{Foodie Post No.16 Part II} Butteries; The Recipe

Here is the original hand written copy from my sister, I’ll follow it up with my typed version and come pictures of my efforts. 

Aberdeen Rolls - Butteries

1/2 Tbsp Yeast
1 Tbsp Brown Sugar
1 3/4 cups warm Water
3-4 cups Flour
Pinch of Salt
1 cup Butter, room temperature
1/2 cup Shortening or Lard
(Any combination of butter, shortening, and/or lard should work, I prefer butter so I used mostly butter.)

Combine yeast, sugar, and water to dissolve, allow to set a few minutes to bubble.
Using mixer add salt and flour, kneading on low until a soft, somewhat sticky dough, forms.
Set aside to rise until doubled.

Meanwhile mix butter and shortening/lard careful not to heat/melt.
Preheat oven to 450°.

Once dough has doubled knead gently and turn out onto floured surface. Roll into a rectangle 1/2” thick that would divide into 16 equal squares.
Eyeballing a third of the butter mixture, spread it onto 2/3rds of the dough, fold unbuttered third onto the middle buttered third then the buttered third over both. Roll back to the original size and repeat twice, using up the last 2/3rds of the butter mixture and rolling it back out. Cut into 16 squares. Tuck ends under to form a round-ish shape and place on pan. Allow to rise 45 minutes. Bake 15 minutes until golden brown and flaky.
Enjoy warm with Marmalade or fruit butters or meats and cheeses, or on their own!

I read differing opinions as to tucking the ends under (practical)  vs. tucking them up (pretty) so I did a variety of both, in the end we heartily preferred tucking them under, the edges formed a much better crust for the base when tucked under, and honestly, tucking them up didn’t make them incredibly pretty. 

{Foodie Post No.16 part I} Butteries; The Story

There are 3 Stories about Butteries in my knowledge and here I’ll tell you them all. The first is the actual story, their origin.

Story 1). Butteries, informally, their formal name being Aberdeen Rolls. They are basically a lazy version of croissants. These were made in Aberdeen Scotland, way back in old times women would make these to send with their fishermen on long fishing voyages at sea. They have an unbelievably high fat content which apparently gives them the long shelf life they’d have needed for their weeks at sea. Traditionally they’d have crunchy flat bottoms that you would pile with sliced cheese and cured meat to eat while out on your fishing trip, but they’re preferred as a transport for fruit butters or marmalades.

Story 2). I know story 1 because my sister, Avery from Simple Inspirations, read about them in a library book and chose these to make during her last (I think) year in 4-H for her foods project. She did the research, we siblings enjoyed her practice round. They were delicious, flaky, oozing with butter, and I don’t think we ever got to test their life span because we devoured them fresh from the oven. Our spreads of choice being traditional orange marmalade or some pear butter I had canned the year prior. The one and only “old” taste test occurred at the end of fair week, the Putnam County fair was coming to a close, 4-H kids were required to gather their projects and ribbons, and garbage cans were provided for throwing the containers of moldy food in, but there, sitting in its plastic clam shell was Avery’s buttery, looking golden and flaky as ever, no sign of mold, so she took a bite and passed it around to the rest of us who loved reliving history and trusted that if Scottish fisherman could eat them after a month, we could eat them after a week and if my memory serves me, it was only a little stale but totally fine.
Fun fact: while my sister decided on this recipe for her 4-H project my some-day husband was on a trip with his grandma, cousin, and brother to Scotland and although I can’t claim that at that time I *knew* he’d be my husband one day, I did know it was well within the realm of possibilities.

