup. Add other casserole ingredients and bake.

For chicken casseroles, such as Chicken Divan, Viva la Chicken,  Chicken Noodle Casserole, etc. my process is similar. Except I never have precooked, chopped chicken ready ahead of time. You can easily make it with chicken breasts or thighs cooked in a slow cooker, then deboned, and use the broth for your soup--if you are organized enough to think 8 hours ahead of dinner time. I used to be that organized.... But now I simply put two frozen boneless/skinless chicken breasts in two cups of water in my frying pan. I cover it and poach the chicken for about 12 minutes. I add onion and garlic powder while it's cooking. Then I remove the chicken and chop it up. Meanwhile, I take the broth remaining in the pan and add your typical flour/water or cornstarch/water mixture used for gravy. I add chicken soup base or chicken bouillon, put my chicken chunks back in, and there you have it... a base for your chicken casserole that doesn't require creamed soup! If you really want that milk/cream color (for some reason, if it looks white it seems to taste better), you can replace a 1/2 cup of water with milk. It will look creamy but will leave out a lot of the calories, and definitely all the preservatives and salt, of canned creamed soups.

So here's to a creamed-soup-free future... may your days in the kitchen be joyous!



(Now I hope I don't get any hate mail from the Campbell's Soup company.)

Opening lines

I often stress about the first paragraph, even the first sentence, of what I write. I worry that if it's not perfect, no one will want to read past page one. So I have a personal philosophy of trying to start in the midst of action/event/conversation so the reader feels compelled to figure out what's going on by reading further than page one. I'm not sure this is effective or correct. But I would like to find out what style of opening lines really is most compelling to a reader.

Here are the opening lines to my one completely finished book (which will never be published, but that's another story):

“Anne! Anne, are you up here?”

            Anne turned from the window, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffed. She didn’t want Liz to see her crying. She walked over to her bed, replaced her mother’s picture on her dresser, and sat with her back against the headboard.

            “Anne?” Liz cracked her door open and peeked in.

            “Yes, I’m here,” she replied.

            “Are you pouting?”

            “Of course not,” she replied testily.

            Liz walked closer, and Anne turned her head so she couldn’t see her red eyes and nose.

            “You can’t hide it, Anne. You’ve been crying.”

            Anne sighed and looked back at Liz. “Okay, fine, but I was upset. It’s not a crime to cry.”

            “You should cry over someone worth crying about,” she said tersely. “Really, you’re taking this too hard.”

            Anne opened her mouth to reply, then bit back her words. It would do no good to yell at Liz. She was not the one at fault. No, Anne was mad at her father. And telling Liz that she was the one who got to do anything she wanted, got to spend as much as she wanted, and got to date as much as she wanted, while Anne had to stay at home and play good little mom to their younger sister, Mary… well, that wouldn’t make her sound mature or responsible. And that would make her father more upset.

So, does reading this much make you want to read further? 

Here are more opening lines, from a rough draft of a story:

"Hurry, Elaine, catch up," her mom called.

Elaine looked up, nervous and excited, fearful yet proud. Her kindergarten registration day. Big girl now... that's what Mom had just said as she'd hurried her from the car to the school's big double doors. They'd walked down the tiled hallway together, Elaine's dress shoes making a "tap tap" sound that echoed in the quiet. Her mother's shoes didn't make more than a quiet shuffle, so she'd tried to walk on her toes, but that just made her walk too slow. Now her mom was holding the classroom door open and beckoning her to come to her side. 

In four noisy, clattering steps, Elaine ran to her mother's side and peered in the door. It was huge. It was... colorful. And there, sitting at a kidney-bean shaped table, was her teacher, Mrs. Jorgensen. The lady had light brown, closely curled hair, wrinkles, and a nice smile. But Elaine still didn't want to budge from the doorway, despite her mother's increasing pressure on the back of her head. 

"Come in!" Mrs. Jorgensen called. "You must be Mrs. Radcliffe."

