Carrot Top

A creamy shrimp and corn chowder enlivened with a big handful of fresh mint and a generous shot of hot sauce. Would have added a swoop of brandy, too, if there had been any here.

I still think the answer to all this really lies in the photograph that accompanied the story. Look at the photograph. Does anyone really believe after even the closest look that that guy is really *alive*? I think Liza is applying the zebra milk to his complexion as enbalming device. And indeed she looks proud of her work as she gazes up at him. Sigh. So romantic.

I'm sure I'll think of something, Janet. Nothing came directly to mind but of how interesting history is. Charming little tales those are.

Actually since what you are discussing seems to rather poor overall behavior, with a subtle intent underlying which infers that the readers are at the bottom of the barrel in terms of whom they have responsibility to (the advertisers being of paramount importance) I would call them "dickheads". A subtle distinction based on which ethical thing one considers the worst, I guess. Personally, to me, any whore is better than any dickhead. Regardless of the gender of the person being discussed. Edited to add smilie. Heh.

Fennel bulb is finocchio and anise sometimes is the word for fennel bulb, depending on where one has learned the words attached to the thing. Whatever it's called, it is very good. My only complaint is that I wish the bulbs were about three times the size they usually grow to. Foolish dream for a spoiled consumer.

I do believe that any discussion of "whores" should always include those that lurk nearby. The johns and the pimps. A merry threesome in the game that never ends. It also seems that it might be almost impossible to *really* discover who is a "whore" and who is not, in the world of critics. Certainly the johns (the readers?) might not have access to ways of finding out. And the pimps wear the same nice clothes as everyone else in this world. Nice and clean, with all hidden and tucked away that might not seem suitable for public knowledge. I could be wrong here. Maybe there is an accurate way of measurement. Karen (who dislikes the word "whore" based on its uh. . ."gender" component. Yeah. )

Wow. Wow. Wow. Felipe - please insert one wow for each photo, at least. The monastery looks like one is inside a huge beautiful cake that is floating in the clouds, with the pink color coming through from the wall hangings, the light reflecting off the arches and ceilings. The costumes - are they traditional? Worn daily? Or is this specially for this gathering? The colors! Truly divine. The pastries look as if they come from an Arabic or Medieval basis. Do the monks (and nuns? or is it only monks that participate in the cooking?) make these on a regular basis to sell for profit that goes to the church? Are there specific pastries that belong to each monastery? Wow. Astonishingly beautiful.

Photo op here, r. Photo op. Get those gloves out, grrrrl. Put 'em to good use. White gloves, grits, and a blank page to write upon. Yeah! P.S. Does your daughter mostly love spicy food? And does she love to bake too?

My batter wasn't entirely mixed when I wrote that. Two articles, same magazine. One about blogging and money, one about other very fascinating food stuff. Two authors, different people. One eGullet member. As far as I know. Can I blame my confusion on the fact that I was drinking coffee at Starbucks at the time? (Blech) I hope so. Anyway, here is a link: The important one, about food of course , is here. Written by Kara Newman aka alacarte in these parts. The other article is in the same magazine and probably can be accessed online. Need to go continue trying to mix this batter. Not always easy.

It's true that at times I've had a suspicion that you really could not be *real*, Rachel. Daring furbelows, fantastic fritters, flights of fine fancy and elfish fun and all. But if you are going to tell me that you ate this: Then gosh darn it, I'm gonna have to believe in you. It's a New Moon today, good auspices - and I woke up with the song "Rock On" running through my head for some reason. So, "Blog On"! with all fine things coming your way this week as you show us You.

I like waffles. The Pilgrims knew about waffles, for they had spent time in Holland before coming to these shores. They used to have waffle parties. I think it's doubtful they put ice-cream on their waffles, though. But I could be wrong. There used to be a favorite waffle recipe used in Baltimore in past times - waffles with kidney stew. (Source: The Oxford Companion to Food) Sounds delicious.

Double post. My apologies. But that reminds me, anyway, of someone who used to make grits often but swore they were just not the right texture unless a double boiler was used to cook them, slow. So delightful they were, indeed, that probably they should have been against the law.

On the other hand, the power of grits can be frightening, as Al Green learned: I love Al Green, but doubt if the story of an assault would have stuck in my mind for this many years if it hadn't been for the grits involved. From Al Green Biography. Got some powerful imagery going on with grits. ........................... Must run - time to cook some grits with . . .with. . .well gosh. There's so many good recipes. But what indeed should one add, besides. . .at best. . .more grits. Sigh.

I think grits are irresistable as long as you use the right accent. Who would want grrihts. Now gr-eeeee-its. That is totally adorable. I like grits with ham and cream gravy.

Darn it all, Fabby. I wish I could.

