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RUSTIC
FOOD
RJF-Generations_INTs.indd 1 8/5/19 11:38 AM

RUSTIC
FOOD
Generations
DANIELLE KARTES
Photography by Jeff Hobson & Michael Kartes

Copyright © 2017, 2020 by Danielle Kartes
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Brittany Vibbert
Cover and internal images © Michael Kartes
Internal design by Jillian Rahn
Food and prop styling by Danielle Kartes
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including
information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—
without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is
sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional service. If
legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought. —From
a Declaration of Principles Jointly Adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers
and Associations
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their
respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Originally published in 2017 in the United States by Lavender Press.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kartes, Danielle, author. | Kartes, Michael, photographer.

Title: Rustic joyful food : generations / Danielle Kartes ; photography by
Michael Kartes.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks, 2020. | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019025316 | (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Comfort food. | LCGFT: Cookbooks.
Classification: LCC TX714 .K3676 2020 | DDC 641.3--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025316
Printed and bound in China.

OGP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Milo and Noah
Ephesians 3:20
God can do anything, you know—far

more than you could ever imagine
or guess or request in your wildest
dreams!
For My Grandmother
Gloria
Your life is a gift.
Psalm 78:3–4
Things we have heard and known,

things our ancestors have told us. We
will tell the next generation the praise-
worthy deeds of the Lord, His power,
and the wonders He has done.
For My Brother
William (The Baby)
We’ve come a long way since
the lemon bars.

To Every Mother
To every mother up all night, eating the bits off your kids’ plates and
longing for a hot shower: You are brave. You made a tiny human, or
several. You are creating a legacy.
To every mother flying out the door to work with dry toast in one
hand and backpacks in the other: Fret not; you are doing a good job.
To every woman with a child who doubts her abilities and is doing
the very best she can: Take heart, for you are creating a generation. Your
love won’t ever go unnoticed, and your shortcomings will be forgiven.
I’ve heard it said that the days are long and the years are short. Revel
in these years. These are your training years. You are being refined and
tried and tested for a purpose. Motherhood is messy and unscripted,
and you will fail, but you will soar. Embrace your flaws, and forgive
yourself. Those tiny people want only you—your love and your time.
They don’t want perfect, and they don’t need pretty; they just need you.
Cook them all the food from scratch that you can manage. They won’t
forget. Play with them, and hold them always, no matter what the books
say. They want the real you.
To every mother: You’ve got this. You were made for hard things.

Contents
Introduction xvii
Measurements xxv
Supper 1
Stuffed Shells 5
Fresh Pasta with Tiger Shrimp and Cream 6
Oven-Baked BBQ Chicken Wings 7
Curried Halibut 9
Cafeteria Chicken Gravy 10
Gloria’s Oven-Fried Chicken Legs 12
The Ultimate Classic Beer-Battered Fish and Chips 15
Puff Pastry Roast Beef Pot Pie 17
Wine-and-Tomato-Braised Short Ribs over Parmesan
Cauliflower Mash 19

My Mom’s Swiss Steak 20
Mustard Chicken Thighs and Cauliflower 21
Old-School Cracker Crumb Nuggets and Sauces 23
Seared Salmon with Citronette-Dressed Greens 25
Homemade Sheet-Pan Pizza 26
Homestyle Meatloaf Sandwich 29
Apple Cider Pork Shoulder with Thyme and
Sauerkraut 30
Angel Hair Pasta in Tomato Cream 31
Swedish-Style Meatballs in Mushroom
Cream Sauce 33
Turkey Gravy 34
Shepherd’s Pie 35
Stovetop Mac ’n’ Cheese 37
Smothered Chicken and Mushroom Gravy 38
Garlic Butter Shrimp 40
Fresh Crab Feast 40
Toasted Pimento Cheese Sandwiches 42
Sheet-Pan Chicken and Carrots 43
Sloppy Joes 44
Mustard-Roasted Chicken and Potatoes 46
Company Chicken 47
Baked Chicken Parmesan 49
Olive Chicken 51

Soups and Stews 55
Bacon and White Bean Soup 57
Hamburger Soup 58
Real Baked Potato Soup 59
Bouillabaisse or Fish Stew 61
Classic Oven-Braised Beef and Tomato Stew over
Cream Cheese Polenta 63
Potato, Parsnip, and Celeriac Root Vegetable Soup 64
Curried Carrot Soup 67
Perfect Chicken Stock 69
Classic New England Clam Chowder Bread Bowls 71
Taco Soup 72
Roasted Tomato Soup 75
Thai Green Curry Soup with Grilled Chicken Skewers 76
Vegetables and Sides 79

Herby Peas 83
Creamy Buttermilk and Parsley Mashed Potatoes 84
Butternut Squash Polenta 85
Creamed Spinach 85
Aunty Pat’s Dilly Potatoes 86
Roasted Carrots with Cilantro Yogurt 89
Garlic and Brown Butter Asparagus 90
Roasted Butternut Squash with Parmesan Cheese 91
Easter Potatoes with Feta, Cream Cheese, and Dill 92
Roasted Cauliflower and Capers 95
Off-the-Cob Street Corn with Chipotle and Feta 97

Kale and Fresh Crab Caesar Salad with Pepita
Caesar Dressing 98
Peas and Orzo 101
Everyday Green Salad 103
Thora’s Steakhouse Crispy Onion Rings with
Buttermilk Ranch Dipping Sauce 104
Tomato and Cucumber Salad 106
Cream Cheese Polenta 107
Roasted Radishes 109
Spring Potatoes 109
Jenny’s Perfectly Steamed Broccoli and Cauliflower 110
Mom’s Scalloped Potatoes 111
Old-Fashioned Dill and Mustard Potato Salad 113
Roasted Winter Vegetables 114
Snacks 117
White Cheddar Toast with Dill and Tomatoes 121
Homestyle Garlic Fries 123
Pickles 125
Rosemary and Parmesan Popcorn 126
Spicy Sweet Potato Fries with Sun-Dried Tomato Mayo 127
Buttermilk Fried Oysters and Razor Clams 129
Caramelized Brie and Tomatoes 131