"Yes," her mother called, a little too brightly. "And this is Elaine." She stepped into the room and let the door begin to swing closed, so Elaine had no choice but to step inside and avoid being crunched in the doorway. Her mom took her arm and led her to the table. "Sorry we are late," she said with a sigh. "I had to leave my other children with the babysitter." 

...............................

And that's it for now! Opening lines... not quite as epic as "It was a dark and stormy night..." but let me know if they are effective. 

This is part of a story about a sheep rancher and his daughter. 

Rachel giggled as the eager, happy puppy licked her fingers and wiggled his tail so hard that his whole body swayed back and forth with it. “Are you happy to see me?” she cooed to her friend. She had just come from the house out to the sheds, and as she came into sight her puppy, Critter, had run out from the shed and jumped and tumbled around her legs. Finally she could walk no more—every step she took he was there, sticking so close to her she was afraid she’d trip and fall. She sat right down in the dusty farmyard and succumbed to the licking and wriggling, her giggles turning into laughs and squeals as his enthusiasm never let up. Finally Critter’s mama, their best sheepdog named Bette, came out from the barn to see what the noise was about. As she trotted nearer Critter got up and ran to his mama, showering his enthusiasm on a new target. Bette’s reaction was a slight wag of the tail and a nudge from her wet, black nose. Soon Critter’s two brothers and three sisters were trailing out of the shed, too, coming to find where their dinner had gone. Bette turned and went to lay in the shade of the haystack, six puppies following after her and finally settling down for some milk.

                Rachel’s father had heard her squeals, and as she got up from the ground and brushed the dust off her overalls, she saw him leaning in the opening of the shed. She smiled and came over to him.

                “Oh, daddy, isn’t Critter the best puppy ever?” she gleamed. “I think he’ll be the best sheepdog we’ve ever had.”

                “Only if you don’t spoil him, and you get his training started soon,” he said flatly. With a glance up at his steel gray eyes she could tell he wasn’t too pleased with her.

                “I’m not spoiling him, Dad. I’m just letting him get to know me. He won’t listen to my commands if he doesn’t know me.”

                “What about the milk? And the leftover bacon? You know that pup’s got enough food from just his mama right now.”

                “Well, okay Dad. I guess you’re right,” she conceded. After a pause she rushed on. “You know I just love him so much! He’s so cute!”

                Dad turned and went to the back of the shed where he was trying to work some broken bolts out of the hay mower. “Rachel, get to your chores,” he said, then picked up his hammer. “Those lambs won’t wait.” Rachel nodded and went directly to the barn. Her day was starting out great.

By 10:00 am her chores were nearly done, both on the farm and in the house. She’d fed the lambs their milk replacer, thrown hay to the rams, filled the water troughs, then went to see what Momma had for her to do. After sweeping the kitchen and taking the slop to the pigs, she carried a basket of laundry out to the clothesline. Even though they had an electric dryer now, Momma insisted they hang the laundry in the good weather. It smelled better, she insisted, and cost less too. Rachel thought that the laundry hung on the line just smelled like hay and dust, but she didn’t say anything. She’d do whatever she was asked so long as she got to go play with her puppy afterward. After the last pillowcase was pinned to the line she ran the basket to the back porch, tossed it next to the door, and pivoted again, running straight to the barn. She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She decided to look for the puppies near the horse stalls first, and not finding them, climbed into the loft to take a look around. As she sat with her legs swinging off the edge of the loft, she took in the sights. Their barn was not as big as some. It had only one loft, at one side of the barn, instead of two lofts like their neighbors, the Petersens. It had four horse stalls but only two horses, Dan and Gray. They could pull a wagon if they had to, but they were more used for riding nowadays. The horse stalls were along the opposite wall. The big barn door was between where Rachel sat and the stalls, facing into the farm yard. The backside of the barn was actually one side of their corral, where they kept three milk cows. A trough was built into that wall, where the horses could reach it from inside the barn, and the cows could reach it outside. And in the middle of the barn were hay and straw bales, stacked taller than her father’s head, and room for the tractor in the winter. As she studied the barn she looked for signs of the puppies, and listened for the rustle of hay. Not seeing anything, she climbed halfway down the ladder then jumped to the floor. She jogged over to the sheds where her Dad had been working this morning, which stood just off to the right of the barn, opposite the house. Haystacks were also stacked along the back of the sheds, two stacks across, five and six stacks deep, making a hay-lined road between the sheds and the end of the barn, going all the way to the pasture gate.