Story 3). This is our story.  My desire to make butteries was sparked because last week I made grilled cheese sandwiches and needed something for the inside; so I opened a jar of Peach Orange Marmalade made and given me by my sister-in-law Katie. It was (is) amazing and made me want some Butteries to have with it. I texted my sister and asked for the recipe, I looked them up on Pinterest and refreshed my memory on the history and technique of making them. I decided I’d make them Saturday morning for brunch because they were going to take 3 hours and I wasn’t getting up before 7. In the end the two year old decided to be up at 6:45 so I got a slightly earlier start than planned but all was good, I was excited to get going and in the end it might’ve been a good thing because at 7PM Saturday evening my “get up and start butteries” alarm went off, so, thanks Emmitt for being a terrible sleeper and getting me up by the time I’d planned. All went well with the dough although it did take an extra cup of flour, the lamination process wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be. I did try two different shaping techniques as I read differing opinions online; some said to tuck the ends under so the butter and lard would leak out and form crispy layers, some said tuck them up to make them pretty. While they baked I talked to my mom on Face-Time and Wesley fried bacon. Oven beeped and it was time. Wesley turned on some Scottish music and I served up breakfast. I set out the Peach Orange Marmalade and dug the very last, sample size, Kerr canning jar of Pear Butter out from the top of my cabinet. I’d canned it back in 2010, as a 15 year old back at “home” from pears given to us by a family friend. It’s to date the best pear butter I’ve made and I don’t open ANY jar of preserved fruits lightly, no, this was a major big deal. This jar had moved from my childhood home to Wesley and my first rental house, then on to the first house we bought, and was packed and moved for the last time to our current place nearly 9 years after it’s canning date. I texted both my mom and sister saying “Dare I open the last jar?” And the general consensus was a resounding ‘yes of course’ because I’m notorious for hoarding canned sweets, which bothers my mom to no end, so anytime I’m willing to open a jar I’m sure they’ll loudly voice their support.
They were just as delicious as I remembered.
And both the Marmalade and Pear Butter were heavenly slathered on the beautifully crisp, flaky bottoms of the butteries.
This is Part 1, the stories, part two will follow with the recipe, because no one should be subject to reading through a book worth of tales before arriving at the recipe after having searched “butteries” on Pinterest and clicked on a link.

Spaceship 🚀

While I was brushing Jerusha’s hair one morning in the bathroom, she noticed a toilet paper tube in the garbage can. She grabbed it out and informed me we should be saving them for a craft. She collected 3 so we decided to make spaceships, 3 being enough for each non vegetable stage child to participate.

I’m just recording this on the blog because it’s the sort of thing I’ll want to look back and remember having done when the girls say “remember that time you made spaceships with us?” So it’s not a how-to, although it’s incredibly simple, it’s just a memory, and perhaps it can be a reminder; do something, anything, a little thing to build memories but more importantly conversations with your child. We ended up talking about the differences between ours and real spaceships (WARNING: if your conversation goes that direction be prepared for your kids to say they wanted to make real looking kinds, not fake ‘cute’ ones), the moon, what is on other planets and if people could live there, and discussed other crafts we could do.

I used some card stock and cut circles with a quarter of the pie gone, glued them into little caps, cut three pieces of paper for them to have ‘legs’, and I painted some tissue paper orange to be flames but actually having orange tissue paper would’ve been more convenient. We glued them all together and colored little doors and windows per kids’ request.

Then last night happened to be the Super Moon so we spent some time looking at it and pretending the spaceships could fly there. 

A Tale of Pumpkins

Last October we went to The Proverbial Pumpkin Patch as we try to do every fall. We took most of my siblings again, going with a group always makes for more fun. Last years trip was an especially memorable adventure because on our way home we were the first to arrive on the scene of an accident. A woman had lost control and crashed into a telephone pole causing it to sever at the top. Long story short; the woman was able to walk away (guided by police), un injured, aside from her brain cells thanks to marijuana and too much alcohol, the latter of which Wesley saw her throw the empty bottle into the cornfield after she assured him she was fine and had just swerved to miss a dog. She had insisted she didn’t need us to call the police but we unapologetically informed her we already had, because clearly the power lines needed to be dealt with and they would need to be sure she was all right.

The girls and I had each chosen pumpkins and we left them out in our living room through the fall as decorations. The girls were disappointed I wouldn’t let them carve theirs but I promised it wasn’t worth it, we would enjoy them much more as pies, cakes, and muffins than as a face for a few days that would end in rot and the garbage can. I appeased their disappointment by letting them draw faces. Unfortunately Éowyn’s suffered too many injuries and began to mold as a result of Emmitt’s many “soccer” games. Éowyn was very sad but I assured her my pumpkin could become hers so she too could enjoy field to table claim  when we finally made something yummy.

