If you are looking for a new summer dessert that is cold, and fruity, yet creamy and yummy, look no further. This Blueberry Cream Cheese Pie is awesome, and everyone who has had it will attest. It is also super easy, and doesn’t take a lot of prep time. You can use any kind of pie filling, but I like blueberries; plus that was the original recipe.
I take no credit for this; got it off a blog I follow. If you want to see pictures you can go to her blog at coffeenut.blogspot.com
I made this while Audrey was home this last week, and we were going to take a picture, but um……………..
Blueberry Cream Cheese Pie
(Makes 2 pies – serves 12-16)
1 (8 oz.) pkg. cream cheese (or can use Neufchatel – 1/3 less fat)
1 pint of heavy whipping cream (or you can use a large container of Cool Whip)
2 cups powdered sugar
1 can blueberry pie filling
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup pecans, ground
2 unbaked pie crusts
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Sprinkle ground pecans evenly in both pie crusts and bake for 8 minutes. Remove and cool completely before filling. You’re done with the oven.
(If you remember, one of the earlier posts on this blog was for the recipe that makes 20 pie crusts at once. I pulled two of these out of the freezer, thawed the discs, rolled them out, and was ready to go).
Soften cream cheese and add powdered sugar. Add cream (or Cool Whip) and beat briskly until soft peaks form. Add vanilla. Divide cream mixture evenly into pie crusts. Refrigerate for several hours. Spoon blueberry filling over tops of pies, dividing evenly (I leave a ring of white around the edge. Serve.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
More on Memorial Day
Andrea as written about our Grandma Horack taking us to the cemetery and telling us family history. I didn't realize it at the time but she was also helping us not to be afraid of death. The people in the graves became very real to us as she told us their stories and their connection to her and us. Then seeing pictures of them with her or our Dad made them even more real. Other people have remarked that they won't go to funerals, they hate cemeteries, they're spooky, etc. We girls had a great time at the cemetery. We weren't disrespectful or anything but we had no qualms about walking across graves or being there with Grandma. Anytime spent with Grandma was great fun. What I remember most about Memorial Day was Grandma saving peonies for weeks ahead to take out. When she'd open her refrigerator door, her frig was full of peonies. Everybody now either buys artificial or orders from the florist or buys pots from somewhere. Since my peonies are always done blooming by Memorial Day, last year I decided to try what Grandma did. I thought it would be neat to put peonies on her grave as she always did on everyone elses. Two years ago I cut them just as they started to open and put them in vases of water in the frig downstairs. I noticed the florist kept them in vases in a cooler so thought that would be the best way. I took them out the day before going to the cemetery and they opened beautifully. This year I called the florist in town to see if she had an opinion on the best way to store them. She said the old timers said to wrap them in dry newspaper like a diaper and put them in the frig. So I did that this year. By the day before Memorial Day they were looking pretty droopy and sad. I didn't have very high hopes for their rejuvenation. I took them out the day before, put them in vases of water and by the next day, they had opened up beautifully. So I had peonies to put on Gma and Gpa Horack, A. Pauline and U. Wayne, and Mother and Daddy. I also took artificial flowers for my Grandma's parents, the aunt that raised her, her grandmother and her uncle. I trimmed the dead heads off the peonies that still live on GG Grandmother Katherine's grave and GG Uncle Jim's. I do this not because I have to but out of love and respect for my Grandma Horack and for the others who came before.
I noticed that one row over from Mother and Daddy there was a very old rose bush that was planted on a grave that hadn't been cared for for a very long time. I was blooming and trying it's best. So on Tuesday when I went to pick up the vases, I took the truck and loppers and trimmed all the dead out. No one had visited it or done anything for Memorial Day so I didn't figure anyone would care. I'm sure the bush feels much better, too.
I noticed that one row over from Mother and Daddy there was a very old rose bush that was planted on a grave that hadn't been cared for for a very long time. I was blooming and trying it's best. So on Tuesday when I went to pick up the vases, I took the truck and loppers and trimmed all the dead out. No one had visited it or done anything for Memorial Day so I didn't figure anyone would care. I'm sure the bush feels much better, too.
Memorial Day Memories
Memorial Day has come and gone, and I want to preface this particular post by saying that if any of my sisters have anything to add here, please do.