                Rachel walked across the farmyard to the lamb pen, watching for a moment as they bucked and jumped over mounds of straw and manure. She smiled—lambs always had so much energy! Even though she was only nine, she had raised at least 20 bum lambs for the last three summers. This year there were 27, and it took a lot of work to feed them each morning and night. But she knew that in the fall, they’d be nice and fat and would bring a good price when they were sold at the auction. She didn’t necessarily like the thought of her lambs becoming meat in three or four months, but that was what their breed was best for, Dad said. They had other kinds of sheep that were for wool—over 1000 of them. They’d already been sheared that spring, and looked pretty scraggly and skinny now. After they spent all summer on the range, however, they’d be looking much better.

                Not seeing her puppy anywhere, she wandered to the row of haystacks, where she’d seen Bette lay down that morning. She poked along, bending over now and then to peer into the dark avenues between individual stacks, and into the small caves where two bales of hay didn’t sit quite right next to each other. She knew that the kittens were usually born in one of these convenient hiding places, far down a tight passage of hay where little girls and dogs couldn’t reach them. She wondered if the puppies liked playing in the hay, too, and wished she could be so small as to wander through the cracks and mazes in between haystacks like an explorer in an ancient stone temple filled with traps and mysteries. Her wondering was brought to a halt as she heard her dad calling out commands as he motioned with his arms: “Now around! Cut them out! Ok, bring them in, Bette.”

                She ran to the pasture gate and found her dad just inside, giving Bette orders to cut out a few old sheep and bring them into a holding pen built into the corner of the pasture. Bette obeyed and soon the sheep were standing in the pen, bleating and quivering from their quick jog.

                “What are you doing with these sheep, Dad?” Rachel piped up. She stood with her arms hugging the bars of the wide, green metal gate, her blonde head squeezed between the top two bars of the gate. He turned and saw her there for the first time, head cocked to the side, long braids dangled over the bar and into the pen.

                “I’m showing the pups how to be real sheepdogs,” he said. He called Bette to his side with a quick whistle.

                “The pups?” Rachel turned and only then saw two or three of the puppies sitting in the shade of the haystack a few feet back from the gate. “Oh, Critter!” she called, and the puppy recognized her voice and came trotting out of the shade and up to her legs. He wagged and wiggled and she picked him up and put his nose up to hers, cooing and ahhing over his cuteness. “I’ve been looking for you, you little cutey.”

                “Bring Critter over to me,” Dad said. Rachel looked up quickly. Dad held out his hand and motioned to her. She tucked Critter under her arm like a sack of potatoes and bent over to squeeze through the gate, pulling Critter gently through as well. She placed him at her father’s feet and then looked up.

                “Dad, are you sure he’s big enough? He’s just a couple months old, you know.”

                “Yes, girl, he’s big enough. He’s got to learn before we go on our drive to the summer range and Bette will be gone for a couple of weeks. The sooner we get some sheep sense into him, the better.” He patted his leg and Bette stood alert at his side. He bent over and set Critter next to Bette, quietly saying, “Now you show this pup what to do.” Then he straightened and pointed out to the sheep.

                “Bette, out this way!” he called loudly and motioned to the right. She jolted into a run and headed towards a group of about 20 sheep grazing in the pasture. Critter trotted after her at first, then slowed down as the older dog quickly was out of sight behind the sheep. “Critter, around!” Dad called, and the puppy turned to come back to him. “No, Critter. Around!” He pointed repeatedly to the direction the older dog went. By this time Bette had the sheep gathered into a tight bunch and was waiting for her next command, ears up and alert, legs stiff and ready. “Alright, Bette, come!” Bette started the sheep moving with a little leap and pretend nip at their heels. The sheep bleated and darted forwarded, soon trotting toward the pen. Being older sheep, they knew the routine. Critter saw the sheep coming, and froze. Perhaps realizing how much bigger they were, he began backing up slowly, then ran back to the gate and hid behind Rachel’s legs.

