Carrot Top

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.

Yes, I realized that much at least - that it *was* written by a homeopathic group. It seemed to bring me deeper and deeper into the Alice-in-Wonderland world that was started by looking at that scary original photo and the startling story about the zebra milk and the guy. That paragraph about prescribing zebra milk to someone because they came in dressed all in black and white was uh. . .impressively surreal to me. But then again, as they say "whatever floats your boat". Phew. Still, I love this topic. I'm so glad it was posted.

Jennifer, There's a topic on that subject somewhere here. . .I do not know the title, but *do* remember that jkonick started it. You can search for it by clicking onto her topics, perhaps, or even searching for "food writing" topics. ..................................................... As to the subject of not writing unless it's for money, well. That's the way many chefs feel about cooking.

That line about Bobby Flay's shirt will remain in my memory *for ev er*.

A new vocabulary word. Thank you, Maggie. I'll try to use it as much as possible. That contest was a hoot. I think every single entry deserves a prize and a round of applause. I haven't laughed so hard in ages.

Wow. Maybe not humor. I got curious so looked up "zebra milk" in the Cambridge World History of Food. Although there were entries on many milks: alpaca, camel, cow, donkey, goat, human breast, llama, mare, reindeer, sheep, water buffalo, and yak - there was nothing on zebra milk. I actually dreaded looking it up on the internet, fearful a bit of what sites might fall under the category. If you know what I mean. Phew. But I did, and found that it appears that zebra milk is being considered (apparently, I am never really sure of fully understanding anything that is written about science or medicine) in cancer cures. Here is one site that discusses this:Townsend Letter for Doctors and Patients Wow. Now I am completely flummoxed. I have no idea what to think.

I'd have to agree with you there. Still, it's quite possible that the story *was* actually not (entirely or factually) true. The British have a marvellous, fine-honed touch with how parody and life often can seem to intersect each other.

BBC report on bushmeat in London Aside from the fact I think it quite possible for someone to become as passionate about eating something difficult to procure (often this is about p o w e r) there is an active trade in London in bushmeat, which would lead me to believe that zebra milk *might* also be possible to procure.

I initially wanted to disbelieve the story based on the photo, which looked as if it were taken at a Wax Museum. But yes, I do believe it. ........................................... P.S. Actually, if that story were to be published in The Onion, I don't think anyone would even blink an eye. They just might not think it was "as funny" as it "should have been" - but it *is* quite close to parody. Still, yes, I believe it. Lovely the stories life sends us.

Did you put these two thoughts on the same line because there is some direct or indirect correlation between the size of a man's steak and the size of his er. . ."physical accoutrements", Steve? Might be a good topic to explore. (Thanks for sharing, as always )

Thanks, adegiulio. I guess maybe we can share a couple of cannolis rather than a couple of twinkies if ever we cross paths.

If you weep, I'll weep, and I weep easily so please don't weep. But thank you.

Interesting article here about "The Meaning of Food", which includes some discussion of "food as symbol". People tend to be loyal to the symbols that represent them within their cultures. In our culture, the USA, we have choices, often, as to what our personal symbols (including foods) will be. It is a wonderful society in that way, in my opinion. Sometimes, if you look at a finely woven carpet or tapestry, the gold threads strike the eye first as the most beautiful part. Then perhaps the rich wools, the jewel-tone colors. It could be, though, that the woof and warp of that piece of art is made of poor twine or cotton. Yet it still is a part of the whole. Canned foods, fast foods, frozen foods - they are all part of the "whole" of our culture. They may not please the connoisseur's eye, but they will remain as a working part of the whole. Perhaps one may not be pleased, either, by the notion of parents who feed their children "fast food" or even eat at different times. My own mother, a single parent, did feed me canned food. And she did not insist we always eat at the same time. There are incredible burdens today on working parents and on single parents in many ways. Yes, I am *still* loyal to my own mother and her canned spaghetti. It would have been nice to have seen someone hold a hand out to help her, as she struggled to do the best she could, the best she knew how (or, if not a hand of help, at least a smile of acceptance). . .rather than to know that what was said was "Bad mother, that. Bad mother." If there are women who lie about what they feed their kids in order to be "part of the group", I can actually understand it. Sometimes the contempt of others can be heavy, and the silence heard when truths are expressed out loud that don't fit the "norm", deafening.

Well then. My children's lunches are made, and I have driven each child to their respective school. One of the children likes to be kissed on his cheek before he gets out of the car, the other only likes to hear kisses thrown to her. One child took hummus with crudites and pita, water and a fruit roll-up. The other took canned spaghetti-o's with apple juice and some cookies. Both kids seem to be doing okay. Good grades, very healthy, etc etc etc. But I will be watchful. Who knows what might happen to this one in the future who likes canned spaghetti and packaged cookies?