Stuffed, Wrapped Jalapenos

I discovered a quick h'ordeurve on the internet a few months back, bacon-wrapped, stuffed Jalapeno peppers.  I've tried them a few times with guests, and gotten rave reviews.  However, they are not for the faint of heart.  If you don't like spicy and hot, steer clear.

They are quite simple to prepare.  The only issue I would see is that you may wish to wear rubber or latex gloves when cutting and cleaning the peppers, especially if you have sensitive skin at all.  And DO NOT rub your eyes or touch other sensitive areas of you body, without first scrubbing your hands with soap and water.

You need three ingredients, how simple is that:  fresh jalapeno peppers, cream cheese and Canadian bacon.  It is best if you allow the cream cheese and bacon to reach room temperature on the counter for an hour or so.  It just makes both easier to handle.

Wash the fresh peppers and cut the stem off.  Slice each pepper in half lengthwise.  Take a teaspoon and dig the seeds and white pulp out of the center of each half of the peppers.

Use a butter knife and spread a generous dollop of cream cheese into each half pepper shell.  Fill the cavity up, probably about a teaspoon of cheese per pepper half.

Open the package of bacon, and cut the long slices in half.  Take a half slice of bacon and wrap it around the pepper and cheese.   If the bacon is room temperature, you can stretch it slightly to envelop the peppers. You can secure the bacon in place with a tooth pick if you so desire.

Put the wrapped peppers on a baking tray and place in the oven for 45 minutes at 350 F, until the bacon is crisped up and the peppers tender.  Serve while piping hot.

You may want to have a glass of milk handy.  Some peppers are definitely more pungent than others.  They are also good the next day, cold from the refrigerator - the flavours have had a bit of time to meld.

And that is all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.

The Big Ten, Scottish Immigrants

One line of my family that has a lot of documentation and pictures is the McRitchie line.  This would be my mother's great, great grandparents.
 
from "The Big Ten" , The MacRitchie or McRitchie Family by Charles V.B. McRitchie:


 The children of this family were referred to as the 'Big Ten' by Charles V. B. McRitchie, grandson of Charles and Jane McRitchie who started compiling the family history over 50 years ago.  He stated that Charles, Jane and family moved from Scotland to Merrickville, Ontario in 1840.  They received Land Deeds to 1200 acres of land in the Rideau River area. 

 Charles McRitchie, born July 31, 1783 in Aberdeenshire, married on December 25, 1814 to Jane Henderson, born June 21, 1790.  Their issue, five daughters and five sons, is hereafter known as "The Big Ten".  Charles and Jane McRitchie immigrated with nine of their ten children to Merrickville, Ontario, Canada, in 1841 and lived and died near Merrickville.

from the notes of CVB McRitchie:

# 1 James, October 16, 1815, sailed the Great Lakes and wintered on farm on 7th Concession, died Jan 19, 1895

#1 - James McRitchie

# 2 Ann McRitchie Mason, born Feb 14, 1817, settled in Easton's Corners, Grenville County, 1848, died Aug 08, 1907

#2 - Ann McRitchie Mason

# 3 Jane McRitchie Maitland, born Oct 12, 1818, settled at Kilmarnock, Lanark County, in 1846, died Jan 18, 1910

The Maitland house in Kilmarnock, Ontario

#3 - Jane McRitchie Maitland

# 4 Charles, born Sept 03, 1820, settled near Bothwell, Ontario, Kent County in 1865, died Mar 06, 1888
# 5 George, born June 02, 1822,  settled at Bothwell, Ontario, Kent County in 1858, died July 18, 1900

#5 - George McRitchie

# 6 Isobella McRitchie Harrison, born Apr 06, 1824, settled near Hanover in  Grey County in 1856, died July 20, 1894
# 7 Alexander, born Oct 25, 1825,  settled at Thamesville, Kent County in 1854, died Nov 28, 1901

#7 - Alexander McRitchie

# 8 William, born Aug 21, 1827,  settled east of Walkerton, Bruce County in 1856, died Jan 01, 1905        # 9 Elizabeth McRitchie Maloney, born Oct 04, 1829,  settled east of Walkerton, Bruce County in 1856, died Dec 26, 1873
# 10 Maria Gibbon McRitchie, born Dec 11, 1832, lived with her parents all her life, took care of her father after her mother died, but #10 died at the home of her sister #3 at Kilmarnock Mar 03, 1869

A gathering of McRitchies at #5's 50th wedding anniversary

I am not sure why they were referred to as the Big Ten.  I don't think they were physically tall people, although from what pictures I've seen, they do appear to have been sturdily built.  Or was it the larger than life personalities?  They do seem to have been quite progressive as citizens in the new land.