Time went on, the girls would ask to cook them, I would say “not today, I don’t have time”, even though I probably did, I just didn’t prioritize it into pumpkin processing. Eventually I moved the two remaining pumpkins to the garage so the heated house wouldn’t cause them to rot. Once they were in the garage they became nearly forgotten altogether. I’d see them, coming in from shopping or church going and think ‘oh, I should cook those’. Then I noticed one was starting to shrivel, ‘man, I really need to cook those or it’s going to rot’. Another month went by, Jerusha’s was really looking sad, ‘It’s going to be a total waste if I don’t cook mine at least’.

And then one day, we were quarantined by our county, thanks to its proactive approach to the Covid 19 pandemic, and I was bored, (even though I already spent all my time at home, even before quarantine) and I had the taste for a pumpkin pie. I had canned pumpkin but I also had pumpkins to cook, a sleeping content baby, and I’d written ‘cook pumpkin’ in my to-do list for the week - something that I find pretty motivating. So I brought the good pumpkin and the slightly shriveled pumpkin in from the garage, turned on the oven and started. The kids of course wanted the help so after I cut them both in half I let them scoop out the seeds. I just threw the seeds away because the whole boil and roast was more effort than I was going to go through, shame on me. I was happy to find even Jerusha’s shriveling pumpkin was still healthy inside. I had called my sister over at Simple Inspirations and asked her to remind me what temperature and for how long to roast them, in case you have pumpkins to cook: she recommended 300 for an hour or until you can tell they’re adequately soft and remember to cook them face side down so they steam, though I knew the last part on my own. Into the oven they went. After awhile I poked one with the knife I’d used for cutting them in half and decided they were done. I let them cool, scooped out the flesh, blended it in my ninja blender, froze 6 cups of pulp in 2 cups incriminates since that’s what most of my recipes call for, used 2 cups for pie, and put the extra cup in the fridge, I assumed  I’d end up throwing it away after not deciding what would only take 1 cup of pumpkin.

I used my “Hot Water Pie Crust” which I’m well aware is inferior to real crust but it makes one generous amount, enough for one crust with extra dough to let kids eat, or enough to scrape a thin double crust out of, most of the time we use the first option because I tend to top pies in streusel if they need topping.

I only ever use the Libby or Carnation milk’s recipe for Pumpkin Pie, which are exactly the same and recommend each other as ingredients - I’d guess they share the same umbrella company but I’m not googling it right now,  I do add extra amounts of Cinnamon and Cloves but in general, it always  makes a fine pumpkin pie. I had a can of Libby’s pumpkin so I got it out and followed the recipe on the side.

When Wesley had gone shopping for me, because grocery buying is “essential travel”,  I’d had him buy the exorbitantly priced Reddi Whip because when I have pumpkin pie it has to have whipped cream and no cheaper whipped hydrogenated oils (I’m referring to nasty coolwhip) can take it’s place. We didn’t wait for the pie to cool completely, just as long as we could keep the children from starting into it without permission. So we had kind of warm pie, deliciously fluffy cold sweetened and whipped cream and I, at least, had the feeling of great success having not wasted our $4 pumpkins.

I’m also happy to report that the extra 1 cup of pulp didn’t go to waste, Sunday morning I used it to make cafe size Pumpkin Chip Muffin’s using a half recipe.

It’s been awhile since I’ve really blogged, I hope I can get back into it, I miss writing and as long as I can write again without it coming out dark and depressing I will try.
~Haley

Estel’s Birth Story

My birth stories go into all the details, so read only if you’re prepared for that. 

Estel Hiram Smith birth story

I woke up January 10th at around 2AM to contractions, like I have nearly every morning for the last three weeks, this time they were strong enough I couldn’t sleep through them though. I began timing and they were inconsistent, 6-12 minutes, so I tried sleeping. By 5 they hadn’t changed in strength but they were consistently 7 minutes apart. I rolled to my right side to alleviate left hip pain and they immediately spread back out to 12-15 minutes. After an hour of rest I got up to bounce on my birthing ball, walk, have some breakfast and see if I could get things going again. I had Wesley stay home from work because I was sure it was the beginning of real labor, just a slow beginning. I called my mom, not insisting she come yet but hoping it would work into the schedule of her day. I called my midwife to give her a heads up that eventually I thought today would be the day. 

I continued walking and bouncing, my contractions never changing, consistently inconsistent. 