Breakfast 133
Cinnamon Vanilla Ricotta Pancakes 136
Blueberry Brown Sugar Baked French Toast Topped
with Toasted Pecans, Buttermilk Maple Syrup, and
Whipped Cream 138
Caramelized Onion Frittata 141
Sweet Potato Hash and Fried Eggs 142
Whole-Grain Waffles with Apple Butterscotch Syrup 143
Buttermilk Pumpkin Pancakes with Toasted Pecans
and Cream Cheese Schmear 144
Fluffy Cornbread and Maple Syrup 147
Soft Scrambled Eggs 148
Chocolate Chip and Rye Pancakes 149
Bus-Stop Egg Sandwiches 151
Yogurt Bowls with Stewed Apples 155
Baked Chiles Rellenos 156
Cream of Wheat 157
Drinks 159
Old-Fashioned Lemonade 161
Grapefruit Paloma 161
Hot Chocolate 163
Cider Champagne Cocktail 163
Italian Sodas 164
Egg Coffee 167
Mojito Floats 168

Sweets 171
Aunt Libby’s Carrot Cake 173
Cherry Chip Cake with Cream Cheese Icing 174
Chocolate Buttermilk Birthday Cake with
Malted Chocolate Cream Cheese Frosting 175
Grandma Hawkins’s Applesauce Bundt Cake 176
Cream Cheese Brownies 178
Spiced Stewed Apples 179
Dark Chocolate and Cherry Cream Cheese
Whoopie Pies 181
Coconut Bundt Cake with Lemon Curd, Toasted
Coconut, and Soft Whipped Cream 182
Coconut Cream Lemon Bars 185
Honey Butter Biscuit Strawberry Shortcake 187
Mug Cakes, a.k.a. the Emotional Support Treat 191
Molasses and Walnut Zucchini Bread 192
Pineapple and Cherry Crumble 194
Cream Cheese and Honey Fruit Dip 194
Walnut Pie 195
Pumpkin Yogurt Snack Cake 196
Cinnamon and Sugar Toasts 197
Peanut Butter and Jam Cookie Bars 199
Salted Caramel Apples 200
Weeknight Yellow Cake with Fudge Frosting 202
Spiced Pumpkin Scones with Spiced Cream Icing 203
Vanilla Bean Sugar Cookies 205
Sticky Toffee Pudding 208
White Cake with Raspberry Jam and Coconut 210
Dark Chocolate and Salted Caramel Panna Cotta 213
Lemon Chiffon Pie 214
Old-Fashioned Rice Pudding 215

Strawberry Galette with Crème Fraîche 216
Fresh Blueberry and Chocolate Chip Cookies 219
Apricot and Almond Shortbread Galette 220
Pear and Almond Cream Tart 222
Closing Thoughts 225
Index 227
About the Author 237

Introduction
Generations—good food, warm sun, humble
beginnings, and a whole lot of faith
I
grew up on Kool-Aid, butter-flavored Crisco, and homemade bread! It warms me to
recall those long-ago summers: standing on a chair and dumping sugar into a lidless
plastic pitcher, swirling the sugar and powder until ribbons of colored juice appeared,
sipping from the spoon I stirred it with, pouring cups for my brothers and sister, then flying
out the back sliding-glass door to play again. It wasn’t what we were drinking that makes
my childhood memories special; it was the carefree feeling of being part of a family and all
that comes with it: learning and growing together, never perfect but always loving.
I have long since abandoned my Kool-Aid ways and now opt to cook with organic and
wholesome food whenever possible, but that doesn’t mean we don’t splurge and have a
little fun every now and again.
What makes a meal special? Certainly not the best cutlery, the most expensive ingredi-
ents, or the latest trends in cooking. We don’t necessarily remember foods for their expense
or extravagance, but for the memories they evoke. It’s about the people who made them
for you and how they loved you. I have always known there was something special about
Grandma Gloria’s oven-fried chicken, and I knew that the pains of life were somehow healed
in the kitchen. There is this beautiful tradition in families, no matter what yours looks like.
It does not matter what is served but how it’s served. There are stories and cultures and
ways of life that have been forgotten, but certain things will always remain.
Generations past worked for us to have better. As a kid, during lean times, there was
such a sense of victory when enough change was gathered to buy a gallon of milk. I can
remember how I always thought my mom was the most beautiful mom out there. I was privy

to much as a child, but it’s not until now, having my own children,
that I fully understand the effort made by my mother to keep our
family comfortable during times of financial hardship and how
As the generations she valiantly weathered those times for us kids. There was always
move on, you not food on our table, and it was always delicious. We had a garden
only feel but see the every year. My dad worked two jobs for most of my childhood.
fingerprints, in your He served in the army for thirty-eight years, active and reserve,
everyday life and in put himself through night school, and worked in education. He’d
your home, of those come home from teaching all day, and we’d have dinner waiting
who’ve passed on. for him to take to the penitentiary, where he taught life skills to
prisoners, some of whom were even on death row.
Fresh-baked cookies, hearty soups, and hunks of fresh bread—
family food—were always in our home. We ate dinner early, around
four o’clock, so Dad could get a hot meal on the way to his second
full-time job. His actions and dedication to our family are what
shaped me into who I am. When you don’t have all the money
in the world and you do have a big family, using everything is
essential to life.
Hamburger patties, home fries and corn, spaghetti and garlic
bread, pot roast. Throw in some fish sticks and baked chicken,
yellow cake on a weeknight for no good reason—these were our
staples. Homemade wasn’t trendy when I was a child; it was just
life. We had hamburger soup (as we liked to call it) at least once
a week: rich vegetable broth and loads of ground chuck, potatoes,
carrots, tomatoes, and any other veggie that happened to be in the
crisper. There were chicken thighs braised in homemade barbecue
sauce for hours, which we’d eat with white rice. These unfancy,
flavorful dishes are what I make for my own family, along with
new favorites.
I learned from my mother not just to cook but to feed people.
When we were small, she’d make big pots of soup for the homeless
shelter. I wasn’t even tall enough to see into the pot, but I knew the
food she was making was going to feed those who had nothing,
even when we had very little. You always give, and you always try.
My mother learned to cook from her grandmother, my great-
gran Thora. Thora Pederson grew up on a farm in North Dakota in
the 1920s. Born in 1917, she was the youngest of ten. Her family
sold milk and cream, butter and wheat. Their farm was simple, and
xviii IN TRO DU C T IO N