Losing family members to untimely death at an early age seems to bring certain things into sharper focus for you even during childhood.
My Grandmother Horack lost her mother as a small child and she and her brother and Dad were “raised”, i.e.,taken care of, by her aunt Caroline, and her grandmother. She and my grandfather married and had three children, one, my aunt’s twin brother died at six months of age being born with a hole in his heart, which in those days wasn’t something they were skilled to do anything about. Having lost loved ones, throughout her entire life time, especially a child, made my Grandma someone who frequented the cemetery with regularity. She planted flowers on the graves, preferring peonies that would bloom around Memorial Day every year, ensuring that there would always be flowers on the graves, even after she was gone.
As a little girl I remember my Grandma Horack loading my cousin JoAnn and I up in her little 55 Chevy, with jars full of water, going by and picking up her friend Gertrude, and heading to the cemetery to “tend” the graves. We would deadhead the peonies that had bloomed that year giving them a drink, and clean up any weeds or debris that accumulated around the grave stones. While we did this Grandma talked about those people who were buried there, she told and retold the stories of how our ancestors came over on the boat from Europe. How Great-Great Grandmother Somer had decided to wean the baby before the trip thinking it would make things easier, only to have them run out of drinking water on the voyage, and her sharing her allotment with the infant. The struggles they experienced in carving out a life on the prairie. How our Great-Great Grandpa Somer, after coming to America, didn’t find it to his liking and left his wife and children behind returning to Bohemia, thus no grave beside our Great-Great Grandmother. How our Great Grandfather Horack was so poor that when he died they buried him in what they referred to as “potters field”, a section of the cemetery where there are no stones because poor people could afford none, and by the time someone could have afforded one, no one could remember just exactly where Grandpa Great was buried. As she would pull a weed or water a plant, or wash the bird droppings off the stones, these stories coupled with the pictures on the wall of her home, or in frames on her dresser made the people real.
Memorial Day wasn’t the only day of the year we went to the cemetery, oh no! In the summer when the weather was especially hot, and we hadn’t had enough rain, we would load up and take water out to the cemetery to water the flowers that she had planted earlier in the year, or in the years before. Tending the graves was a responsibility that she didn’t take lightly. Passing on the history of those people was something that brought her joy. She would tell stories of my dad, as we tended his grave, and talk about my grandpa. However, I noticed she spoke little of Paul, my aunt’s twin, that was too deep a wound to remember. But I always noticed that she would prepare a special bouquet for his grave on Memorial Day.
These were not sad times, quite the contrary, these were wonderful times. It brought Grandma and her friend great joy to reminisce about the days gone by when sorrows of losing loved ones were frequent enough that death was just a part of life that you wove into the everyday tapestry, adding the dark colors to offset the light ones.
After Grandma died, my mother and I continued to go to the cemetery. As a young girl I would ride my bike the mile outside of town to the cemetery, checking the graves, breaking off the dead heads of the peonies as grandma had taught me. I would pull a weed, and knock the bird droppings off the stones remembering the stories she had told over and over.
When Roger and I go to the Ozarks to visit Roger’s brother, we always stop by the cemetery where Roger’s parents are buried. Roger’s mother was cremated, and we planted a tree over her ashes, so we check on the tree to see if it is still alive....it is. When we were first married Roger thought I was kind of strange for wanting to go home for Memorial Day. He didn’t get it. He does now.
I think the tradition of tending to the dead, and their graves are something we learned from the Bible when the women returned to Jesus’ tomb to anoint His body. Care was given to the dead, a sign of respect, regard for their memory. The joy that comes in visiting the cemetery is the constant reminder that your loved ones aren’t really there. Grandma knew this, but she also knew that by taking us there, she was teaching us respect for our ancestors, and regard for their memory. She was instilling in us a sense of family that she knew would continue on down through the generations.
I learned a lot going to the cemetery with my Grandmother. I learned that remembering the dead can be something pleasant. It can bring you comfort. It reminds you of the ones that have gone before you and battled through. It teaches that death is a part of life, not the end, but a part. It brings you strength. It brings you comfort. It gives you roots and wings. I think Grandma knew this, and that is why she started us young. A foundation of family, living or departed, is never a bad thing.