Number six, Isabella, is my great great grandmother.  Unfortunately I have yet to find a photograph of her.  I have been fortunate to gather photos of several of the others.

The family first immigrated to the Merrickville area, south of Ottawa, Ontario.  From my research, I've been told that nothing apparently exists of the original homestead.  One of the things I hope to do this summer is to find the exact location and visit the farm if possible.  It would be kind of nostaligic to walk the same soil the Big Ten once did.

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.

Home Grown Theatre, BCI's "Cirque"

I am a great supporter of local theatre and local talent and I am particularly impressed if that local theatre and local talent is performing material written by local people. That just makes it completely homegrown for me.

I am also an advocate for students who display an artistic bent, show initiative and are willing to showcase their talents, and hone their craft as youth.

I have had the privilege of watching two such performances at my daughter's high school in the last couple of months.

The first, a play called High Hopes was written by a Grade 12 student as an ISP project for her Music credit. A Grade 11 lad wrote six original songs for the short musical. There were just two main characters on stage in this quality performance, done in January.

Last night my family went to see the play Cirque, a play written by a Grade 12 girl, music written and conducted by a Grade 12 lad. The entire production was directed by another Grade 12 student. All the performers were Grade 9-11 students. The play which ran for two, forty-five minute acts, was most enjoyable, and extremely well written and maturely handled for such a young ensemble.

The following is a newspaper coverage account leading up to the production: 

http://www.brocknews.ca

 Pulling off an amazing feat

By RONALD ZAJAC , STAFF WRITE

At Brockville Collegiate Institute, students know all about a key rule of theatre: The show must go on.

Following the retirement last year of highly regarded teacher Lisa Leroux, who played a key role in the school's annual theatrical productions, BCI was not expected to even put on a school play this year, said Grade 12 student Rylan Schwarze.

But Schwarze and a group of passionate students decided to step up and fix that problem. Schwarze, 17, first suggested a magic show, but fellow student Sophia Smyth ran with the idea.

The result is Cirque, an entirely student-generated musical that runs at the school's auditorium next week. Smyth wrote most of the play, said Schwarze, adding he edited the script and added a few bits. Schwarze is the show's director and producer.

The story is set in France, immediately after the Second World War, and at its heart is a classic love story. "It's about a boy who falls in love with a girl, but she is high class and he is low class."

The girl's mother splits up the pair by sending the boy off to the circus, where he grows into a star performer, but eventually goes back to try to win over his love interest, said Schwarze.

The production includes music by Joshua Feltmate, who is also music director and head of the pit band, and choreography by Kristen Tackaberry, who also dances in the play.

The cast of 17, all students from Grades 9 to 11, includes Kelly Strange as the boy, Laurent ; Emily Mayo as his love interest, Elodie; and Jocelyn MacNeil as the mother, Louise. It also includes Harrison Beattie as the villain, Claude.

Putting the production together is a stressful experience, Schwarze acknowledged, but he is encouraged by what he sees.  "It's coming all together. Everyone is really working hard with this," he said.

It was difficult at first, but the group has really meshed together, said MacNeil, 16, who has performed in a number of shows at BCI and with the Brockville Operatic Society.

"In the end, we were really able to pull together and work as a team and bond as a family," she said.

Although he is not a stranger to school theatre, Strange, 16, is adapting to a new culture, having moved here from Foley, Alabama nearly a year ago.

"It's been torturous at some times and kind of fun at some times," Strange said of the student- run play.

Cirque runs Thursday, March 3 through Saturday, March 5 at 7 p.m. Tickets are $5 for students, seniors and children, and $8 for adults. They are available at the school's main office or at the door.