times were lean. They worked tirelessly to eat.
She has long since gone to be with Jesus, and
as I write, I wish she had known that how she
grew up and lived would speak to my life now,
some eighty years later. My great-grandmother
cooked with all the gusto and fortitude of a
Norwegian nana who grew up in the Dakotas:
butter, gravy, and apple pie.
Thora got a job when she was twelve and
moved into the city to care for some children as
a nanny. She went to high school for two years,
until her family needed her to quit and work
to send money home to the farm. When she
was just seventeen, she met a man twenty years
her senior, and they married. They moved from North Dakota to Gresham, Oregon. Auntie Ingrid and
Uncle Telvin's dairy farm.
Montana, then to Oregon to follow the work. Their family often
ate rice pudding. She started her career in the food industry by
chance, as a dishwasher, in the ’50s. Then she worked her way up
the line into salads. She created the dressing and onion-ring recipes
still used to this day at a popular steakhouse. She continued to
move up and work hard and soon owned a cafeteria in an Oregon
Sears building. All eight of her kids worked there, and the food was
all-American and heavenly, including the mustard and dill potato
salad we still eat to this day—the same potato salad Great-Gran
made to feed a tiny crowd on my mother’s wedding day in 1980.
The wedding feast was ham, baked beans, and that same classic
potato salad, with punch, coffee service, and white cake for dessert.
What I wouldn’t give to have cooked alongside her.
My grandmother Gloria was the eldest of Great-Gran’s eight
children. Gloria, when she had a family of her own in the ’60s, was
the new American woman. She spent twelve-to-fourteen-hour days
outside the home, doing factory work, so her young family would
not go hungry. She made a few things for my mom that were a real
treat, like oven-fried chicken and relish trays for entertaining, with
pickles and sliced tomatoes, and chocolate cupcakes with white
icing. My mother inherited tenacity from her mother and a soul
for cooking from her grandmother.
I believe my adoration and need to cook came from these
IN TRO DUC T ION xix

deep roots. When I opened
my restaurant, it became a
place to practice everything
I’d learned in my life and was
a source of creativity, love,
and real joy.
As the generations move on,
you not only feel but see the
fingerprints, in your everyday
life and in your home, of those
who’ve passed on. I get a sense
of who they were at mealtimes:
unspoken tradition, fixing a
plate the way your mother did,
the way my mother did.
Duarte, California. My dad, Michael, I believe there is a food renaissance beginning. People are
and his beloved Grandma Mac
taking great care in cooking again, figuring out how to eat better
(MacLoughlin).
and figuring out how to get back to those days of slow-cooked,
homegrown food while balancing a career and family. I’ve been
part of a revolution and a connection to the past while always
pushing forward.
When my sons were born, motherhood took on an entirely
different meaning for me. It’s been my job to love and teach these
curious children about how I was raised and about the mistakes
I’ve made. I believe that they’re going to live their lives better
than those who’ve gone before them. My boys are my gift. Noah
is my right-hand man in the kitchen, and at just six years old, he
can roll fresh pasta and scramble eggs with the best of ’em. We
go on trips to the city to watch how things are made, and his love
for cooking and life is deeply rooted in the generations that came
before him; for this I am grateful. When I think of generations
past, I am grateful. Because of their struggle, we are afforded an
easier way of life.
When I first met my husband, he said something so profound
when I asked him his favorite color: “The sunlight in the photo-
graphs from my childhood.” This nostalgic sentiment is relatable,
no matter who you are, and it especially applies to the food we
ate growing up. Ramen noodles might trigger late-night studying
xx IN TRO DU C T IO N

memories, or chili mac and steamed broccoli might remind you
of busy school nights—that go-to meal your family loves that you
can have on the table in twenty minutes.
The recipes in this book are simple and delicious. These are the This is a book about
foods I grew up on and the foods I now feed my family. They are home. About where
meant to remind you how special family time is and how important we are shaped.
memories made around food truly are. About the food that
This book—it’s who I am. It’s who we all are: messy and happy is passed down.
and filled with joy and sometimes regret. Filled with hope and love
and promise that there will always be good in the world. Rustic
Joyful Food is about life, and Generations is about the past that
will always touch our present and continue to shape our future.
The smell of cinnamon transports you back to your childhood,
fulfilling your longing for a sweeter time. Not because the pres-
ent isn’t good, but because the good old days filled with life and
hardship and buttermilk biscuits and smothered chicken seemed
to make you just a little bit of you are.
We had backyard chickens in the suburbs.
My family did everything we could to experience every season.
Berry picking and making jam seem so trendy these days, but it
was a way of life for us—foraging and picking. We were poor and
happy. We enjoyed free lunch at public school. I never knew we
were any different from any other family.
Our Hawkins tribe took the seasons seriously, and we pushed
the limits. When it snowed, we sneaked into vacant houses’ back-
yards to go sledding in mixing bowls. I’d sell water in big 7-Eleven
cups to construction workers while they replaced our streets.
I was a different kid. I was raised with a voice. My parents
taught me to question authority and follow my gut. I had a full-
blown candy business out of my eighth-grade backpack. I was
taught to make something out of nothing, and somehow my mom
could always manage to rub two nickels together and make food
that rivaled all foods. We were poor and so richly blessed. Never
once was a limit ever placed on achieving our dreams or goals.
Dreaming was a part of life. Drive was passed out freely in our
house. My dad always said, “Poor doesn’t equal dirty,” and my
mother took great care in us.
This is a book about home. About where we are shaped. About
IN TRO DUC T ION xxi

