Some lessons cannot be unlearned, after all.

My turkey breast carcass is currently boiling on the stove with some celery and onion, and sage. Waste now, want not, as my Scots mother would say. She grew up in the Great Depression, and we lived with a frugal ethic as I grew up, saving string and rubber bands, making leftovers into casseroles, and what we didn't eat, the dog did. Our stove had a burner that sank down so you could cook a pot of beans, just red beans, onions and bacon, on a long slow simmer all day, and man, those were like ambrosia with a slab of cornbread on the side. And that pot lasted a long time, too, and they got better for the waiting. We ate tuna noodle casserole at least once a week, and Mom made almost all our cookies from scratch, too. She still does, fills up the same old cookie jar, just a big glass jar with a red tin lid, so that whenever one of us drops by, we can have a snickerdoodle or butterscotch brownie. Oh, and at Christmas, that upsy-daisy burner made steamed carrot pudding, an unlikely mixture of grated carrot, potatoes and raisins in a savory spicy dough, that you dished up with hot lemon sauce and a dab of hard sauce, a buttercream with whiskey in it. Sounds like a mess, right? But is was a feast for the angels. I forget that heritage in this time of solo stirfry dinners. I am actually thinking, once finals are over, that I will dig out my sticky recipe file and find all the cards that are splotched and ragged, the well-loved and well-used recipes, and cook up a little storm.