In this, her second memoir, New Prairie Woman is Susie Rosso Wolf’s depiction of her journey from Los Angeles to the historical town of Three Forks, Montana. On these pages you will discover the grandeur of “The Last Best Place” through her writing, poetry and photography, the challenges of living in a twenty foot trailer in sub-zero temperatures and how love, perseverance, and the miracle of faith can lift a soul up from the depths of the deepest, darkest waters.
Born in Santa Monica, California, I was raised in the small bedroom community of Sunkist Park that borders Culver City, Playa del Rey, Mar Vista and Venice. I attended Venice High School, West LA Community College and California Institute of the Arts. My studies included English, English Literature, Poetry, Creative Writing, Choir, Classical Voice, Shakespeare, Musical Theater, Television and Film Acting and Art History. In 1980, I relocated to the Pacific Northwest and in 1982 I married Kurt Wolf in Corvallis, Oregon. During the course of our long journey together, I have remained devoted to not only my husband, but to my friends and family, and the arts. What defines me most is my passion for expression through art. I’m an avid reader, writer and poet.I also enjoy painting and photography. Additionally, some folks consider me a pretty good cook.
New Prairie Woman Susie Rosso Wolf Chapter Four, con't
As I filled my giant stainless steel bowl with two pounds of the creamy rich Ricotta cheese, and blended more sweet basil, oregano, two eggs, two cups of fresh grated parmesan cheese, two cups of fresh grated mozzarella cheese, one cup of fresh grated provolone cheese and then peppered it with fresh cracked black pepper, I thought of Jo. She was pleased with my decision to meet Robert at the airport and said as much to me out in the garden. And although waves of nervous giddiness washed over me as I continued the process of completing my recipe, doubt plagued my every thought as I second-guessed my decision. It was natural, I suppose, for me to question whether or not I was making the right decision, but I did make the decision so I vowed to live with it.
Preparing the shells was no easy task. The water had to be just the right temperature of boiling before I dropped the dried pasta into the water. Dried, the shells were round, but once they boiled in the water they would flatten out and this is where the hell begins with making the mannicot. Plenty of olive oil in the water helps to keep the pasta shells from sticking to each other and flattening out too much, but keeping them from splitting up the sides was the most annoying obstacle. Just off the boil, before becoming aldente’, I gently lifted each flattened shell out of the water with my large screened spoon and placed it on a cutting board covered with paper towels. I patted each shell dry one by one then placed it onto a large baking sheet. Once the sauce was cooled to luke warm temperature I poured half in the bowl of creamed cheeses. Blending it all together with my heaviest wooden spoon, slowly I began to add the Italian bread crumbs. The aroma hit my senses and soon I could picture my father cooking his red sauce over the old stove in the Bray Street house and I laughed out loud remembering how he would stick his hand right into the boiling water to grab up a pasta noodle and stick it in his mouth to test for tenderness. As I stirred the crumbs into the mixture I wondered if Father would agree with my decision. Whenever I cooked Italian, I could hear his voice and the words by heart telling me to always take care of his Bobby. And now I was attempting one last time to fulfill my promise in some small way, to reconnect with the precious lamb that lost his way.