the food that is passed down. It’s a raw look at family life, no
matter what yours might look like. It’s about immigration and
farm life in the ’20s, and it’s about grit and virtue. It’s about Jesus
I learned from my and egg coffees. Lemon chiffon pies and my heritage. That ache to
mother not just to cook touch just a part of it as an adult and savor every damn moment
but to feed people. in life. God gives us this one go-round, and it’d better be your best
attempt. Never perfect, but always trying to be better for my own
babies. For my husband, for myself.
There are characters in my story who might be just like yours,
and they might breathe life into your heart by reading about them.
There is pain in life, and somehow it seems to me it’ll be healed
by food: nourishing our souls and living for the Lord because
time isn’t promised.
This summer, we welcomed our sweet boy Milo into our family
(Milo means “merciful”).
God was so very merciful to bless us with this tiny lion heart,
a true fighter. Milo was born eight weeks prematurely; he fought
for his life valiantly, and God granted it to him. My pregnancy
wasn’t easy. Living through this summer in the hospital, battling
for our family and warring for my tiny human, taught me so much.
It humbled me to be in the NICU with this baby for five weeks,
and it humbled me to be in the ICU myself with so many compli-
cations in my own healing. One evening, while I could barely eat,
sixty miles from my three-pound newborn in another hospital in
another city, my sister came into my room with a small container
of home-cooked food.
I had been lying in a hospital bed the better part of a month,
and this time it was much more serious. My sister had some pot
roast and mashed potatoes. Nothing in the world tasted as good
as that home-cooked food. I cried while I ate it.
God had given me a phrase for our family at the beginning of
2017. He gently whispered to my soul: Move forward. I had little
idea what that meant. Reflecting ten weeks after Milo was born,
I understood what He meant: Just take each day a step at a time.
Move forward just a little each morning. Press on.
That food my sissy brought me gave me just what I needed to
press on a little more. Food heals. We continue to move forward in
our journey and in our healing and in life. I savor each moment. I
xxii IN TRO DU C T IO N

love my boys so fiercely, and I am grateful to do life with my very Washington State. Dad and me.
best friend. He brings out the fire in me, and I love him for it. To
think God trusted us with these two boys is a wild gift. They are
my legacy.
They represent generations to come, and they hold just a piece
of the past.
I’m a cook who learned to cook from my mom and developed
my style for messy, simple, happy recipes in the last ten years,
cooking in my own restaurant and gleaning every bit of knowledge
I could from other chefs and colleagues. I want you to share in my
life and enjoy these recipes, to make them your own.
My husband likes to tell me I’m one of the rare ones who never
signed the unspoken social contract. I love that description of me:
out here breaking rules and blazing trails and inviting others to
come along for the ride and blaze their own paths.
IN TRO DUC T ION xxiii

xxiv IN TRO DU C T IO N

Measurements
I
have never seen any grandmother use a set of measuring cups. All growing up, my mom
would grab a large metal bowl and just begin to dump in ingredients using no form of
measurement, let alone scale, and she’d come up with cookies that rivaled all cookies,
or tender crumb banana bread that had all the nooks and crannies to hold a pat of butter.
When I first moved out, I wanted that same skill set. I tried dumping ingredients into a
bowl and mixing them up, but my baked goods always tasted like leather, my cookies like
hockey pucks. Banana bread? Flat and lifeless. I needed to be a seasoned cook before I knew
the way something looked or felt. I just wanted to be the best without the trials. Now, after
fifteen years of solid cooking, I understand the chemistry behind baking more than I did as
a kid. I’ve lived through the preparation of so many dishes. I understand each ingredient’s
role in a cake or stew. More isn’t always better; restraint in cooking is an art form. I look
at cooking as this dance. I didn’t know that browning meat made the difference in layering
flavors or that overworking your dough yields a tough end result.
Life produces a great cook. Not school, not all the best ingredients. Hard times breed
creativity. Rent week leads me to cook things in such a way that even a can of beans sings.
Necessity is the mother of invention, and time heals all kitchen-related wounds. Even
for the worst cook. Success is a habit formed by failing and then trying again. Honestly,
I can now make a batch of chocolate chip cookies to rival all chocolate chip cookies by
dumping a bunch of ingredients into a bowl and adding the one extra ingredient it took
me a long time to understand how to use: experience.
My experiences in life have really shown me how to cook, how to incorporate love into
everything I make, and how to fail with grace. Cooking with love is this grand journey.
I’ve never been interested in learning to cook perfectly. I’ve never desired to slice a perfect
chiffonade or slice carrots into impressive julienne sticks. These things are impressive and
special to many people, but for me, what’s special is heart and soul. Soul injected into the
food I cook is far more important than the techniques of folks who wears chef’s hats. “Yes,

chef!” in the kitchen doesn’t sound as pure as “Wow, how can I
make something so delicious for my family?” There is no ego in
home cooking. It’s not the best of the best.
Or is it? For me, the answer is, and always will be, yes. The bits
and pieces and odds and ends that make up the family meal are
indeed the very best of the best. Braising and roasting and sautéing
seasonal, affordable food is my very favorite way to cook. I am
a cook; I am not a chef. I like it this way. I’ve learned to measure
by life’s hand, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To feed you
is to truly love you. I will continue to feed and to feel the way a
dish needs to be, all while showing the world that there is value
in the in-between. The in-between is where life happens.
An item of note in regard to the recipes in this book:

