I don’t use the aunts’ original recipe for orange rolls — I’ve found one that’s lighter, fluffier and more to my liking.

Warm a quart of whole milk, a cup of sugar and a cup of vegetable oil over medium heat. Heat to steaming, then remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.

Sprinkle two packets of fast acting yeast over the milk. Add 8 cups of all-purpose flour and mix to combine. Cover with a clean dishtowel and let rise for an hour.

Come back and add a tsp. of baking powder, a tsp. of baking soda, a tablespoon of salt and a cup of flour. Mix well.

Roll half the dough at a time into a big rectangle. Pour a cup of melted butter over the dough and spread with 8 tbsps. of orange marmalade, a half cup of brown sugar, a couple of tbsps of orange rind and a half cup of white sugar.

Roll up and slice — put about six slices in a buttered cake pan (should fill about six pans total). Set aside to rise for about 20 minutes.

Heat oven to 375. Bake for 15-18 minutes.

While baking, mix 2 lbs. powdered sugar, 1/2 cup melted butter, 1 cup whole milk and 1/2 cup orange juice. Pour icing over hot rolls when they come out of the oven.

Enjoy!

For more information, contact:
Marijean Jaggers
(434) 336-7078

Marijean.Jaggers@gmail.com

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

C’ville Pie Fest

A celebration for a community that likes its pie.

WHAT: The 2011 C’ville Pie Fest is free, public event of pie auctions, pie judging and a pie baking competition.  Pies must be registered by Wednesday, October 19 to be entered into competition. Bakers of all ages are encouraged to enter the judged pie competition.

New to the 2011 Pie Fest is a live competition. The top pie makers will compete live at the Pie Fest to determine who can make the best pie. Also new to Pie Fest is the addition of a “pro” category. Restaurants and bakeries are encouraged to enter as a business, rather than as an individual baker, providing the business with the opportunity to market itself through the event.

The pie competition will be led by head judge and one of the founders of Pie Fest, Brian Geiger, The Food Geek.

Proceeds from the sale of donated commercial pies via auction will support People and Congregations Engaged in Ministry (PACEM) an interfaith collaboration of congregations and community partners providing winter shelter for the homeless of Charlottesville.

WHEN: Saturday, October 22, 2011 1:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m.

Competitors must register pies on http://cvillepiefest.com/ no later than Wednesday, October 19, 2011.

Registered pies must be dropped off at The Haven between 10 a.m. and 11a.m. Saturday, October 22, 2011

WHERE: The Haven at First and Market, 112 West Market Street, Charlottesville, Va. 22902

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About The Haven

The Haven at First & Market is housed in a beautifully renovated church on the corner of First Street and Market Street, across from Lee Park, one block from the downtown site of the Jefferson Madison Regional Library and around the corner from the Downtown Mall. This building is a gift to the community by Tom Shadyac, who purchased and renovated the building to create a safe place for the homeless to get services.

About PACEM
PACEM is a community homeless shelter – a grassroots organization using available spaces and volunteers to provide shelter and compassionate support for the homeless in our city. Through PACEM, Charlottesville area congregations of many faiths welcome homeless “guests” for 1-2 weeks at a time – offering a safe, warm and welcoming place to sleep for neighbors who would otherwise be out on the streets. All donations to PACEM are tax-deductible to the extent allowed by law.

It irks me when someone this visible, this beloved and admired for so much talent spews hate. I’m delighted at the public reaction to Morgan’s remarks, but realize that even 20 years ago an incident like this would not have made news.

Growing up in the seventies, I heard gay slurs often; the negative phrase, “that’s so gay” was common enough for daily life and use in front of one’s parents. Gay relatives weren’t discussed; they were “confirmed bachelors” — a phrase that honestly, still makes me chuckle. The lack of acceptance, in my white, middle class, suburban upbringing was nonviolent, but also an impenetrable wall.

Lack of acceptance bubbles into hate, and hate begets violence. It’s incredible to me that in this era we have had to push forward into law legislation like the Hate Crimes Prevention Act and simultaneously, struggle to allow two people who love one another to marry and commit to one another for life; that we have to chip away at that state by state. If you were to explain these concepts to a five-year-old child, she could tell you that none of this makes sense.

It troubles me that there are so many so uncomfortable with homosexuality; that there really are people who believe being gay is a choice, or a “sin.” I often forget that is the case; I live in a fairly liberal community and have surrounded myself with people who share the same values. So it shocks me to learn or remember that parents still reject children, that adults are still afraid of coming out to friends and family, that people live in fear of being harmed for being attracted to someone of the same sex.

In the U.S., we have a history of judging people on the color of their skin. Judging on sexuality is just as inane.

This post is going to piss some people off, but I honestly don’t care. It pisses me off that anyone would think it’s OK to insult a person because of their sexual identity. Tracy Morgan, you’ve lost a fan.

I was struggling with a medical issue a couple of weeks ago, and while a blogger, have certain topics I hold private. This one was especially hard for me to share; I was uncomfortable with even the words involved to describe it.