My mom arrived. 

I continued to slowly labor. 

The contractions increased in strength while growing farther apart and they weakened while growing closer. There was no consistency and little hope of it ending soon. I asked my midwife to come check on me around 8 PM. It was disheartening news, I was dilated to 4, 50% effaced, prodromal labor. She prescribed Tylenol for a good nights rest and hope and prayers to wake up to stronger labor, if I didn’t, castor oil would be a good contender. 

5AM I woke to the same inconsistent strong but not strong enough contractions. By 6 I made the decision to try castor oil. Left on its own the labor would eventually produce a baby but I wasn’t sure I could handle not feeling the end was within sight. 

[Fun fact: castor oil does not cause labor by giving you violent diarrhea and therefore causing contractions. It does cause diarrhea, that’s for sure, but it also causes uterine contractions, not as a side effect to the intestinal cramping. It also causes the production of prostaglandins which helps soften the cervix. ]

I downed 2oz, then chased it with some juice. It wasn’t as terrible as my mom made it sound. After about an hour things started moving. Lots of trips to the bathroom, lots of contractions, still not very strong. Things tapered off about the three hour mark. My midwife called and said to take the second 2oz dose by 10. Same process. 

At 12:15 I called my midwife and let her know the contractions were consistently painfully strong and coming about every 6 minutes. She came to check on things. I was hoping for lots of progress so I could be encouraged and keep going. Little to no progress, so long to go. She asked if I’d mind if she sat in a corner and stayed or if I’d feel like a watched pot. I didn’t mind, I was my own watched pot, if she was willing to stay maybe she thought I was actually going to produce a baby. 

I showered at 1:00, my contractions increased in strength and frequency. After the shower I tried laying down. Too painful. I tried bouncing on the ball, that worked for several contractions before that was too painful. I tried kneeling. I tried sitting. Wesley helped get me into what I hoped would be comfortable positions. Eventually none of them were. I was crying to Wesley, knowing I had so far to go and knowing everything I tried seemed to only make them less bearable. 

My midwife came from the kitchen to where I was laboring in the living room, she said “This sounds like it’s really hard on you, have you ever had a lip problem?”

“Yes, every time MaryAnn (my midwife before we moved) had to hold the lip while I pushed”

Diane, my current midwife, suggested I move to bed where she would help hold the cervical lip through a few contractions. We did that, it hurt, she instructed I push gently for two contractions, my water started leaking, she decided to stop and have me labor through half an hour on my side to finish stretching it. All the while I was unsure how much progress I’d made, if any. For five contractions I tried to bear the pain and not panic. Diane offered words of encouragement and Wesley held me as I grasped his hand and the bed frame. On the sixth contraction I pushed even though I was trying not to, I tried sitting up, moving, anything, crying out “I can’t do this, I can’t keep doing this!” My water began gushing. I felt like the baby was crowning although I didn’t say anything because I was sure I still had a long way to go. 

“Get her to the pool” Diane directed as she headed down the hall. It’s a 30 step hallway from our bedroom to the kitchen/entry where the birthing pool was. Wesley had spent all morning emptying our water heater and boiling pot after pot of water to fill it. 

I waddled down the hall hoping the contractions would hold off, Wesley following, I was still sure the baby had crowned, but still sure it wasn’t possible. 

“Can you step in?” Diane asked as I stood at the edge not moving, another contraction beginning to build.

“No, it crowned, the baby’s coming its coming!” I reached down and felt the head. I didn’t even push, I just cradled the head as the rest of my baby slipped out, I scooped it with both hands, cradling it in my arms, noticing immediately it was a boy. 

“He’s here, it’s my baby, Estel, it’s a boy.” He was breathing clearly, squawking a little cry. 

“3:33, I have it at 3:33” my midwife announced, recording the time of birth. 

I tried lifting the baby towards my chest but his cord stopped him at my hips. I gently pulled up, his breathing changed. I then felt stupid, his cord, I’ve watched countless birth videos, how had I forgotten to check for his cord? It was wrapped a full time around his neck and a second loop around his right shoulder. We unwrapped him and I held him slightly higher, he still had a very short cord tethering him. I decided to step into the pool, it was warm and inviting and I’d hated to have wasted all Wesley’s efforts. It felt perfect. I relaxed in the water, snuggling my baby boy, waiting on the placenta to detach and come, waiting on the cord to quit pulsing so my baby could receive all the blood belonging him. 

