Jeff Woled sent me this via the internet and I present it here, warts and all!!!!
ROSIE THIBEAULT’S FRENCH-CANADIAN DYNAMITE
“I know you thought this was Italian, however the prize winning recipe below, taken from the (Woonsocket) Call, is obviously Canuck. Rosie Thibeault ran a luncheonette on Hamlet Ave. and supposedly invented it in 1939. Also, I learned that Dynamites are indigenous to the Woonsocket/Blackstone/Bellingham area. You couldn't, and may still can't, get one in North Smithfield. Bon appetit!” (These are Jeff's words).
3 pounds freshly ground beef (see Note 1)
1 large green pepper, diced, no seeds
1 large red pepper, diced, no seeds
2 medium onions, diced (or 1 Vidalia onion)
2 large vine-ripened tomatoes, diced
3 tablespoons butter to saute (see Note 2)
1 cup water (1 1/2 cups if using 5 pounds of beef)
2 -3 small cans tomato paste (or your own sauce from fresh tomatoes)
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper seasoning
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
In a large saucepan, saute diced peppers, onions and tomatoes in butter until soft. Add the water. Cook for a minute or two until the vegetables are blended. In same pot, add ground hamburger and cook until evenly browned and most of the water dissipates. Using a ladle, spoon off grease from top of the meat. A little bit left is fine but you do not want a lot. Then, add the tomato paste or homemade sauce and seasonings. The consistency should not be too loose or mushy. Add just enough paste to coat the meat. Sample the dynamite. You may want to add a bit more seasonings to desired taste. The dynamite will be stronger if left to mesh overnight, so keep this in mind when adding more seasonings.
The dynamite must sit in the fridge (covered, in the same pot) for a day so that all of the spices blend. It tastes much better when this step is taken. The dynamite can be reheated in the same pot on the stove or on the side burner of a grill. Serve on torpedo rolls (see note 3).
Note 1: You can use up to 5 pounds of meat without the need to double ingredients.
Note 2: We also use 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil or canola oil.
Note 3: Calise Bakery or Lil’ General Stores sell torpedo rolls.
The dynamite recipe can also be used as a topping on hot dogs.
Yield: Feeds a crowd.
My comments on this recipe:
I doubt that Rosie knew about Vidalia onions in 1939. Use good old yellow onions first. Vidalias are sweet and cost more than regular yellow onions. Remember, this is supposed to be cheap eats! Most of the homemade dynamites that I have seen also used celery – remember, this recipe is a depression-era attempt at stretching a little meat a long way. I use one or two stalks per pound of meat. Also, neither butter nor olive oil are needed since there is plenty of fat in the ground beef and this is supposed to be cheap eats (I know - I am redundant). Water is not necessary because the vegetables have plenty. I use more veggies than Rosie: equal pounds of peppers and onions to the ground beef (that is 3# of beef, 3# of peppers and 3# of onions). I would not dice the veggies - larger chunks are a better presentation and much more fun. I like to add fresh garlic, more tomatoes (or good canned tomatoes), less tomato paste and plenty of Italian seasoning. I leave out the salt because there is plenty in the tomatoes, beef, celery, peppers and onions. No way would I top a hot dog with this!
Here is what I do:
Start the beef in a cold pot on low to medium heat. As the beef cooks, crumble it into smaller and smaller chunks. Add peppers, onion, celery, tomatoes and spices all together at the same time and cook for hours until the whole shebang is reduced considerably in volume. I go easy on the red pepper flakes, because many folks (especially many older Canucks and children) are repelled by spicy food. I supply extra flakes on the table, as well as Tabasco and other hot sauces, to spark the flames on the tongue.
Alas, most of us have no access to Calise or L’il General stores outside of Woonsocket, so choose a good quality soft (but absorbent) submarine roll. It is important to find an un-sliced roll so that you can slice it on top. Something about side-slicing a roll burns my butt.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Bridge Freezes Before Roadway
Sometimes simple concepts require an elaborate explanation. Sometimes they explain themselves.
In Spring 1971, the Assumption College Greyhounds got to go to Evansville! The basketball team was blessed with skill and luck that 1970-1971 season, beating Holy Cross and losing only to Providence College in Providence during the regular season. The New England Region NCAA Division II tournament was a breeze for the ‘Hounds as we (I was a sophomore) were headed for the National Tournament in Evansville IN. In its time, that season was magical and beating HC was of biblical proportions (all puns intended). You can look it up!
