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JTTere is a simply delicious way to prepare prunes. You'll be delighted. It takes longer than other methods, but the results are worth it! Perhaps you will want to bake your pnines when you are cooking an oven dinner, thus saving time and trouble.
I start with a carton of SuNswEET Prunes, because they're "Tenderized", rich in flavor, and need no soaking.
I rinse the prunes in cold water . . . place the desired quantity in a casserole and cover completely with cold water.
Then I sprinkle with 2 tablespoons sugar, top with 2 center slices of orange or lemon, rind and all, and add Ipiece stick cinnamon.
Now ... I cover and bake in a moderate oven (350 degrees F) 1 }i hours, and cool without removing cover. Finally I chill and serve.
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SUNSWEET Prunes are tree-ripened for sweetness.and flavor, "Tetiderized" for quick-cooking and better eating, sealed in foil cartons for perfect protection, packed by the grow
> <-ยป , . 'iKv ers themselves. . Guaranteed by 'A ^ Good Housekeeping^ -vJ HX "tJ H^ -tj
California Prune & Apricot Growers Assn. San Jose, California
SUNSWEET "Tenderized" Prunes, Apricots and Peaches . . . also SUNSWEET Prune Juice
eleven of them, who come from bitterly competitive schools, from different nationalities, and who'd tackle the first outsider who berated any one of their teammates.
Such sports programs are a great common denominator and really kick the goals against cold-shouldering minority groups in our communities. It's too bad we. don't have a few international football teams.
A common understanding makes a lot of difference, as I found out on my trip through Latin America a few months ago, when my interpreter, Freddie Myron, got all the laughs . . . and I just stood there looking at him. . . .
The only Spanish word I knew was "si," but it was supposed to be a good will tour and that can carry you pretty far in diplomatic relations, depending on how far you want to go of course. I went a long ways on it . . . dancing at the "Night and Day" in Rio, taking in a soccer game in Santiago, an "asado" (which turns out to be roast beef out in the open) on a South American "estancia" (a big budget word meaning ranch) and to the premiere of my picture, "Monsieur Beaucaire" in Buenos Aires. I was enjoying the picture, it was only the fourth time I'd seen it, when lights flashed on all over the theater with spotlights tui-ned on the balcony. Naturally I stood up, and so did Enrique Serrano, famous Argentine comedian. Fortunately there was enough applause for both of us. . . .
THIS trip was a great experience for Dolores, Linda, Tony and myself. The people were wonderful and so interested in America. They all asked questions, some of them a little embarrassing, such as about Bing's golf game. What could I say? The truth? That he plays a good game, for a man his age?
It was the second time I'd been on the "Road to Rio," having traveled it previously with Crosby and Lamour, and I got a terrific welcome in Rio de Janeiro. ... I beat the picture there. Let me tell you we have a lot of good neighbors in that 3,275,000 square miles of Brazil, in Uruguay, Chile and other Latin American republics. I was encouraged to see how interested they are in our motion pictures, our customs, and our language, as indicated by the fact that while they will take pictures with Spanish titles they want all the dialogue in English, to better familiarize themselves with it.
In order that I might rise suitably to a few occasions, my interpreter taught me a comical poem, the gist of which was "more health, more wealth, and more women on bicycles," and it fairly laid them in the aisles. Speaking of interpretations, now who would think you'd get a yak out of health and more women on bicycles, but if they promote understanding and good will . . . let's peddle them. . . .
Since Hope springs eternal, or at least as long as there are a few good jumps left in me, I still hope that 1948 sees the beginning of a better international understanding, of a bill of rights for all freedom-loving-people in the world . . . without "drafting" it.
There can't be too much freedom in a two-way stretch, and it's hard for any people to think straight on a caved-in stomach. Let's all observe our government's food conservation program faithfully, and watch our waistlines so others can cinch something for theirs. Let's hope they may become strong and self-supporting
with peaceful production, so that we can all ease up on the grim international watch parties going on this New Year's Eve. . . .
Nobody who caught the last one cares about sitting in on a repeat show.
The greatest pitch for peace I know is just going through any one of the 127 Veterans' Hospitals in our own country. Seeing those boys wheeled into the "Rec" hall on mobile beds, the paraplegics in wheel chairs, all those who made down payments on war over there, and are still paying it out in installments here now.
Let me tell you, the old heart really hits a low one going through some of those wards, hoping to help hustle in a little holiday cheer for that gallant gang you met on the road to war. . . .
You're supposed to make with the cracks . . . they expect it . . . and you try a fair facsimile . . . something like . . . "Did you catch my last show, or were you already sick. . . ?"
"Caught your show in Biak," one says grinning. "In the rain, remember?"
"You weren't the guy who copped my helmet, were you?" you say . . . but you think . . . sure I remember. . . .
Memories move like a movie montage going through those hospitals. . . .
Sure I remember . . . you were standing there in that New Guinea jungle downpour . . . you'd gotten a letter from your wife . . . and you^ had home in your eyes. . . .
And you over there ... I remember you . . . you were sitting on the side of a hill with 19,000 others back from the front in Messina. Tired and battleweary, wearing a torn and bloody uniform, staring silently into space. . . .
Hello, Sarge, the last time I saw you . . . you were standing by a tank in that 135 degree sand in Tunis . . . scribbling a note on a precious piece of paper for me to bring back. Nothing much, just, "Hello Mom, I'm okay, I'll be home. . . ."
Brought one back for you too, from Bougainville, "may be home by New Year's, they say now. Mom. . . ."
And you take me back to the Embassy Club in London, Captain, you were just back from dumping a pay load over Berlin. "Tell me, Hope, are the States still there?" you said.
That's what you wanted to know too, in that lonely outpost in the Aleutians, "Been to Brooklyn lately?"
you over there . . . you were in an Evacuation hospital in Bizerte . . . with " German flares lighting the sky, tracer bullets hitting a comet streak, ack-ack going after Stukas . . . you gritted your teeth and told the doc to "shoot the works. . . ."
And you . . . finally getting back through the Golden Gate . . . coming home in that flag-draped honor bier . . . I remember you, "Mac," you were a white cross on a tiny strip of land called Tarawa. . . .
Sure, I remember all of you. Thanks, fellas, for giving us a crack at another new year.
While we're making with the auld lang synes this New Year's Eve, ladies and gentlemen, let's toast that great gang in our nation's hospitals.
Let's toast too, those others for whom all Time has stopped, those who lie in Belgium and in the shadow of Surabachi. Let's wear those white crosses over our hearts and resolve that auld acquaintance will never be forgot. . . .
And let's drink a cup of kindness . . . a toast to faith in our future for our children, our ideals, our country ... to all our hopes for 1948.