I highly applaud the pluck, determination and talent that these young people have displayed.  Kudos to you guys!

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.

Septic Systems, A Recurring Theme

Septic systems seem to have been a recurring theme throughout my life, a kind of hydra-like monster which rears its ugly head and beckons every so often.  They are a little like cars, a necessary evil in our modern world.  Like cars they are great as long as they are working, no so much so, if they are on the fritz.

I grew up in a house sans indoor plumbing until I was twelve or so.  My oldest brother bought my parents a toilet, sink and tub for Christmas that year.  It was one of those thoughtful gifts, but purchasing the appliances was the easy end of the bargain.  Installation was a much more significant proposition.   We had a lovely gentleman in our church, who was retired, but a handyman extraordinaire.  He did most of the indoor installation and plumbing.  However all of this had to be hooked up to a septic tank and weeper bed, out of doors.  Neither of these existed.  Dad and my brother dug a large rectangular hole right outside our veranda for the tank.

Dad and a friend, down in the septic tank hole.

I don't recall the tank being installed, but obviously a truck and crane must have put it in place.  From there, lines had to be dug out into the lawn.  I do recall there being five carefully dug trenches, snaking out.  I was obviously old enough to be of some assistance, as I recall wheeling crushed stone or gravel in the wheelbarrow to put down in the base of these trenches.  Then the weeper pipes were all laid out and joined up to the tank.  Lastly beach sand was wheeled in, and the pipes and crushed stone covered.  So most of the installation was all done by hand.  Nearly forty years later, that bed is still functional.  So while I'm sure it would never pass code these days, its longevity is a testament to good workmanship.

The next septic system that I got up close and personal with, was at our rental house, we had just purchased the year before.  At purchase, we were assured, a new tank had been installed the previous year.   I worked nights on the Thanksgiving weekend, and came home to a message from our tenant, that the toilet appeared to be backing up into the tub -- never a pleasant omen.  

After a quick inspection, it was determined that the septic system was in severe cardiac arrest.  We called a local contractor to come and investigate.  He dug down around the new tank and yes it was new, but had a hole punched in the top.  All the seepage had basically been leaching out of this hole, because the tank had been installed too far below the outlet pipe to the weeper bed -- go figure!

  

Plugged pipes, never a pretty picture!

 Some further investigation proved that the old weeper tiles had no adjoining elbows, only mounds of crushed stone.  This was probably a "dead of night" hush hush job that actually functioned for a few years with limited usage. The initial concept was to install a holding tank, a property devaluer if ever there was one.  Fortunately we were able to talk the health inspector into allowing a smaller, undersized (but legal) system thanks to a grandfathering clause.

That next fall we were hosting the better half's family Christmas get together at the end of November.  On the Saturday morning, the downstair's toilet began to do strange and wonderful things, like not flush, for instance.  I went to the basement to check the cleanout for pluggage.  As I unscrewed the lid, copious quantities of sewage sludge began to back flow.  You've heard of the concept of projectile vomiting -- picture a septic tank with the flu! 

I quickly tightened the cap back on, ran and grabbed a 45 gallon drum, from the garage and put it in place. Then I unleashed the lid, and stood back.  Unfortunately it was not just a plug; the tank was flooded.  Obviously the weeper lines had finally expired.  That is not a topic you announce at a festive family gathering.  The missus kept wondering why I kept disappearing throughout the day.  Every time I heard a toilet flush, I would exit and pail five more offensive gallons of effluent out to the back forty.  All I have to say, they had to have been the poopinest, peeinist group of thirty people on the planet that day.

So since it was late November and the frost had already begun to set in, we had the tank pumped.  With limited use, we were able to limp through winter, until we could get a contractor in to give us an estimate.  Of course this was the era of the Walkerton ecoli escapade and suddenly what had once been a fairly quick, simple process, quickly became a gargantuan nightmare.  The soil test, proved we were primarily clay, not a hospitably compatible component for septic systems, so the decree went forth from Caesar Augustus....sorry, wrong story.  The plan was that four feet of clean sand had to be trucked in to fill an area roughly the size of a standard football field.  Thirty five truckloads later, we had a hill on our once flat farm.  My wife was sorely wounded by the loss of our nice private lawn, but it was the destruction of two large, well-established flower beds that finally brought the tears.