Always use 1 teaspoon of kosher salt per pound of meat. All meats.
xxvi M EASUR E M E N T S

Supper
An Ode to Supper at 4:00 p.m.
F
lopped on the couch, covered in black grime and a cutoff black sweatshirt, was a very tired
father. My dad lost his job when I was about ten, and our whole world changed. I remember
it being difficult in all the expected ways. But he kept on going. He got multiple odd jobs and
kept working hard, always. He didn’t take this setback as an excuse to feel sorry for himself. He began
working his way through night school. He never stopped. I see these snippets of him when I close my
eyes, memories of him just doing.
He liked to unwind by hanging out in the garage, listening to classical music as he sorted baseball
cards late into the night, or sorting ammo or military gear. I remember him covered in oil and grime
from working on the pickup—that old Ford always needed something. It had no power steering
for much of my childhood, among other shortcomings. Is there anything sweeter than seeing your
dad fix everything?
All the while, he stayed in the army reserves, working his way up to sergeant major, the highest rank
for an enlisted soldier. He eventually got his bachelor’s degree, then went on to earn his master’s degree
and teaching and administration credentials. He got a job at a small private school. His philosophy
has always been that you can turn any situation into what you want it to be, what you’ve dreamed
of. You can always find a way to be what you are called to be. Your station in life is determined by
you and no one else.
He always said, “Poor doesn’t equal dirty, so take care of your things.” I inherited his cluttered nature
and his drive. I began attending the private high school where he worked when I was a sophomore, and
I hated it. I didn’t know it at the time, but attending that school, where I didn’t fit in and I wasn’t like
most of the other kids, was honestly the best thing for me. I learned to really love who I was. What a
treasure to go to school where my dad taught. I’d get to hang out in his classroom, observing how all
my fellow students just loved him. They loved that he was invested in them, that he saw all they could
be. My dad loved the “labeled” kids—the sad kids, the kids who some might say didn’t have a bright
future. He saw those kids, mentored those kids, and changed those kids’ lives. And he does so to this day.

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"I've heard your aunt say half-a-dozen times that she did
not like your going to those Burnsides," said the farmer.
Steenie laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not

bound to care for all her likes or dislikes either," muttered
the boy, tapping his front teeth with his silver-tipped cane.
Macalpine's sharp keen eyes looked sharper and keener

than ever as he observed, "After your aunt's bringing you
up, and doing everything for you these ten years, ever since
you could toddle alone, I think that she has a good claim at
least to your obedience, if you have no affection to give."
Apparently Master Steenie did not relish his uncle's remark,

for, perhaps to turn the conversation, he began teasing the
farmer's dog. Macalpine's angry remonstrance led to the
reply of his nephew with which my little story begins.
"I wonder that you care to keep such a rough ugly cur as
that Trusty," observed Steenie Steers.
"I keep him for some use," answered the farmer. "Trusty
guards my flock attends to my call; by day or by night; in
snow, rain, or hail, he is always ready to do my bidding.
He's a good old fellow," continued Macalpine, stooping to
pat his rugged friend, who licked the farmer's hand in
return. "I've reared him from a puppy."
"I should not care to rear such a common kind of dog as

that," observed Steenie, who prided himself on being a dog-
fancier. "If he were a King Charles spaniel now—"
"Or a pug or a poodle," interrupted the farmer; "I should

not consider him worth the rearing. I care for use, not for
show."
"Your favourite does not cost you much, I'll be bound!" said
Steenie Steers, with a saucy laugh.
"Trusty costs me nothing," answered Macalpine, "for he is

content with a few bones, and fairly earns what he gets. But
a friend of mine once reared a puppy that would, perhaps,
be a puppy just to your taste. Plenty of care and pains she
bestowed on the useless creature, and stuffed it with food
more than enough. I consider that much of that good
feeding was downright waste, seeing what the puppy was to
turn out, and that my poor friend really stinted herself to
pamper her pet."
"Did the creature devour so much, then?" inquired young

Steers.
"Why, he must have gobbled up, during his training,—let me

see—let me see," and Macalpine rubbed his shaggy head to
help out his calculations,—"the pet must have gobbled up as
good as three hundred big legs of mutton!"
"I say!" exclaimed Steenie, in much amazement. "Your

friend's pet must have been no pup, but a lion, and one
with a monstrous appetite, too! Such a brute as that would
soon eat his mistress out of house and home."
"He did not eat all the mutton in a day—or a week—or a

month; he took his time about it," said the farmer, with a
low chuckling laugh. "But my friend's hungry pet did not live
on mutton alone; we must add to the meat some three
hundred pounds of fresh butter!"
"A dainty dog!" exclaimed Steenie.
"And not much less than a thousand loaves of white bread,"

said Macalpine "with tubs of milk, and casks of beer, and I
don't know how many plum-cakes, seed-cakes, iced cakes,
and all sorts of sweeties besides!"
"You are cracking a joke on me, uncle," said Steenie. "I'll

answer for it that your friend's pet was never a puppy at
all."
"I could not answer for it that he is not one now, and a very
useless puppy, and a very ungrateful puppy," cried the
farmer, rising from his seat. "There, I see my sister
coming," he added, as he looked through the open door-
way; "Trusty, you and I will go and meet her."
Trusty, ever ready, sprang up and followed his master.
Steenie's face had grown exceedingly red at the words of