                “Rachel, get that pup back out here!’ Dad yelled.

                “But Daddy, he’s scared! He doesn’t want to!” Rachel picked him up and held him protectively.

                “That pup’s got to learn!” he said angrily, and stomped toward Rachel, taking Critter from her arms. The sheep were just passing them now, and he placed Critter near his mother as she continued herding. He pushed Critter towards the sheep.

                With a couple of hesitant steps, Critter began following his mom and soon was close to the rear sheep. After a few more steps he began to bounce and yip, playfully darting closer to the animals.

                Rachel felt the nervous tension melt from her arms and shoulders. She could see that he was a compliment to his breed—almost like second nature, he was learning to herd sheep. The sheep were nearing the pen now, and Dad strode forward to catch the smaller wooden gate and swing it shut. Bette worked at the sheep, who didn’t like the idea of being penned up so early in the day. They began to balk and turn to the side, but each time were met by Bette. Rachel watched until only three sheep were left to walk through the gate. Then one old black-faced sheep saw Critter out of the corner of her eye. The old ewe turned and without a second’s hesitation, charged forward and butted the puppy, running back out to the pasture. Rachel heard the sickening thud as Critter was knocked into the air, then flopped onto the ground.

                “No!” she cried, and ran to him. Dad was quickly kneeling next to her as she tried to gently lift him up. He just flopped around, head hanging loosely to the side. “Oh, Dad, he’s hurt!” she sobbed.

                Dad held the puppy’s head in his rough, calloused hands, and pulled up his velvety eyelid with his thumb. Rachel’s sobs came harder and quicker. “No, Rachel. He’s dead. That old ewe killed him.” He took the pup out of her hands, slowly stood up, and began walking toward the pasture gate. “Bette, come,” he called.

                Rachel’s sobs were loud and jagged and she smeared the tears from her eyes and stumbled after her father. Once she crawled through the gate, she broke into a run, going straight through the back door and up to her room where she cried until her pillowcase was completely wet.

                

This is an excerpt from a book I have wanted to write for a long time. Growing up, I loved reading Laura Engalls Wilder's books, and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm... this is a piece similar to those books. It is a true story--my mom and I laughed and laughed as we reviewed the details to refresh my memory. I took this event from my youngest days and wrote it as a story. 

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Alice looked up from sweeping the laundry room. She gazed out the wooden screen door, past the dusty driveway, and down the grassy lane where the farm tractors traveled to the lower fields. Rachael’s blonde head was just coming into view. She was casually wandering back to the house after her morning exploration of the yard and the neighbor’s farm. Being seven months pregnant made it hard to chase two little girls around the house, so Alice had sent them into the yard about 15 minutes ago. Now that she’d gotten the housework started, she could have the girls come back and get some lunch.

After sweeping a few bits of dust out the door, Alice picked up the doormat and stepped onto the wooden back stairs. Only then did she hear the distant wailing of a child. She quickly looked back at Rachael. She still wandered on her way to the house, stopping every once in a while to look back from where she came. Alice looked, too, expecting that Sarah was right behind her. But no. Her second daughter did not appear in the lane or the yard or the driveway.

“Rachael, where is Sarah?” she called nervously.

“Oh, she’s stuck,” she answered complacently in her two-year-old voice.

“Stuck? Stuck where?”

“Over there,” was the reply, with a vague point of the hand. She walked closer to Alice and looked up with her blue, innocent eyes. But Alice scowled. “Rachael, what is she stuck in?” she asked sternly.

“That… stuff. The stinky stuff.”