So in the course of a year and a half, we sank the best part of twenty-five grand into the ground at two locations and really didn't improve the resale value of either by a single penny.  And then the well decided it was time to give up the ghost, but that's a whole 'nother story.

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.

Berry Picking

I enjoy picking fruit.  I come from a line of folks who enjoyed picking fruit.  It must be part of my hunter-gatherer side coming to the forefront.

I have several early photos of Mom and her siblings arriving home from the back forty, laden with pails of wild raspberries.  At that point in time, I would assume that Grandma Patterson would have canned them into raspberry cordial, and stewed raspberries for winter use, as freezing would not have yet been an option for winter preservation.  I especially like the photo of the city cousin (the one with the short dress), proudly holding a pail of fruit, which according to Mom she never picked.  Notice the look of disgust on the one of the country sisters, to the left, who had to give up her share, just for the photo opportunity.

Aunt Ruth with raspberries

As a youngster, my earliest berry picking expeditions would have been for wild strawberries that grew in a lot of the local abandoned farm fields, close to home.  My quota was to fill one of the small plastic drinking glasses with the little fruit and they had to have the husks removed.  Mom would pick a mixing bowl in the same time frame.  Originally we tended to just enjoy these fruit, fresh.  Then Dad and my other siblings got in on it. 

I recall a couple of times we actually made a family outing for the afternoon, just to go and pick wild strawberries on the OTF campsite grounds.  Yes we were trespassing, but we were just taking fruit that would have gone to waste otherwise.  By this point, we were picking enough to freeze, so we could enjoy them all winter long as well.  There was a certain satisfaction in finding the perfect patch, and not letting anyone else know.  Some patches were much better picking than others.  If someone was being quiet, it was usually time to move close to them to investigate if they had found a bounty.

I recall one time my older brother and I had heard of good wild raspberries back in a patch where there had been a recent logging -- ideal conditions for new canes.  To get to the location, we had to cross a beaver dam.  About half way across the dam, there was hornet's nest.  On the way over, we discovered them, but didn't seem to anger them severely.  However on the way back, we were laden with berries and I do recall a bit of an altercation with the little winged stingers.

When I was a youngster, Dad worked away from home quite a bit for the Ministry of Lands and Forests, planting trees.  Because he saw all the land, he quickly discovered where the best berry patches were.  He and several of the other men would spend their evenings picking wild blueberries, which they would freeze and bring home to their families on the weekends.

We had a burn about three miles from home.  It was called a burn, because I guess years ago there had been a forest fire that stripped a lot of the trees from this wilderness area.  Blueberries thrive in the soil that results after a forest fire.  This was a land filled with lakes and swamps and rocks, and blueberry plants.  We would plan an all-day outing to bring home the winter's supplies of wild blueberries.  In early years we walked the old logging trail back, and lugged the filled pails home in the evening.  Later on, there were three wheelers, motor bikes and even a cousin's old Ford tractor, which alleviated some of the trekking.

A berry picking expedition with the cousins

In recent years my forays into forest in search of fruit, are considerably curtailed.  Time just doesn't seem to allow it, and wild fruit doesn't seem to grow in such abundance as it once did.  About the only regular berry picking excursion we take now is to the local high bush blueberry farm.  Here we drive to the edge of the patch, sit on milk crates, quickly fill our baskets (and tummies) and then drive off with our spoils, enough to enjoy in the winter months.  I would love to find a good patch of wild strawberries.  That would be a taste of my childhood.

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.

Happy Birthday My Love

Happy Birthday to my Sweetheart.  I can't tell you just which one (I mean birthday, not sweetheart!), but I can hint that next year will be a big one.  For the next six months we are the same age.

A few years ago!

We're not a family, big into birthday celebrations.  It's kind of, okay, another year older, possibly wiser, and hopefully not any deeper in debt.  I guess that probably wouldn't work as lyrics to a country song.

