Miso Almond Sauce (from Crabapple Corners, New Hampshire) Recipe
Yield: 1 batchRecipe by luhu.jp
Ingredients:
2 tbsp: Oil,
1/4 cup: Miso,
2: Onions, chopped
2 cup: , Water
1/2 cup: Chopped almonds,
2: Garlic cloves, mashed
2 tbsp: Arrowroot starch,
2 tbsp: Parsley, chopped
Directions:
Heat oil in a saucepan; saute onions and almonds over medium heat
until browned.
Dissolve arrowroot starch in a little of the water, and add along
with the remaining ingredients. Heat, stirring, until the miso is
dissolved and the sauce thickens.
Serve on rice as a main dish or over steamed strong-flavored
vegetables.
The author wrote: " I pulled into Conklin, I was feelin bout half
past dead. . . . Nobody I asked in this small New Hampshire city
had heard of Crabapple Corners. It was a commune of yurts, I
explained, small round wooden houses that looked like cupcake papers
inverted over short dixie cups. Id been sure that such an odd place
would be famous locally, but no. At last my ride went on, and I
started off on foot, asking for help as I went. A boy looked
puzzled. Are they, uh, hippies? Like outside of society? he asked.
Yes, yes, hippies, I eagerly agreed. Well, there were some hippies
down at the Pest House. . . . Farther along, a young woman thought
the hippies at the Pest House might be able to help me. It was
growing late, so in desperation I headed for the place with the grim
name, up a wooded lane just outside town.
"No one was home at the neat frame house. A gigantic Newfoundland
wagged his tail as I opened the door and peered in anxiously. From a
poster, John Lennon reassured me that Id found the right place, so I
sat on the lawn and watched the dog frolic with a goat while the sun
set. In the last dim light a bearded freak finally arrived in a
pickup truck loaded with wood. My frantic questions failed to perturb
him. Crabapple Corners, he said, was eight miles away, but Karen, one
of its members, worked at the same home for delinquent boys as his
wife (who arrived home from work later looking nothing like a hippie
in a stunning red suit and heels). He called Karen, and she in turn
suggested that Jim, another member, pick me up on his way to a square
dance where he would play bass that night, then take me home to the
commune for the night.
"While we waited for Jim to come, I asked about the houses peculiar
name. During a smallpox epidemic at the turn of the century, my host
explained, the town had quarantined the sick here. I was glad to
learn that the name predated the current occupants. Conklin was,
after all, the only place in all my travels where a child had jeered
Hippie! at me on the street."
"When Jim the bass player arrived, I found that the goat had gotten
into my pack, which Id left outside, and eaten up the bag of nuts
and raisins Id bought as a present for the commune. Then as we
drove to the dance, Jim questioned me keenly. The main purpose of
his maneuver, which took him miles out of his way, had apparently
been to screen me. Crabapple Corners was small, he remarked, and
cherished its obscurity. Ah well; my day had begun with being asked
if I were a police agent. I must have passed, since the night
eventually ended with a nights sleep under the round and fluted roof
of a yurt."
From _Country Commune Cooking_ by Lucy Horton. New York: Coward,
McCann & Geoghegan, Inc., 1972. Pp. 136-138, 158-159. SBN
698-10456-0. Typed for you by Cathy Harned.
Submitted By CATHY HARNED On 12-01-94
Source from luhu.jp
until browned.
Dissolve arrowroot starch in a little of the water, and add along
with the remaining ingredients. Heat, stirring, until the miso is
dissolved and the sauce thickens.
Serve on rice as a main dish or over steamed strong-flavored
vegetables.
The author wrote: " I pulled into Conklin, I was feelin bout half
past dead. . . . Nobody I asked in this small New Hampshire city
had heard of Crabapple Corners. It was a commune of yurts, I
explained, small round wooden houses that looked like cupcake papers
inverted over short dixie cups. Id been sure that such an odd place
would be famous locally, but no. At last my ride went on, and I
started off on foot, asking for help as I went. A boy looked
puzzled. Are they, uh, hippies? Like outside of society? he asked.
Yes, yes, hippies, I eagerly agreed. Well, there were some hippies
down at the Pest House. . . . Farther along, a young woman thought
the hippies at the Pest House might be able to help me. It was
growing late, so in desperation I headed for the place with the grim
name, up a wooded lane just outside town.
"No one was home at the neat frame house. A gigantic Newfoundland
wagged his tail as I opened the door and peered in anxiously. From a
poster, John Lennon reassured me that Id found the right place, so I
sat on the lawn and watched the dog frolic with a goat while the sun
set. In the last dim light a bearded freak finally arrived in a
pickup truck loaded with wood. My frantic questions failed to perturb
him. Crabapple Corners, he said, was eight miles away, but Karen, one
of its members, worked at the same home for delinquent boys as his
wife (who arrived home from work later looking nothing like a hippie
in a stunning red suit and heels). He called Karen, and she in turn
suggested that Jim, another member, pick me up on his way to a square
dance where he would play bass that night, then take me home to the
commune for the night.
"While we waited for Jim to come, I asked about the houses peculiar
name. During a smallpox epidemic at the turn of the century, my host
explained, the town had quarantined the sick here. I was glad to
learn that the name predated the current occupants. Conklin was,
after all, the only place in all my travels where a child had jeered
Hippie! at me on the street."
"When Jim the bass player arrived, I found that the goat had gotten
into my pack, which Id left outside, and eaten up the bag of nuts
and raisins Id bought as a present for the commune. Then as we
drove to the dance, Jim questioned me keenly. The main purpose of
his maneuver, which took him miles out of his way, had apparently
been to screen me. Crabapple Corners was small, he remarked, and
cherished its obscurity. Ah well; my day had begun with being asked
if I were a police agent. I must have passed, since the night
eventually ended with a nights sleep under the round and fluted roof
of a yurt."
From _Country Commune Cooking_ by Lucy Horton. New York: Coward,
McCann & Geoghegan, Inc., 1972. Pp. 136-138, 158-159. SBN
698-10456-0. Typed for you by Cathy Harned.
Submitted By CATHY HARNED On 12-01-94
Source from luhu.jp