Because it was the first trip for AC to the Nationals (or “Evansville” as most of us called the tournament), much of the college community was scrapping for ways to get to Evansville. One of the faculty, Jim Barbato, announced that he was going and could fit additional folks into his VW bus. Not only was Jim my Geography professor, he was an AC grad himself and just could not pass on the chance to be on the first pilgrimage to Evansville. Somehow, I managed to get the last seat on Jim’s bus. The other five were Jim, Lou, Merc, John and Doreen.
Many stories have emanated from this epic journey. Strangely, all of them are true! This is but one of them. It will not be the last.
The plan was to drive all night to Evansville via I-90 (the Massachusetts Turnpike and New York Thruway) through Cleveland to I-71, then south to Columbus to I-70, west to Terre Haute to US 41 and south into Evansville. Somehow, in the middle of the night somewhere on I-90 near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border, Lou was driving and I was sitting shotgun. I am fairly certain that everyone else was sleeping - dead certain that Jim was.
It was snowing lightly, maybe even sleeting. A sign loomed on the side of the road – it read “Bridge Freezes Before Roadway.” I noted the sign, turned to Lou and asked him “Exactly what does that mean?” “Not sure,” replied Lou. We crossed the bridge. If Jim had been awake, he would have answered the question. He taught Earth Science and Geography at AC. His CB handle was “Weatherman.” He knew about this stuff!
We crossed another bridge. I noticed that Lou, not an excitable person, had noticeably tensed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I looked at the road, noted that we were driving over a bridge, and that the back end of the bus was approaching on the left (driver’s) side! Lou never said a word as the sweat beaded on his forehead. He eased off the gas and as we slowed the ass-end of the bus slowly receded from my sight. The highway resumed its correct position in front of the bus. Lou finally spoke: “Ya think that’s what the sign meant?” “Dunno,” I answered. “I suppose so.” We drove on into the night.
In Spring 1971, the Assumption College Greyhounds got to go to Evansville! The basketball team was blessed with skill and luck that 1970-1971 season, beating Holy Cross and losing only to Providence College in Providence during the regular season. The New England Region NCAA Division II tournament was a breeze for the ‘Hounds as we (I was a sophomore) were headed for the National Tournament in Evansville IN. In its time, that season was magical and beating HC was of biblical proportions (all puns intended). You can look it up!
Because it was the first trip for AC to the Nationals (or “Evansville” as most of us called the tournament), much of the college community was scrapping for ways to get to Evansville. One of the faculty, Jim Barbato, announced that he was going and could fit additional folks into his VW bus. Not only was Jim my Geography professor, he was an AC grad himself and just could not pass on the chance to be on the first pilgrimage to Evansville. Somehow, I managed to get the last seat on Jim’s bus. The other five were Jim, Lou, Merc, John and Doreen.
Many stories have emanated from this epic journey. Strangely, all of them are true! This is but one of them. It will not be the last.
The plan was to drive all night to Evansville via I-90 (the Massachusetts Turnpike and New York Thruway) through Cleveland to I-71, then south to Columbus to I-70, west to Terre Haute to US 41 and south into Evansville. Somehow, in the middle of the night somewhere on I-90 near the Ohio-Pennsylvania border, Lou was driving and I was sitting shotgun. I am fairly certain that everyone else was sleeping - dead certain that Jim was.
It was snowing lightly, maybe even sleeting. A sign loomed on the side of the road – it read “Bridge Freezes Before Roadway.” I noted the sign, turned to Lou and asked him “Exactly what does that mean?” “Not sure,” replied Lou. We crossed the bridge. If Jim had been awake, he would have answered the question. He taught Earth Science and Geography at AC. His CB handle was “Weatherman.” He knew about this stuff!
We crossed another bridge. I noticed that Lou, not an excitable person, had noticeably tensed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I looked at the road, noted that we were driving over a bridge, and that the back end of the bus was approaching on the left (driver’s) side! Lou never said a word as the sweat beaded on his forehead. He eased off the gas and as we slowed the ass-end of the bus slowly receded from my sight. The highway resumed its correct position in front of the bus. Lou finally spoke: “Ya think that’s what the sign meant?” “Dunno,” I answered. “I suppose so.” We drove on into the night.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Sorghum Queen of Hancock County
The Sorghum Queen of Hancock County
Oftentimes, human beings act and react without undertaking a thorough analysis of the entire situation and circumstances extant at the time, and in the place, of the event. We take things out of context or place them in the wrong context or ignore context altogether. Worse, we fail to consider the consequences of making casual errors of omission or commission because of our shortsightedness. I am as guilty of this as any other schmuck, maybe more guilty, actually. I could benefit from heeding that old saw that it is better to keep one’s mouth shut and be thought a fool rather than to open it and prove it beyond all shadow of a doubt. In this case, I fell victim to a clash of cultures. As a student of Cultural Geography, I should have known better.
