Quesadilla, Monday what's that? Tuesday it's lunch

So, Monday I'm playing with tortillas, and notice the name quesadilla on my YouTube research into this important subject, and figured cheese must be involved, judging from the name, but I didn't know what it was exactly.

Further study revealed it was something I'd seen but never identified, in restaurants.  And that you can put other stuff in as well as cheese.  So here's Tuesday's lunch, thawed tortilla, sharp cheddar grated, and lovely portabella mushrooms cooked in butter and oil till all the liquid is absorbed. All fried together till the tortilla, one side cooked fast, turned over, additions heaped on, then lid on the pan, cooked till the cheese melted, just a couple of minutes. It was great. And my experiment about freezing the tortillas worked fine.  They're a little smaller than they were supposed to be, so a little thicker, but nothing to fuss about.

  

The miracle of the internet...I realize this is hilarious to people whose knowledge of Mexican and TexMex is so much greater than mine. Bear with me, this bit of NJ isn't a Mexican food region.  More Indian and Thai, really, aside from the traditional Italian.

And I just finished reading yet another Maisie Dobbs, well, rereading really, but it's good enough for a second run.  This one was very moving, and I remember my mother telling stories of things like this happening at home at the outbreak of World War One.  She was about nineteen at that time, so remembered it very clearly.  I won't say more, because that will interfere with the mystery, and it's a really good narrative, definitely worth reading.  She also takes time to describe food, they're always stopping off in little teashops for Eccles cakes, and clothes, great detail on current fashions and how Maisie isn't much of a fashion dresser, but needs to look smart for business purposes.  She wears her cloches all the time, and even, shock, horror, gets her long hair BOBBED!  Scandalous.

My mother used to tell me that she, in her twenties when the short hair came into style, so much easier to care for, had her long hair bobbed.  At that time, the boast was that your hair was so long that you could sit on it. Not sure why you'd want to, but anyway, she bobbed hers.  And my father came home from work and nearly collapsed with shock.  Lizzie, your HAIR!  But I guess he learned to live with it.

I used to wonder about those long hair stories, until my Aunt Kitty, one of mom's older sisters, showed me her special dressing table box which held a ringlet of her hair, which she proudly used to say was auburn.  Looked brown to me.  Anyway, it really was long.  I guess she could have sat on it, if necessary!  And it was a long ringlet, not unlike my own before I'd got my hair cut as a kid.  Her dressing table had a cheval set -- a crocheted set of pieces to set your stuff on.  Ring stand, brush and comb, powder bowl with lid.  She'd been born in about the early 1890's, so she'd kept on with the fashon from them.

And Anne Tyler never fails.  I think I may have read this long ago, since it came out a few years ago, but it's worth reading again, if that's the case, and I'm reading it.  So much of my reading nowadays is electronic, I bless the libraries who made apps like Libby, on which I'm acquiring these, available.  It's much more laborious to get physical books now, what with curbside arrangements and appointments and that's okay, and you can't stay and browse, all the furniture rearranged to discourage hanging out.  And the hours are very limited, so this is a good alternative.

This is a really weird premise, where a widower's wife comes back to him a year after her sudden death in an accident, and walks about, exactly as in life, chatting with him, and visible to everyone, and  unnerving everyone but him, since he decides oh well, go with it, I was missing her too much to pass this up. That's as a far as I've got to date, but I'm definitely putting time aside for this today.

My spinning and plying stint is done, meaning my arms are telling me to quit for the day, though my spirit is saying, oh, don't listen to them.  But I know tomorrow will be less fun if I don't stop now.