I probably should bake a cake, but of course such caloric efforts are no longer welcome in our nutritionally conscious household, besides Wednesdays are sort of a write off for both of us.  So hopefully this weekend we can go out together, just the two of us and celebrate another milestone.

To my dear girl.  I hope 2011 is a good year for both you and us.  We've been through a bit of a wringer-washer in the past couple years, and you deserve some good times.  Thank you for being my constant, my support, and the best companion any man could want over the rough times and the good times.

I've got to quote somebody who said it much better than I can (thanks Mr. Hallmark) :

Thinking back on our life

we've had our share of good times

We've seen some tough times too....

Days when just knowing we had each other

made all the difference.

I know that as long

as you're beside me,

I have everything I need

to be happy

And as much as I love

the memories we've made,

I'm looking forward 

to making new ones even more.

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener

Would You Smash a Steinway?

I wish when we first became parents, there had been some pamphlet made available that would let us in on just how much it might hurt to be a parent.  Don't get me wrong being a parent is a wonderful experience and I have two absolutely amazing daughters to prove the fact.  But I'm afraid as a Dad, I was not prepared for the gut-wrenching pain that comes along with the joy.

We just had daughter, number one, home for a week from university.  It was a bittersweet week.  First of all, everyone but her, was away from dawn till dusk each day.  So I'm afraid she sat at home, lonely and bored for a lot of the time.  She wasn't really feeling up to visiting old friends either.

To be quite frank, she's had a miserable couple of semesters and in the process so have her parents.  A year ago, we took a bright, confident girl  to two different universities (the choices had been narrowed down) to audition for musical performance in voice.  Both universities quickly accepted her - there was no doubt she displayed a lot of musical potential.  In the end, she chose Western in London, as her home for the next four years.

The last weekend of the summer, we loaded up the van, headed across the province and deposited her at the front gates - well no actually we moved her into her dorm (imagine two mother hens, nesting for one little chick!) and departed.  During frosh week, we got an excited call, that she had been chosen as one of six to sing a solo in front of the six thousand new students.

So we hadn't been that far off in our perception of her talent and abilities.  My feeling was we had delivered a fairly fine little Steinway, to the music department and they would fine tune and perfect her over the course of the next four years, and turn out something unique for the world to enjoy.

How wrong I was.  Solo done, reality began to settle in.  The faculty didn't want something unique.  The thrust of classical vocal music education seems to be opera and only opera, in Canada.  What about all the other venues, venues that seem to be luring in the entertainment dollars, far more so than I see in the opera world. I know there is a perception, that if you are classically trained, you can sing anything, any style.

Thus began the drubbing, the attempt to hammer a cookie-cutter opera sound from a voice so uniquely rich, vibrant and full of colour.  

The dire warning, that "only the best of the best here at Western will make it in the music world" (translate to opera) was their cheerless pep talk in the first week of studies.  

Her voice teacher's query "had she ever had a voice teacher before, and did she teach you anything?" really helped to shore up the already bruised ego.  Daily comments about the 'darkness' of her voice, the incorrect placements, the poor tonal reproduction, on and on ............ to the final "I'm not sure how to help you." 

I know a Steinway is a piano!

My feeling was initially that "all this too shall pass.  It's just a way to put the freshmen in their place."  

At Thanksgiving we feared we would be bringing her home prematurely.  But the decision to drop one course from the load, seemed to postpone that potential minefield.

At Christmas, a decision was made to finish out the year, but not return, once the year was done.  

However, in the last few weeks, the thoughts are now to stay, but to switch majors completely.  At least this option means the past year will not be lost, but count as electives.

Yesterday we took her to the train to head back for the final kick at the cat, for this year.  In six short weeks she will be done and back home for the summer, to heal and regroup .  But as she sat on the train bench, awaiting her car, tears silently sliding down her cheeks, I realized six weeks is an eternity, when you feel so beaten down.  

I know I'm a biased parent, but I really wanted to hit someone.  I hate what a few unthinking people have done to my amazing little instrument, especially when I realize how dearly this experiment has cost all of us.

And that is about all I have to say for today.

Musings and meanderings from the Musical Gardener.