When it became apparent just how serious my issue was and that, in fact, I would more than likely be undergoing surgery, I finally caved and, in a limited way, shared my diagnosis with a subset of my social network. My sister jokingly asked if I was planning to blog about this when I told her my diagnosis. A friend asked if I was going to “live blog” my surgery. (I totally would have tweeted if I hadn’t been put under!)

I asked for help — not something I like to do — but gulped down a bit of pride and decided it was time to reach out and share. I was rewarded with friends (especially this one)  who reassured me that what I was going through was nothing to be embarrassed about, and who jumped into action to help me manage the coming weeks with additional support.

It reminded me of one of the reasons blogging is so important — the act of being human, and sharing human issues online has enabled people to discover one another — to learn that no matter how alone you might feel, you are not, in fact, the only person dealing with or having dealt with your particular issue.

There’s been great comfort discovered, not only for me, but for hundreds of thousands of bloggers and blog readers brought together through commonality. In my circle of friends it was a huge relief to learn that some one else had gone through what I experienced — and her words of encouragement and comfort meant so much to me.

I did have surgery last week and have been recuperating slowly. I’m glad, ultimately, that I decided to let people know what was going on; the tweets, comments and messages of support, encouragement, comfort, wishes and prayers were very appreciated and are contributing to making me feel better, each day.

When I posted some musings from a workout at the gym, my dear friend Brian left this comment, “At the gym, as in life, for every person you wish you could trade places with, there’s someone who wishes she could trade places with you. And that is beautiful.”

In my next life, I hope I come back as a child of Brian’s. Is that weird?

Brian’s thought has worked its way around in my mind, reminding me to chuck my self-consciousness to a certain degree and to appreciate what I’ve got (and not focus on what I am not).

At another trip to the gym, I changed in the locker room from my work day dress to workout wear and as usual, marveled at the women who stroll across the room topless, hang out in the sauna in the altogether and generally have an air of comfort about their unclothed selves.

I’m the person in the corner, hiking up the yoga pants under the dress, wrestling the bra from underneath the top and generally going through some pre-workout gyrations (worth a few calories, at least) in order to change without full exposure.

And I’ve been wondering about that . . . it’s not mere modesty, or shyness, exactly; it’s a self-conscious belief that because I don’t look like some kind of supermodel under here, and for some reason that offer to appear on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue seems never to arrive. . . that no one should have to be subjected to the sight of my pale white posterior in the event they inadvertently glance in my direction.

I’m probably not ever going to reach the comfort level of the lady I encountered in the dark in the sauna (it took a second for my eyes to adjust and then I was impressed at the amount of eighty-year old naked flesh accompanying me in there). Nor do I ever see myself baring all for publication (Several women older than I have posed in Playboy, just FYI in case you’re into that).

On a scale of 1-10, 10 being all out exhibitionist, one being a cloistered nun, I am definitely near the lower end of the scale — say a 2 or maybe a 3. I mean, I don’t change in the bathroom at home (OK, I have, but there were reasons) so I’m not a total prude, but I’m just not a natural body flaunter. How do people get that way? Is that learned or inherited? Naked nurture vs. nature?

As I’m challenging myself to lose weight and become more physically fit, I’m adding on another dimension to the challenge; to get more comfortable in my own skin and (only when totally appropriate and no one is looking) to change in the locker room like it’s not 40 below and I run the risk of frostbite; like I don’t care if anyone’s looking, and certainly keeping in mind, that for every person I wish I could trade places with, there’s someone who wishes she could trade places with me.

A deep breath and another lap and I’m OK again, counting, on this round, the number of bald men in the gym (seven).

I think, working through time on a bike, a treadmill, with weights and going ’round and ’round the track, that it all amounts to the longest walk of shame. I try not to think about the reasons I am here, that I’ve done this to myself and the payback that is the workout is just sweaty, painful penance and that someday, (soon, I hope) I will turn a corner and begin to feel stronger, thinner and somewhat more like the “me” of several years’ past.

I narrow my eyes and pretend not to clearly see the female weightlifter. How long did it take her to become that sculpted, that strong? On another pass her back is turned and I can take in an eyeful, from bulging shoulders to ropy calves. I briefly fantasize flopping, fangirl, at her feet, begging, “tell me how you did it.”

Of course I never would, never will.

Is it even possible to transform my soft, doughy self into anything that approximates the weightlifter? Is that what I want?

Another lap; what is this, my thirtieth? Overcome again, I seek familiar faces and transform those that aren’t into college friends, former co-workers and others who aren’t, couldn’t possibly be there, at the gym.

“I have two questions: one, what perfume are you wearing and two, who does your eyebrows?”

I wasn’t wearing perfume and told her so, but do use a cocoa butter gel body oil that I love.

Second, about the eyebrows . . .

As a kid I suffered greatly, my eyebrows making me resemble Bert of Bert and Ernie fame, more than any other Muppet.