In the autumn of my senior year (1972-73) of college, I realized that I was not ready for the work-a-day world and on the advice of one of my favorite undergraduate professors (Jim Barbato) I began exploring the possibilities of graduate school. Through a series of Aristotelian accidents, I found myself at Western Kentucky University (WKU) in Bowling Green, Kentucky in August 1973.
Bowling Green was a classic central place, a crossroads of sorts, at least for south-central Kentucky. There wasn’t much in the way of urbanity to the east until Virginia or to the west until Missouri. It was 100 miles to Louisville to the north and 65 miles to Nashville to the south. For a graduate student without any spare cash or an assistantship, Bowling Green was Gotham City and you had to delude yourself into being Superman. (On my last trip through town in the mid-oughts of the 21st century, it appeared that not much had changed and that Virginia, Missouri, Nashville and Louisville had not gotten any closer.)
Early that first semester in 1973, it became readily apparent that I was quickly running out of money. My parents could not help and the economy in fair Gotham sucked. While contemplating a food-free existence, I found a job answering the telephone from 11 PM to 7 AM at the information desk of the very dormitory where I was living. The pay was minimal, but I calculated that I could eat, drink and be somewhat less miserable until December. I avoided any thoughts of paying for the spring semester.
The most important aspect of the job was to sound the alarm if there was an incident requiring an evacuation of the dorm and to alert the proper authorities. During my tenure, there were no such incidents at Bemis Lawrence Hall. I did, however, answer many calls from students trying to locate each other. The most memorable call was from the 1973 Sorghum Queen of Hancock County Kentucky.
I cannot remember her name. The sound of her voice escapes me. But I remember our brief “relationship.”
It probably was 2 AM when she called the dorm, asking for the telephone number of some guy who was in her math class. She could not remember his name his name, but she knew he lived next door to some other guy whose first name she did know. Somehow I figured out the last name of the guy she knew, called him, got the name of the fellow next door and relayed that information back to her. About an hour later she called back to thank me for helping her. She seemed rather sweet in a Southern Belle sort of way, with that fetching, enslaving accent women in Kentucky have. And she was intrigued with my accent!
“Where are you from?” she inquired.
“Rhode Island,” I replied.
“Where’s that?” she asked. “Back east somewhere?”
“Close to Massachusetts, near Boston,” I answered.
“Massatusetts?” she questioned. “Keep talking because I like the sound of your voice,” she implored.
I should have known right then that something was amiss (Massatusetts????), but I was 1000 miles from home, lonely, and lusting after that sweet syrupy voice. She was from Hancock County, near Owensboro, and had been elected the Sorghum Queen of Hancock County the previous summer. I’m sure I acted impressed, but being a rock-ribbed Rhode Island Yankee, I had no clue whatsoever what sorghum was beyond some kind of plant. I assumed that she must have been somewhat attractive being a Queen and all, so I kept on exuding my Yankee charm. We talked until 4 AM, finally agreeing to meet in a day or two at the campus amphitheater.
We met, we talked and neither of us was dissuaded from a second meeting. It did not dawn on me at the time that the competition for Sorghum Queen must have been rather weak in 1973, but that voice had me mesmerized (I confess to being desperate at the time, also). I can’t remember what we agreed to do for our first date, but it must have gone OK.
Homecoming was fast approaching and a Rock N Roll Revival show/sock hop was scheduled for the Diddle Arena. Jerry Lee Lewis, Freddie Boom-Boom Cannon, Chuck Berry, Gary U.S. Bonds, a couple of Girl Groups and a host of others were on the bill. My new buddy Ken had secured a date and suggested that the Sorghum Queen and I join them for the show. The SQ was amenable, tickets were purchased, and plans were made.
A sock hop…fifties/early sixties music…blue jeans…poodle skirts…Hush Puppies (the wearing kind, not the eating kind)…sneakers…stupid dances that I did not know all that well…liquid refreshments…some tasty snacks…good times!