Things wrapped up, I moved from the birthing pool back to bed. My bleeding seemed normal, Estel latched right away but my uterus wasn’t hardening so as a preventative measure my midwife administered Pitocin since my history includes a hemorrhage. 

We settled in. After he’d nursed for about half an hour we began discovering the details. 

Estel Hiram Smith, born at 3:33 PM, weighing 8lbs 14oz, 21 1/2” long, 14 1/4” head. 

35ish hours of slow prodromal labor, 2 and a half hours of hard labor, one accidental push. 

Estel Hiram Smith

Our baby has arrived. He took his precious time growing, not deciding to exit until 42 weeks.
Estel Hiram Smith
Saturday, January 11th, 2020 - 3:33PM
8 pounds, 14 ounces
21 1/2 inches long
14 1/4 inch head circumference

Here are some new born pictures and a story for some relevancy on the last one.
The OREO story:
My great grandpa, Pawpaw, was named Estel and I’ve always loved his name and had it on my running baby name list. Wesley loves all ‘E’ names so we settled on Estel as our boy name awhile ago.
Rewind some 20 years ago to my visits at Pawpaw’s house. When he knew we’d be coming he always had a stash of Oreo cookies, creme filled waffers, and Tang for us. He’d set us up on his counter and let us look through the cabinets until we found the bounty.
During this pregnancy I bought a package of double stuffed Oreos and the moment I took a bite I was transferred back to Pawpaw’s house. I didn’t remember his being double stuffed, but I’ve eaten a lot of Oreo cookies in the time since Pawpaw has been gone and now and never been transported back in time like that. I called my mom and asked if Pawpaw always had double stuffed and she said yes, double stuffed were what he’d have for us. So when we picked Estel, and the double stuffed Oreos reminded me of Pawpaw, I decided I needed a picture to connect his name and memory. 😊

Baby Bump the Fourth

Since I’ve not been blogging regularly, or at all, I never announced I was pregnant with our fourth baby. We had been hoping and praying for another baby. I just can’t seem to get enough of babies, the second my youngest seems to have a bit of self reliance I need to replace them with an all consuming new baby. Emmitt reached that stage a long while ago and I had to wait on God’s timing for this baby, not my own.
After a few days of unexplained  exhaustion and general horrible feeling I realized what my symptoms were a result of and took a test. Positive! Later that day we told the girls “God has given us something we’ve been praying for for awhile.” And before we’d even finished saying it Jerusha was jumping around shouting “I know, a baby!!”
We went out that Saturday for breakfast as we traditionally have. With all the other pregnancies it has been on a Sunday morning to Putnam Inn but this time we went on a Saturday and were forced to choose a new location, a hometown diner here in Greentown. The following weekend we went “home” and Emmitt wore an “I’m a big brother” shirt to tell my parents and siblings at home then  we sent out a text to family and posted our announcement on social media.
It might be my favorite announcement yet.

I’m due at the end of December, 33ish weeks currently, and today I finally finished this baby’s painting. You may, or may not, remember that I paint each of my expected babies a picture, I suppose when they’re grown, if they like it, they can take it with for their own home.
It took me a long time to decide how to do this painting. It was a hard thing, there are so many feelings behind it. I wanted a baby badly, but since the joy of that positive test, I have a growing worry, a fear, an anger, that I will be bringing this baby into a dark world. I hate living here, away from my people, so isolated and alone. My depression has been a more constant battle, a daily enemy, but more often than not, simply my old friend. I hate the thought of this baby entering our world of isolation. Growing up without his or her aunts and uncles as play mates, without weekly Sunday dinners at Grandma’s house, not favoring Papa’s lap, not recognizing family members by living beside and growing with them rather having to be introduced, having to split time at “home” between its daddy’s side of our family and mine. To bring a baby into a world, mothered by a woman who daily has to force herself to function and believe in living; it’s a dark and dismal picture, but none of that takes away from the joy and blessing this child is. And somehow, I wanted to paint that. So here it is, a dark, horribly miserable looking dreary day, the pure innocent joy of a child, and home at the end of this walk.