Macalpine; the boy bit hard the silver tip of his cane. He
could now see clearly enough what his uncle's meaning had
been. Steenie himself was the idle, ungrateful puppy, that,
after having been fed for ten long years on his kind aunt's
bounty, had made no kind of return for all the care and love
which she had lavished upon him.
I must say that Farmer Macalpine had a rude and

disagreeable way of giving reproof; he did not, as all
Christians ought to do, speak the truth in love. His manners
and his words were as rough as his hair. We may have no
such plain-spoken uncle to remind us of things which we do
not care to remember, but it is well for all who have been
brought up by parents or friends in comfortable homes, all
who have been fed and clothed year after year by the
kindness of others, to ask themselves what return they are
making for all that they have received.
I fear that Steenie Steers is not the only boy who deserves
the name of "a very useless puppy," and who might, if he
would, learn a lesson from Trusty, the old shepherd's dog.
What Bird Would You Be?
"A NEW game for a rainy day!" cried Clara, clapping her
hands to command silence amongst the merry little group
of children who, tired of active romps, now clustered around
her.
"It must be a quiet one, for the little ones are out of breath
with Blindman's Buff, and Sophy, I see, is fanning herself on
the sofa. Here, Tom and Felix, draw in chairs to form a
circle; the two footstools will do nicely for Jessie and Minnie
—little seats will suit little people. Tall Phil, you may perch
on the music-stool, and look down on us all, if you like it."
The circle of children was soon formed, all waiting till Clara
should tell them how to begin their new game.
Clara took a rich red rose from a vase which stood near. "I
am going to ask a question," said she, "and to the one who
shall offer the best reason for his or her answer, the rose
shall be given as a prize."
Tom, a merry rosy-cheeked boy, laughed as he stooped and

whispered to his next neighbour, Annie. "If the rose were to
be won by giving a long jump, or a hard pull, or a good
knockdown blow, I'd have a chance," said he; "but you
could wring out butter from a broom-stick sooner than a
rhyme or a reason from me."
"Let's hear the question," cried Phil.

"If you were to be changed into a bird, what bird would you
choose to become?" asked Clara.
"An eagle," shouted out Master Tom.
"Your reason?" inquired the young lady.
"Well," drawled out the boy, "suppose because he is the

biggest and strongest of birds, and able to whack all the
rest."
"The eagle is neither the biggest nor the strongest of birds,"

cried Phil. "The ostrich, condor, and albatross are all larger,
and some more powerful than the eagle."
Tom shrugged his shoulders and shook his head; had he not
been fonder of boxing than of books, he might have said
that the huge condor, being a vulture, is of the same order,
and therefore may be called first cousin to the eagle.
"Jessie, dear, what would you be?" asked Clara of the

smallest child in the room.
"I'd be a hummingbird," lisped Jessie, "'cause it's the

prettiest of all 'ittle birds."
"Pretty, yes," observed Annie, her sister; "but I think that

its prettiness is rather an evil to it than a good. If you were
a hummingbird, Jessie, you would very likely be caught,
killed, and stuffed for the sake of your beauty."
"And what says our little Minnie?" inquired Clara of a plump,

fair, flaxen-haired child who sat on a footstool next to
Jessie, with her arm round her young companion.
"I'd be a beauty swan, swimming about amongst the lilies,

under the shady trees," said the child, who had admired the
swan and his mate, with their little cygnets, floating on the
lake, as she had seen them that morning.
"Give us your reason," said Clara.
"I like paddling about in the water, it's so nice," was the
simple reply.
"Ay, you would like it in summer," cried Phil, "when the lilies
are in flower, and the trees in leaf. But I know a little lady
who in winter does not care to stir off the hearth-rug, and is
ready to cry if sent out into the cold. She would not then
care to be a swan, and paddle about on the ice."
"I'd rather be a swallow," cried Felix, "and escape altogether

from winter with its frosts and its snows. A life of active
pleasure, not of lazy enjoyment, for me! I like to travel and
see distant lands and what fun it would be just to spread
one's wings and be off for France, Italy, or Algiers, without
any trouble of packing a trunk, with nothing heavier to
carry than feathers, and no railway tickets to pay for, or bills
at hotels on the way!"
"Were you a swallow, you'd have a bill wherever you flew,"

laughed Phil.
"Oh! A precious light one," said Felix gaily.
"As for me, I'd prefer the life of a lark," cried Phil. "I'd
sooner mount high than fly far; and I'd like to whistle my
song from the clouds. To my mind, the little sky-lark is the
merriest bird under the sun."
"If you were to be changed into a bird, Sophy, what bird

would you be?" asked Clara of a rather affected little girl,
who sat twirling the bead bracelet which she wore on her
arm.
Sophy drooped her head a little on one side, as if it rather
troubled her to give an opinion,—and she thought herself
too much of a fine lady to join in so childish a game. She
glanced up, however, at the splendid rose which Clara held
in her hand, and thinking that it would look very pretty in
her own hair, prepared to answer the question.
"What bird would you be?" repeated the boys, who were
growing a little impatient.
"The nightingale," said Sophy in an affected tone, again

looking down, and twirling her beads.
"You must give your reason for your choice," observed

Clara.
"Every one admires the nightingale's sweet notes," said

Sophy, glancing up at the rose.
"Oh, ho! There's a fine reason!" laughed Phil. "I'd sing like
the lark in the joy of my heart, with the sunshine about me;
but Sophy would sing for other folk to admire her trills and
her shakes, and cry out, 'I never heard anything so fine!'"
Sophy looked vexed at the remark, for Phil had hit on her
weakness; the vanity which is always seeking for praise.
Clara, who liked all to be peace and good-humour, turned at
once the attention of the little party in another direction, by
addressing Annie, the only one of the circle who had not yet
been questioned.
"What bird would you be, dear?" asked she.
"I think, an eider-duck," replied Annie.
Her answer was received with a burst of laughter.