On the magic night, I dressed for the sock hop, hiked to the SQ’s dorm, met her at the door and joined Ken and his date. Something seemed amiss, but I chalked it up to excitement and nerves.
The event started poorly. It seems as if no one had bothered to sign either Jerry Lee or Chuck to a solid contract, so the emcee stated that it was hoped that “…Jerry Lee and Chuck are one their way.” They never made it. The show, however, was very good, especially Gary U.S. Bonds and Freddie Cannon.
On the other hand, the SQ was not happy. Then, I noticed that she was rather overdressed for a Rock ‘N’ Roll Revival sock hop-type of affair. It quickly became apparent that she expected more of a show from me (like a suit on me and a corsage from me on her!!) since this was Homecoming Weekend. Sensing that the evening was not going to get any better, I quickly agreed to get her back to her dorm where I said good night to a cold, cold glare. I knew better than to call her again!
Soon afterwards, I lucked into a teaching assistantship for the rest of my tenure at WKU and was able to quit my position at the dorm. I never did speak with the SQ again, although I was very pointedly ignored the two times that we subsequently (and literally) bumped into each other on campus.
Two years later, being in the third year of an 18-month program, I answered the telephone at my apartment one evening to hear a charming female Kentucky voice. Stating that her name was Allyn, she said that she had heard from some unnamed friend that I was a Geography graduate teaching assistant and that she (Allyn) wanted to know more about Geography as a major. Being me, I obliged her for the better part of an hour. After hanging up, I dimly recalled hearing some muffled giggling in the background on her end of the line. On a hunch, I grabbed the WKU Directory (this was 1975 – we had no online resources) and began trolling for women named Allyn. Lo and behold, there was none with that first name. (Digression: I had a classmate in grammar and secondary school in Woonsocket whose first name was Allyn. So, I knew that it was, indeed, a female name and how to spell it!) There was, however, a woman whose middle name was Allyn and damned if her roommate wasn’t the SQ!!
I quickly dialed Allyn’s number, addressed her by her real first name, told her who I was and that I knew that her roommate had put her up to this. I dared her to ever take a Geography course at WKU.
At least I learned what sorghum is!
Oftentimes, human beings act and react without undertaking a thorough analysis of the entire situation and circumstances extant at the time, and in the place, of the event. We take things out of context or place them in the wrong context or ignore context altogether. Worse, we fail to consider the consequences of making casual errors of omission or commission because of our shortsightedness. I am as guilty of this as any other schmuck, maybe more guilty, actually. I could benefit from heeding that old saw that it is better to keep one’s mouth shut and be thought a fool rather than to open it and prove it beyond all shadow of a doubt. In this case, I fell victim to a clash of cultures. As a student of Cultural Geography, I should have known better.
In the autumn of my senior year (1972-73) of college, I realized that I was not ready for the work-a-day world and on the advice of one of my favorite undergraduate professors (Jim Barbato) I began exploring the possibilities of graduate school. Through a series of Aristotelian accidents, I found myself at Western Kentucky University (WKU) in Bowling Green, Kentucky in August 1973.
Bowling Green was a classic central place, a crossroads of sorts, at least for south-central Kentucky. There wasn’t much in the way of urbanity to the east until Virginia or to the west until Missouri. It was 100 miles to Louisville to the north and 65 miles to Nashville to the south. For a graduate student without any spare cash or an assistantship, Bowling Green was Gotham City and you had to delude yourself into being Superman. (On my last trip through town in the mid-oughts of the 21st century, it appeared that not much had changed and that Virginia, Missouri, Nashville and Louisville had not gotten any closer.)
Early that first semester in 1973, it became readily apparent that I was quickly running out of money. My parents could not help and the economy in fair Gotham sucked. While contemplating a food-free existence, I found a job answering the telephone from 11 PM to 7 AM at the information desk of the very dormitory where I was living. The pay was minimal, but I calculated that I could eat, drink and be somewhat less miserable until December. I avoided any thoughts of paying for the spring semester.
The most important aspect of the job was to sound the alarm if there was an incident requiring an evacuation of the dorm and to alert the proper authorities. During my tenure, there were no such incidents at Bemis Lawrence Hall. I did, however, answer many calls from students trying to locate each other. The most memorable call was from the 1973 Sorghum Queen of Hancock County Kentucky.
I cannot remember her name. The sound of her voice escapes me. But I remember our brief “relationship.”