Telling Rachael to sit on the back step and not move until she returned, Alice took a few quick steps to the end of the yard. She heard the wailing a little clearer. “Sarah! Sarah!” she called.

“Mama!” came the sad reply.

Alice walked as quickly as she could, considering her large abdomen seemed to get in the way of every step. She came to the neighbor’s corral, which lay just a few feet past the driveway. She knew the cows had been moved to pasture now that the summer grasses had started to grow. But that left the corral far from empty—it was filled with a winter’s worth of manure, runny, green and slick. Near the edges the summer heat had begun to harden it into a thick crust—but about five feet out it was still soupy underneath. And that’s where she saw Sarah, stranded up to her ankles.

“Sarah, what have you done?” Alice cried. Sarah looked up with her tear-streaked face, and began to wail louder than ever. Her arms waved in the air, but her feet were immobilized. She tried again to take a step, but the sludge still held her feet and she tottered off balance. She threw her hands in front of her to keep her balance… and now she pulled her hands back in alarm. Green slime dripped from every finger. She cried even louder.

Alice came to the manger. Steel bars divided it into two-foot sections, so the cows could fit their heads through to eat hay but not escape the pen. Two feet is plenty of room for two-and-a-half year old and eighteen-month old girls to fit through—but for Alice and baby number three, it was looking like an impossible squeeze. So she tried to encourage Sarah to come to her. “Come this way, sweetie. Pick up your feet and walk to me.”

Sarah tried again, but all the suction from the manure lagoon was not going to let her feet free. “Mama!” she cried again, reaching out her tiny, dirty hands.

“Oh, my,” muttered Alice. She squatted as low as she could and put one foot through the manger. Her shoe immediately sunk in six inches of crap. “Ugh,” she complained. She twisted sideways, sucked in her belly as tight as she could, and managed to pull the rest of her frame through the metal bars. Now both feet were in the manure. She reached her arms out, but was still not close enough to pick up Sarah. “Come on, baby, come to me,” she called, but Sarah hiccupped and sobbed and seemed more upset that Mom was so close but not close enough.

Resigned to the inevitable, Alice took several slippery, sloshy steps forward. Sarah wrapped both hands around Alice’s legs. Trying not to think about stains and laundry, Alice picked the girl up. Her feet slid out of the mire… but her shoes did not come with them. She glanced down to see the slime slowly running into the space formerly occupied by her ankles. “Wonderful,” she muttered. Sarah grabbed Alice’s shoulder (more stains) and Alice bent awkwardly to the side, fished the shoes out of the corral, and returned to the manger. Placing Sarah carefully outside the corral, Alice again contorted her body in ways a pregnant woman definitely should not, and returned to the safe, dry, dusty ground.

Back at the house, Rachael still sat on the back stairs. Alice noticed then that her shoes were also manure-covered. “Did you go into the corral, too?” she asked.

“Uh huh,” Rachael said. “Sarah got stuck.”

“Yes, I found her stuck out there. Now take off your shoes.” Alice retrieved the hose from the side of the house. A quick backyard scrub up was needed for all of their feet. Then she hung three pairs of dripping shoes on the clothesline. Instead of having lunch, she thought, we’re all going to have baths.

Now that Sarah’s sobbing had subsided, Alice asked, “Why did you go out there?”

“I follow Rachol,” was her timid answer.

“Ah yes, follow Rachael. I should have guessed.” She smiled and chuckled to herself. One thing she’d learned about her two daughters: Rachael always thought she could do anything… and Sarah wanted to follow. Whether for good or bad, Rachael led her sister, her accomplice, her friend, out to find excitement every day. 

This is me.

Sarah Droegemueller

This is my blog. I've been thinking for a long time that in order to improve my writing, I need to write everyday. I hope this will be a good exercise in creativity and will provide a forum for public feedback to improve my writing as well. 

My goal is to post new thoughts, stories or essays each day except Sunday. I hope you'll check back often and leave comments if you find what you read is pleasing, thought provoking, amusing, or just filled with "many true words."

Thanks! Hope to see you back here soon.