Nor am I, really. I remember it as being a way to carry ketchup into their mouths for some folks, the short while I lived in Ohio as a kid. A very *traditional* way to carry ketchup, though. And maybe, just maybe? Made with grits as the binder.

My mind is going to scrapple. Grits are just darn great.

Monsoon Diary by Shoba Narayan. (A Memoir with Recipes). A keeper.

More grits. .................................. Personally I think a grits vs. polenta cook-off is in order to resolve if there are indeed any discoverable differences. OOOOOeeeee. Would that be fun.

I am often astonished at the breadth of knowledge and depth of research that blogs can contain, as well as being very impressed by the story-telling abilities that draw one in. To think that people do this daily floors me. I tried to do it once for about two weeks or so, and got so densely entangled in the entire thing that I decided to cut my losses and run. And of course Steve, you are impressive in all ways whether you blog or not.

I have a waffle story. It has some waffle ideas in it. Maybe it could be considered the nut in the middle of the bun of the thread. (Alternately, you could consider me the nut, whichever you prefer. ) ...................................................................................................... A Waffle-y Wedded Wife The television screen flickered out its digitally enhanced image into the room. The girl-woman beamed a tremulous smile, eyes angling out an electrical charge, fully loaded, emotionally explosive. The boy-man’s smooth face was rigid, somber, intent, with a tiny edge of fear. In unison they lifted their eyes to the man in robes before them. “Do you take this woman to be your loving companion in life?” the robed man intoned. His tone was rather morose, I thought. Soberly, he glanced up at the groomed to glowing perfection young couple, removing his eyes from the small notebook held in his left hand. As the young man opened his mouth to respond, a loud insistent protest arose from my side. “Mom!” It was my fourteen-year old daughter, interrupting this moment of televised ardor that filled our living room. A sharp moue of distaste lay upon her face, much like a pattern of light and shadow pushing through a windowpane to light just momentarily – a pattern that was able to flicker in the tiniest instant imaginable to yet another one entirely different – all emotions being available and irrepressible for girls at the age of fourteen. “Why aren’t they doing it the right way?!” she demanded. I quickly turned to look at my daughter-who-likes-to-do-things-right, and carefully yet nonchalantly responded, “What do you mean?” My “mother’s sense” was suddenly alert, ready to pounce upon questions of morality, more than ready to happily dole out the age-old lessons mothers are ready, even anxious, to pull out from silent internal files, shelved but not forgotten. “They aren’t saying it right, Mom. They’re supposed to ask if he will take her as his waffle-y wedded wife” my daughter informed me, her voice drenched in righteous indignation. I wanted to laugh. I responded, “That’s “lawfully” wedded they usually say. Not “waffle-y”, sweetheart.” “Wow. Really?” she replied with a bit of awe. For this idea, one word heard the wrong way, now corrected, had now changed the world for her. It shifted it to a different shape than before. “Wow. I always thought it was ‘waffle-y’!” Now, I’ve been a wife before. I’ve even been a lawfully wedded one. But never a waffle-y wedded one! What a notion! What would it be like, to be a waffle-y wedded wife? ……………………………………………………………………… Mrs. Waffle pushed the lower half of the solid Dutch door. It made a satisfying creaking noise as she entered her bright cheerful kitchen. It was seven o’clock, a sunny morning. Mrs. Waffle always set foot into her kitchen this exact time, for she was nothing if not a very contented creature of habit. A fat brown bird with a red and blue face perched outside the kitchen window, staring into the room, cocking his head sideways first one way then the other. His impish curiosity made it seem as if the scene had been prepared for his own personal entertainment. He lived in the apple tree set to the side of the kitchen garden, the part of the garden neatly bedded into squares. The rest of the garden looked as if Peter Rabbit and Flopsy Bunny would appear if you called for them. It was a wild and woolly garden, patches of colors intense, melding into an Impressionist blaze in late summer, complete with white picket fence, paint peeling slightly, hints of a moss green peeking from under the white glaze. The gate was just the perfect touch ajar, in a most welcoming manner. Mrs. Waffle had not known anything at all about how it was to live as a waffle-y wedded wife before her marriage. This way of being was certainly not within the experiences of her other friends who had married. She thought of her life now, and smiled. She gazed at the lines of sun in repose striking the kitchen table, dust motes dancing along them like tiny angels searching for a pin to sit upon in the dense lemon-yellow rays. Lemon-yellow! That reminded her of waffles. Breakfast would soon be ready for Mr. Waffle. Millet-buckwheat-coconut waffles this morning, with a sweet dollop of lemon curd lovingly set on top just before the first bite. A bold shiny lemon was found, the zester disentangled from its dark quiet home in the kitchen drawer, and Mrs. W set to work. The spiced scent of citrus rose like a fortune of glittering delights. It filled the room, undertones of peace invoked, memories of a day spent lying on hot sand at the seashore. Mrs W’s mind wandered. Lunch - what would be for lunch? Mr. Waffle would be traveling into the City. It was his turn today – tomorrow it would be Mrs. Waffle’s turn, for naturally they shared the balance of going forth into the world of business (just as they shared all things). Mr. W had insisted upon this early in their marriage – he’d said that was the waffle way. Something quick and easy to eat was needed. Her long experience of Mr. Waffle’s tastes and desires within this state of waffle-y wedded bliss left Mrs. W with a sure knowledge of what to make. Two thick bacon-cornmeal waffles studded within with fresh corn kernels . . .a few slices of smoked gouda, a layer of apple butter softly wedged in between their embrace, a side of sugary-spiced pecans. That should do it. ……………………………………………………………….. The day passed so surprisingly quickly, filled with its small domestic pleasures. She listened to the music from the house next door, as her neighbor Wanda Fibswapper played her new piano, various pieces, some strange, some boldly vibrating with an intended jazz rhythm. Wanda had taken up the piano late in life, and it was always good for a bit of entertaining chat in the neighborhood as to which style or piece she would be playing, today or tomorrow. Dinner time was here, and Mrs.W readied her skillets and waffle-irons with an almost war-like dexterity. It was to be the night of rice waffles sided with a crispy fried chicken. The chicken needed to be made just right, to send out its burst of essential juices when teeth hit it, the entire dish all toppled over with cream sauce endowed with a mere hint of maple syrup, all tossed wildly together with sizzled crunchy thin bits of dense salty ham. ……………………………………………………………………… How had it happened? It was dark out, yet a full moon sent a sliver of light over the top of the blinds as Mrs. W moved closer in the bed to the silent heaviness of her sleeping husband, He was solidly asleep, slightly snoring. Her eyes blinked, she started to doze, and images arose. The waffle-weave blanket that covered her somehow lifted her into the night sky. It opened, and with a little “snap!” turned itself into a magic carpet, glittering with jewel-like paisley designs. The carpet was soft, deep, warm. It flew through the star-lit sky, winging around with abandon through the air with such a flagrant sense of magnificence and utter unadulterated freedom. Then the carpet became a waffle, but no matter how hard she squinted, tossing round on it, laying flat down and even placing her face right up against the uneven surface of it, she could not quite make out what kind of waffle it was. Her husband’s own waffles, the ones he made for her, spun delicately with brilliant happy sparks like shooting stars, circling through the night air around her. Thick heart-shaped bittersweet double-chocolate waffles sensually topped with crunchy caramelized bananas. . . orange-almond-cumin waffles ladled with a rich heady creamy curried quail. . . oh! She loved his lemon thyme waffles luxurious with the fresh lobster claws holding hands on top, dotted with jewel-like aromatics in that pink vodka sauce. . . or the seven-grain waffle sandwich stuffed with Greek salad drizzled with biting tahini sauce. . .ah! There, those dreamy rosewater–peach waffles were dancing by her, twirling in the air with divine insouciance as she watched, the two round smiling matching curves of strawberry sorbet and lemon gelato glistening on top as they shimmered by in the night. So much waffle-y bliss! Mrs. Waffle slid further into dreamland with a sigh, dove deeply into dreamland, smiling in her sleep, and moving just a hint of a touch closer to Mr. W, she felt a spark. Just like water hitting a waffle iron that was ready to cook. She edged closer, ready.