It probably was 2 AM when she called the dorm, asking for the telephone number of some guy who was in her math class. She could not remember his name his name, but she knew he lived next door to some other guy whose first name she did know. Somehow I figured out the last name of the guy she knew, called him, got the name of the fellow next door and relayed that information back to her. About an hour later she called back to thank me for helping her. She seemed rather sweet in a Southern Belle sort of way, with that fetching, enslaving accent women in Kentucky have. And she was intrigued with my accent!
“Where are you from?” she inquired.
“Rhode Island,” I replied.
“Where’s that?” she asked. “Back east somewhere?”
“Close to Massachusetts, near Boston,” I answered.
“Massatusetts?” she questioned. “Keep talking because I like the sound of your voice,” she implored.
I should have known right then that something was amiss (Massatusetts????), but I was 1000 miles from home, lonely, and lusting after that sweet syrupy voice. She was from Hancock County, near Owensboro, and had been elected the Sorghum Queen of Hancock County the previous summer. I’m sure I acted impressed, but being a rock-ribbed Rhode Island Yankee, I had no clue whatsoever what sorghum was beyond some kind of plant. I assumed that she must have been somewhat attractive being a Queen and all, so I kept on exuding my Yankee charm. We talked until 4 AM, finally agreeing to meet in a day or two at the campus amphitheater.
We met, we talked and neither of us was dissuaded from a second meeting. It did not dawn on me at the time that the competition for Sorghum Queen must have been rather weak in 1973, but that voice had me mesmerized (I confess to being desperate at the time, also). I can’t remember what we agreed to do for our first date, but it must have gone OK.
Homecoming was fast approaching and a Rock N Roll Revival show/sock hop was scheduled for the Diddle Arena. Jerry Lee Lewis, Freddie Boom-Boom Cannon, Chuck Berry, Gary U.S. Bonds, a couple of Girl Groups and a host of others were on the bill. My new buddy Ken had secured a date and suggested that the Sorghum Queen and I join them for the show. The SQ was amenable, tickets were purchased, and plans were made.
A sock hop…fifties/early sixties music…blue jeans…poodle skirts…Hush Puppies (the wearing kind, not the eating kind)…sneakers…stupid dances that I did not know all that well…liquid refreshments…some tasty snacks…good times!
On the magic night, I dressed for the sock hop, hiked to the SQ’s dorm, met her at the door and joined Ken and his date. Something seemed amiss, but I chalked it up to excitement and nerves.
The event started poorly. It seems as if no one had bothered to sign either Jerry Lee or Chuck to a solid contract, so the emcee stated that it was hoped that “…Jerry Lee and Chuck are one their way.” They never made it. The show, however, was very good, especially Gary U.S. Bonds and Freddie Cannon.
On the other hand, the SQ was not happy. Then, I noticed that she was rather overdressed for a Rock ‘N’ Roll Revival sock hop-type of affair. It quickly became apparent that she expected more of a show from me (like a suit on me and a corsage from me on her!!) since this was Homecoming Weekend. Sensing that the evening was not going to get any better, I quickly agreed to get her back to her dorm where I said good night to a cold, cold glare. I knew better than to call her again!
Soon afterwards, I lucked into a teaching assistantship for the rest of my tenure at WKU and was able to quit my position at the dorm. I never did speak with the SQ again, although I was very pointedly ignored the two times that we subsequently (and literally) bumped into each other on campus.
Two years later, being in the third year of an 18-month program, I answered the telephone at my apartment one evening to hear a charming female Kentucky voice. Stating that her name was Allyn, she said that she had heard from some unnamed friend that I was a Geography graduate teaching assistant and that she (Allyn) wanted to know more about Geography as a major. Being me, I obliged her for the better part of an hour. After hanging up, I dimly recalled hearing some muffled giggling in the background on her end of the line. On a hunch, I grabbed the WKU Directory (this was 1975 – we had no online resources) and began trolling for women named Allyn. Lo and behold, there was none with that first name. (Digression: I had a classmate in grammar and secondary school in Woonsocket whose first name was Allyn. So, I knew that it was, indeed, a female name and how to spell it!) There was, however, a woman whose middle name was Allyn and damned if her roommate wasn’t the SQ!!
I quickly dialed Allyn’s number, addressed her by her real first name, told her who I was and that I knew that her roommate had put her up to this. I dared her to ever take a Geography course at WKU.
At least I learned what sorghum is!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)