He meant well, I’m sure, but my dad would humiliatingly nudge me into performing my Groucho Marx routine, something he taught me at an early age (complete with cigar wagging!). It wasn’t till I was older that I thought, oh wonderful; I look like Groucho Marx. What little princess doesn’t want to look like Groucho Marx?

So since a rather tender age, I’ve been absolutely obsessed with perfectly maintained eyebrows and, at the age of 40, to be complimented about them gave me great joy. (The answer is my hairdresser waxes them and I obsessively, compulsively keep them as neat as possible until I see her again.)

Women, older than I, and who probably never spent tearful hours in the bathroom mirror trying to tame the arches over their eyes, tell me I should be glad; that they struggle to pencil in brows that used to exist. I suspect I’ll never have that issue, but if I ever do, I’ll just use that pic of Groucho to remember what used to be.

I served the pie still warm, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, the way God intended. Mark thought the pie a bit too tart but I loved it; the double comes from using tart canned cherries and sweet dried cherries. I loved the contrast between the two kinds of cherries and the sugared, flaky crust perfectly offset the filling.

For the unfamiliar, that image at top, left is of a cherry pitter. I just bought one of these suckers (looks like an instrument of torture, doesn’t it?) and intend to make my first fresh cherry pie the minute they’re available (probably June).

I’m so committed to the idea of this project, I’m pondering whether it’s worth bribing the Michigan Jaggers family to ship me a crate of cherries. (Keri? Jeff? Hook a sister up!)

I have had several “favorite” pies in the past but the pie of the moment is definitely cherry.

Double Cherry Pie

Four cans tart cherries (Oregon is good), drained

One cup dried sweet cherries

3 tbsp cornstarch

1 cup sugar

1 tsp almond extract

Nutmeg

Tbsp butter, cut into pieces

Milk

Pastry for a double crust pie

Make your pastry, and refrigerate for at least an hour before rolling. Mix canned and dried cherries, sugar and cornstarch and let sit for 15 minutes. Add almond extract and stir gently. Roll out bottom crust and line a 9″ pie plate. Heat oven to 375. Spoon filling into the crust, top with scattered butter pieces and sprinkle with nutmeg. Roll out top crust; crimp edges to seal. Brush crust top with milk and sprinkle top with sugar. Cut four or five vents in the top.

Bake at 375 for 30 minutes, then turn pie 180 degrees and bake for another 30-35 minutes. You will want to place an edged cookie sheet, lined with foil, under the pie in case the filling bubbles over. If the top crust begins to get too brown, put a loosely tented piece of foil on top for the last 10 minutes of baking.

We had a farmers’ market which I frequented in the months it was open. We even had a great meat market by our church and would go there on special occasions.

Before I moved to Charlottesville . . .

• I had never had fresh eggs.
• I never ate a salad with ingredients that traveled 60 miles or less to get to my plate.
• I never had a cup of coffee brewed at the same site where the beans were roasted.

Now, I feel as if I’ve become a bit of a snob, developed, as my friend Hawes calls it, a “precious palate.” Maybe.

Is it merely trendy? I don’t know. I read The Botany of Desire way before The Omnivore’s Dilemma or In Defense of Food emerged and made readers aware of the benefits of eating locally grown food. It all made so much sense to me and changed my life, not merely became an “of the moment” alteration in thinking.

I left a job, in some part, because I couldn’t square my ideals and my location with the genetically-engineered foods giant that was among my former employer’s largest clients. (This happens, when one works in public relations and reputation management. See Ethics and PR: When your client’s values are not your own.)

Moving across the country and living in Charlottesville in particular, has made me much more aware of and committed to local foods. Among my favorite restaurants are those who source their meats and produce locally and in recent months I’ve become an active user of a service that gathers foods and products from dozens of local vendors and farms (for free!) and allows me to pick them all up in one spot.

How has your thinking about food, the way you buy it, where it comes from or what you choose to eat changed over the last five years or so?

We had lasagna, salad and bread for dinner with apple pie for dessert. Nothing says “welcome home” like apple pie, right?

Welcome Home Apple Pie

• 6 cups peeled and cored apples — Red Delicious and MacIntosh — sliced thin
• 1/2 cup dark brown sugar
• 1 tbsp. sugar
• 1 tbsp. cinnamon
• 1 tbsp. cornstarch
• 1 tbsp. lemon juice
• Milk
• Sugar

Prepare the apple slices and toss with lemon juice to coat. Mix all other ingredients, then gently mix into the apples. Set aside for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally to evenly distribute topping. Prepare a double crust. Preheat oven to 400. Fill bottom crust with apple slices, top with crust lid and crimp edges to seal. Brush top crust with milk and sprinkle with granulated sugar. Cut a few vents in the top crust.

Bake at 400 for 30 min., reduce temperature to 350, turn pie 180 degrees and bake another 25 minutes. You might want to put a foil covered baking sheet under the pie in case the juices spill over.