I was using "lifestyle" in the way that it is often used to infer something aspirational rather than actual. I actually hadn't run into anyone using grits in this fashion yet. Live and learn. P.S. No disrespect intended, annecros, at all.

Grits are a Way of Life. Polenta is a Way of Life too, but a different one. In certain circles, Polenta is a Lifestyle. Grits are never a Lifestyle. Beer. And lots of it.

Blogging might be done for a variety of reasons by different people, don't you think. . with no one singular reason for all or any combination of reasons for the individual. One blogger might want to keep their name "out there" so that people could see their work easily. Another might be seriously trying to hook up or create something business-wise.The next one might be wishing to do (in a more formal way with the notion of "deadlines" somehow added to the task) the daily practice that good writing demands. Someone else might mostly be trying to get feedback from readers as to what works and what doesn't work quite as well. And then there could be people, who just as with those who cook each day, who might blog just for the love of sharing what they love themselves. I might put you in that last category, Janet, if anyone were to ask me to try to guess. ....................................................... (Though I did read a fascinating article in a nationally-distributed magazine a short while ago on how bloggers can make money, *real* money. Actually written by an eG member, too.)

Of course there's always the mix and match from the fridge and cupboards method, too. Take everything out, place all over the countertops, mix and match as desired, cook and devour. Works pretty good.