"A duck—to dabble in mud, and gobble up snails and frogs!"
cried Phil.
"Or be gobbled up itself, with green pease, and admired as

a very nice bird!" exclaimed Felix.
"Ducks are very pretty—almost as pretty as swans," lisped

little Jessie, who did not like her sister to be laughed at.
"I do not think that eider-ducks are pretty," said Annie; "I
did not choose the bird for its beauty."
"You have not given us a reason for your choice yet,"

observed Clara.
"I think the eider-ducks useful," said Annie; "the delightful

quilt, so light yet so warm, which has been such a comfort
to mamma in her illness, was made from their down. But
my chief reason for liking the bird is its unselfishness. You
remember, Jessie," added Annie, addressing her sister,
"what mamma told us about the eider-ducks that are found
in Scotland, Norway, and Iceland?"
"Oh yes; I know all about them!" cried Jessie. "The good
mother duck pulls off the down from her own breast to line
her nest, and make it soft and warm for her baby ducklings;
and when people steal away the down, she pulls more and
more, till she leaves herself bare,—and then her husband,
the drake, gives his nice down to help her."
"When mamma told me all this," said Annie, "it reminded

me of the beautiful story of the Highland mother who was
overtaken by a terrible snowstorm, as she travelled with her
babe in her arms. The mother stripped off her shawl, as the
duck does her down, and wrapped it close—oh, so close!—
round her child, and hid him in a cleft in a rock. The baby,
wrapped in his mother's shawl, was found alive where she
had left him; but the poor woman—the loving woman—"
Annie's voice failed her, and she did not finish the touching
tale of the mother who perished in the cold from which she
had guarded her child.
"Now let us compare the various reasons which have been

given for choosing different birds," said Clara, "that we may
decide upon which is the best one. The eagle was chosen
for size and strength, the little hummingbird for beauty; one
liked the swan's life of easy enjoyment, another the
swallow's of active amusement. The lark was chosen for
cheerfulness, the nightingale for the admiration which he
gains, the eider-duck for the unselfishness which she
shows. Now which of our little party has given the best
reason for a choice?"
"Annie! Annie!" cried most of the children—though Sophy

murmured something about "an ugly waddling creature that
can say nothing but 'quack!'"
"Then I think that we agree that Annie has won the rose,"
said Clara.
And if, before the day was over, that sweet rose found its
way to a chamber of sickness, and was laid on an eider-
down quilt within reach of a lady's thin hand, the reader will
easily guess how it came there. Annie was one not only to
admire but to imitate the unselfishness of the bird that finds
its pleasure in caring for the comfort of others, instead of
seeking its own.
The Hero and the Heroine.
"HARRY was a hero, if ever there was one!" cried Theodore

Vassy, after he had been for some time silently looking at a
print of the prince who was afterwards so famous as Henry
V. The print represented the well-known anecdote of Harry's
trying on the crown of England by the sick-bed of his father.
"I never admire that story much," observed Theodore's

eldest sister Alice, raising her eyes from a volume which she
had been reading. "A son finds, as he thinks, that his father
has just died; and, instead of bursting into tears (like our
good Queen when she gained a throne by the death of her
uncle), Prince Harry's first thought is to try on the crown! I
do not wonder," added Alice with a smile, "that when the
poor sick king woke from his deathlike sleep, he was little
pleased with his son."
"But the son, if the story be true, made such a noble excuse
for himself, that even his father was satisfied," said
Theodore. "Harry had not tried on the crown because he
was in the least hurry to wear it, but because—"
Alice shook her head, laughing. "Harry's excuses may have

been clever, but I am afraid that they were but false ones,"
said she; "for when he was once on the throne, one crown
was not enough for King Harry: he must carry sword and
fire into poor France, because he wanted to have two!"
"Girls know nothing, understand nothing, about heroes,"

said Theodore in a tone of contempt.
"Girls have been heroines," replied Alice with some

animation. "In this very book which I have been reading
—'Memorials of Agnes Jones'—there is an anecdote of her
courage when she was a child of but eight years old which
might have done credit to a boy of ten, even if he bore the
name of Theodore Vassy," added the elder sister gaily.
Theodore prided himself on his manly spirit, though it was a

spirit which more often carried him into difficulties than
bore him bravely through them. For instance, Theodore had
boasted that he would clear his father's cellar of the
troublesome rats that had made it their home; and he had
made an attempt to do so. The boy had even succeeded in
catching a rat by the tail! But no sooner had the fierce little
prisoner turned and bit his captor's finger, than Theodore,
giving a cry of pain, had let the rat go, and had retreated at
once from the cellar, leaving the honours of the battle-field
to his small four footed foe.
Luckily for Theodore, no one had been present to witness

the fight; and the boy took good care not to mention his
adventure. Not even Alice knew where her brother had got
the little mark left on his hand by the teeth of the rat.
"Let's hear your anecdote, if it's worth the hearing," said

Theodore Vassy. "I never yet knew a girl who would not cry
at the prick of a needle."
Alice turned back the pages of the book which she had been
reading, till she came to the part relating to the childhood of
Agnes Jones.
"This memoir is written by the sister of Agnes," observed

Alice; "and it is one of the most beautiful books which I
ever read in my life."
"And who was this Agnes?" asked Theodore.