Losing family members to untimely death at an early age seems to bring certain things into sharper focus for you even during childhood.
My Grandmother Horack lost her mother as a small child and she and her brother and Dad were “raised”, i.e.,taken care of, by her aunt Caroline, and her grandmother. She and my grandfather married and had three children, one, my aunt’s twin brother died at six months of age being born with a hole in his heart, which in those days wasn’t something they were skilled to do anything about. Having lost loved ones, throughout her entire life time, especially a child, made my Grandma someone who frequented the cemetery with regularity. She planted flowers on the graves, preferring peonies that would bloom around Memorial Day every year, ensuring that there would always be flowers on the graves, even after she was gone.
As a little girl I remember my Grandma Horack loading my cousin JoAnn and I up in her little 55 Chevy, with jars full of water, going by and picking up her friend Gertrude, and heading to the cemetery to “tend” the graves. We would deadhead the peonies that had bloomed that year giving them a drink, and clean up any weeds or debris that accumulated around the grave stones. While we did this Grandma talked about those people who were buried there, she told and retold the stories of how our ancestors came over on the boat from Europe. How Great-Great Grandmother Somer had decided to wean the baby before the trip thinking it would make things easier, only to have them run out of drinking water on the voyage, and her sharing her allotment with the infant. The struggles they experienced in carving out a life on the prairie. How our Great-Great Grandpa Somer, after coming to America, didn’t find it to his liking and left his wife and children behind returning to Bohemia, thus no grave beside our Great-Great Grandmother. How our Great Grandfather Horack was so poor that when he died they buried him in what they referred to as “potters field”, a section of the cemetery where there are no stones because poor people could afford none, and by the time someone could have afforded one, no one could remember just exactly where Grandpa Great was buried. As she would pull a weed or water a plant, or wash the bird droppings off the stones, these stories coupled with the pictures on the wall of her home, or in frames on her dresser made the people real.
Memorial Day wasn’t the only day of the year we went to the cemetery, oh no! In the summer when the weather was especially hot, and we hadn’t had enough rain, we would load up and take water out to the cemetery to water the flowers that she had planted earlier in the year, or in the years before. Tending the graves was a responsibility that she didn’t take lightly. Passing on the history of those people was something that brought her joy. She would tell stories of my dad, as we tended his grave, and talk about my grandpa. However, I noticed she spoke little of Paul, my aunt’s twin, that was too deep a wound to remember. But I always noticed that she would prepare a special bouquet for his grave on Memorial Day.
These were not sad times, quite the contrary, these were wonderful times. It brought Grandma and her friend great joy to reminisce about the days gone by when sorrows of losing loved ones were frequent enough that death was just a part of life that you wove into the everyday tapestry, adding the dark colors to offset the light ones.
After Grandma died, my mother and I continued to go to the cemetery. As a young girl I would ride my bike the mile outside of town to the cemetery, checking the graves, breaking off the dead heads of the peonies as grandma had taught me. I would pull a weed, and knock the bird droppings off the stones remembering the stories she had told over and over.
When Roger and I go to the Ozarks to visit Roger’s brother, we always stop by the cemetery where Roger’s parents are buried. Roger’s mother was cremated, and we planted a tree over her ashes, so we check on the tree to see if it is still alive....it is. When we were first married Roger thought I was kind of strange for wanting to go home for Memorial Day. He didn’t get it. He does now.
I think the tradition of tending to the dead, and their graves are something we learned from the Bible when the women returned to Jesus’ tomb to anoint His body. Care was given to the dead, a sign of respect, regard for their memory. The joy that comes in visiting the cemetery is the constant reminder that your loved ones aren’t really there. Grandma knew this, but she also knew that by taking us there, she was teaching us respect for our ancestors, and regard for their memory. She was instilling in us a sense of family that she knew would continue on down through the generations.
I learned a lot going to the cemetery with my Grandmother. I learned that remembering the dead can be something pleasant. It can bring you comfort. It reminds you of the ones that have gone before you and battled through. It teaches that death is a part of life, not the end, but a part. It brings you strength. It brings you comfort. It gives you roots and wings. I think Grandma knew this, and that is why she started us young. A foundation of family, living or departed, is never a bad thing.
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