"A young lady, the daughter of an officer," replied Alice
Vassy. "When she was a little child, she accompanied her
parents to the island of Mauritius, off the east coast of
Africa, where occurred the following incident, thus related
by her sister." And Alice read as follows:—
"At Mauritius, when she was about eight years old, a friend
sent her a present of a young kangaroo from Australia. An
enclosure was made for it in the garden, and Agnes
delighted to feed and visit it daily."
"I've seen a kangaroo in the Zoological Gardens,"

interrupted Theodore. "It was larger than our big dog, and
went springing and jumping on its long hind legs, as if it
were set on springs. I never saw such a creature for
leaping! I was told that the kangaroo has tremendous
strength in those hind legs, and that, when hunted, it
makes itself dangerous even to the dogs. I suppose that
this little girl's kangaroo was very tame as well as young, or
she might have had more pain than pleasure from her
plaything." Theodore was thinking of his fight with the rat.
Alice went on reading the sister's account of the little Agnes

and her pet kangaroo:—
"One day, as she opened the gate, it escaped, and bounded

off into our neighbour's plantation. Agnes followed, fearing
it might do mischief, climbed over the low wall which
separated the two gardens, and after a long chase
succeeded in capturing the fugitive. Some minutes
afterwards my mother came into the garden, and was
horror-struck to see her returning from the pursuit—the
kangaroo, which she held bravely by its ears, struggling
wildly for freedom, and tearing at her with its hind feet;
while her dress was streaming with blood from the wounds
inflicted by its nails."
"I say!" exclaimed Theodore involuntarily, "I'd have let the
horrid beast go!"
"But she would not do so," continued Alice, still reading,

"until she got it safely into its house; although it was many
a long day before she lost the marks of her battle and its
victory."
"She was a gallant little soul!" exclaimed Theodore. "What a

pity it is that Agnes was a girl, and not a boy! For, after all,
courage is not of much use to a woman."
"I am not sure of that," replied Alice; "nor, perhaps, would

you think so, were you to read this beautiful Life. Agnes left
a bright, happy home, to watch as a nurse by the sick-beds
of the poor. Though she was a lady born and bred, she
shrank from no drudgery, grumbled at no hardship: she
worked hard, and she worked cheerfully, looking for no
reward upon earth. Agnes had to struggle against great
difficulties; but she mastered them just as she had
mastered the kangaroo when she was a child."
"And got nothing by it," said Theodore Vassy. "One might

suffer, and struggle, and conquer difficulties, if, like Harry
the Fifth, one had a crown to make it worth while."
"There was a crown for Agnes," observed Alice gravely; "but

not one that man could give, or that she could wear upon
earth. The artist who drew that picture—" Alice glanced as
she spoke at the print in the hand of her brother—"has
made Prince Henry look upwards, as if praying to be made
worthy to have a crown. Agnes Jones's was a life-long
looking upwards—a life-long trying on, as it were, of the
crown prepared for such as love their Heavenly King;—and I
believe," added Alice, as she closed her volume, "that after
her brave struggles and her victories, Agnes Jones has gone
to wear that crown."
Beware of the Wolf.
YOU never need fear, little children, to meet

A wolf in the garden, the wood, or the street;
Red Riding-hood's story is only a fable,—
I'll give you its moral as well as I'm able:
Bad Temper's the wolf which we meet everywhere—
Beware of this wolf! Little children, beware!
I know of a boy, neither gentle nor wise,

If you tell him a fault, he gives saucy replies;
If kept from his way, in a fury he flies—
Ah! Passion's the wolf with the very large eyes;
'Tis ready to snap and to trample and tear—
I know of a girl always trying to learn

About things with which she should have no concern:
Such mean Curiosity really appears
To me like the wolf with the very large ears,
All pricked up to listen, each secret to share—
And Greediness, that's like the wolf in the wood

With the very large mouth, ever prowling for food,
That eats so much more than for health can be good;
That would clear a whole pastry-cook's shop if it could;
That never a dainty to others will spare—
PASSION, PRYING, and GREEDINESS, each thus appears

As a wolf with fierce eyes, a large mouth, or big ears;
They bring to our nurseries fighting and fears,
They cause bitter quarrelling, trouble, and tears.
Oh! Chase them and cudgel them back to their lair—
Beware of the wolves! Little children, beware!
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Rustic Joyful Food : Generations 2nd

Edition Danielle Kartes

Rustic Joyful Food: My Heart's Table 2nd Edition

Rustic Joyful Food : My Heart’s Table 2nd Edition

Rustic Joyful Food: My Heart’s Table Danielle Kartes

Rustic Joyful Food : Meant to Share 1st Edition

Introduction to Food Science and Food Systems 2nd

Introduction to Food Science & Food Systems 2nd Edition

Bishop (Heaven Hill Generations #6) 1st Edition Laramie

Advances in Food Rheology and Its Applications:

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Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

Originally published in 2017 in the United States by Lavender Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kartes, Danielle, author. | Kartes, Michael, photographer.

Printed and bound in China.

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God can do anything, you know—far

Things we have heard and known,

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Vegetables and Sides 79

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Closing Thoughts 225

About the Author 237

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IN TRO DUC T ION xix

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IN TRO DUC T ION xxi

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IN TRO DUC T ION xxiii

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An item of note in regard to the recipes in this book:

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Steenie laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not

Macalpine's sharp keen eyes looked sharper and keener

Apparently Master Steenie did not relish his uncle's remark,

"I should not care to rear such a common kind of dog as

"Or a pug or a poodle," interrupted the farmer; "I should

"Trusty costs me nothing," answered Macalpine, "for he is

"Did the creature devour so much, then?" inquired young

"Why, he must have gobbled up, during his training,—let me

"I say!" exclaimed Steenie, in much amazement. "Your

"He did not eat all the mutton in a day—or a week—or a

"A dainty dog!" exclaimed Steenie.

"And not much less than a thousand loaves of white bread,"

"You are cracking a joke on me, uncle," said Steenie. "I'll

Trusty, ever ready, sprang up and followed his master.

Steenie's face had grown exceedingly red at the words of

I must say that Farmer Macalpine had a rude and

Tom, a merry rosy-cheeked boy, laughed as he stooped and