racheld

I LOOOVVVVE this thread!!! I'm putting inklings in my measurement index right now. (Innuendo I already had---and thought and whisper, though they're not as connotative). Carry on.

Wasn't it something about "don't look behind you" or "don't look at your behind," or something on that order?

Years of Shrimp Boils out under our backyard trees could probably be attested to by an errant little pink tail-flap or two, escaped from the layers of black garbage bags and newspapers which cover the tables and roll up all at once with all the debris inside. There are also chitlin' boils, kinda halfway named, as the most popular trays hold great crisp heaps of the fried ones---don't prove it by ME---I stay FAR away from these social gatherings, and UPWIND. And then there are Hog Roasts. That scent will draw you in from miles away, with its hickory nuances, its roasting-meat scent, and its crisping-fat aroma that sets your salivaries into fast-forward. The draw is so sirenic, whole neighborhoods gather in their OWN yards, just for an olfactory fix. But the best version, the never-to-be-forgotten genre, is a HAWG-Roast. They are cause for gathering right about dusk on the night BEFORE the party. People draw up a chair, a cooler, a tent, and just soak in the atmosphere and the smoke. Beer flows, as do tales of trucks, huntin' dogs, huntin' trips, stupid Bubba tricks, gossip and jokes. Hunkering down in the vicinity of an undertaking like roasting a whole hog is a rite of passage enjoyed by the lucky and the comparative few, and the final result when that big hunka meat is planked and pulled is just the sauce on the 'Cue. We've attended countless Hawg Roasts, with their grass-trample and their smoke-tang that haunts and lingers and goes home with you. One memorable one was at a wedding reception, in which tuxedoed young men ran for the house and easier clothes even before the pictures were finished, just to get at that beer and the first off-the-meatfork-samples. The Bride and Groom sent messenger after messenger around the grounds, trying to round up the wedding party, all of whom seemed to be getting drunk on beer or pit-fumes. Ladies in Summer dresses smilingly accepted their own smoking bits of the fragrant meat, reaching for one of the many rolls of paper towels scattered amongst the flower arrangements and placecards, and the rented china and silver served up that slaw and beans and big pulled-filled buns as nicely as they usually did the chicken and salmon of most wedding dinners. I LOVE Winter, but I'll be SOOO glad to see Spring!!

Despicable and nauseating as it is, the nail guy can clip just so often. A Ranter with a Cause, however. . .

That's one of the neatest things I've ever read. I've been wondering at all those references to Lizard Brain---I was beginning to think that I might lean more toward a Winnie The Pooh mental state. I've learned a really interesting new thing each of the past two days.

We're having Mapo Tofu for BREAKFAST!!! (as happy a dance as an old lady can make this early in the morning).

Hey, Y'all. I'm so glad it's you. And you. And you. Three of my favorites, from lunches at the computer to cooking for a crowd and eggs in a roadside fridge, to first encounter with cooking goat---I've loved all your past efforts, and look forward to a triple-threat week.

JohnnyBean and I retreat from the field in disarray, bowing to the Master.

-+I was the host only by dint of paying the check, and in no way connected to the restaurant, and I've probably told this little tale somewhere in another thread, but the parm kid reminded me of my sister's dear friend JohnnyBean. She was a lovely young woman and had grown up near us, going off to college, being absolutely brilliant at everything she did, winning all sorts of scholarships and awards, and going on to teach French for several years. She also WENT to France to spend at least every other Summer, and one evening, we saw part of her financial planning. I took the two young ladies and my three children to dinner in a nearby town, and saw for myself some of her legendary economic maneuverings to save her pennies. Sis had told me of JB's propensity to fulfil all the cheap tricks that waiters have come to dread, laugh at, and scorn---ordering a pot of tea only, making the cup with the bag, and immediately asking for "more hot water" with which she made herself that ketchup/sugar/salt/pepper/butter/whatever else was on the table soup, eating all the crackers and rolls from the complimentary baskets. She carried a handful of baggies in her big net market-basket purse, and when she left the table, all transportable edible goods went with her. So we ate dinner, with my waiting for the klepping to begin. Nothing happened during dinner, as she was ordering and I was paying. We had dessert and coffee, and as we rose to leave, I headed for the register to pay the check. She was the last to leave the table, and I glanced back to see her standing there, no remorse, no shame, just pouring salt and sugar into baggies and neatly fingerthumb grabbing all the Sweet n Low packets for dropping into her purse. We stood and watched in dismay for a moment, in a roomful of people that we KNEW and went to church with and saw across our business counter every day, as she methodically gathered up every usable food item. Then, as she picked up a handful of those little butterpats with the cardboard trays and bit of waxed paper atop, that lovely, melodious voice which had mastered all the nuances and inflections to make French her own, that joyous, beautiful voice which had read to me in Moliere's own tones---she bellowed across the room: "DOAN CH'ALL WANT SOME A THIS BUDDER?"

Unh-Unh---Deep South. And we were ALL Southern cooks with our own arsenals of oddities, I'm sure. That one was just too revolting to contemplate, even in retrospect, and I hope that the two daughters of the offender have not carried on the travesty into their own kitchens.

My first proposal for restaurant-quote of 2008. But some of those twits, minus the twitlets which took them to McDonald's, might conceivably take themselves into the higher-end "experience" restaurants. That would not change them or their behavior in a lot of instances; it would just put their twitness into Gucci shoes.

And may I add to the festivities by conferring the first honorary G.R.I.T.S. membership of the year. You're now a dyed-in-the-cotton Down-Souther. A meal like that--- Congratulations, Y'all.

Thank you, Doc!! Hope your travels and adventures never wane, though we'll have to take our own imaginations to some of the places you've shown us. Your feet are welcome under our tables, anytime!

Considering the Winter-closed house and all the cooking, did you awake with those glorious tresses scented with exotic spices? This blog has just resounded with color and warmth, especially here in these Winter-drab days.

Well, you certainly started MY year with a barrel of laughs I haven't read anything this funny in AGES. But maybe if I were a drinker, it wouldn't BE funny, kind of a loxological aquariagram. (See, that's why I don't. That and the TASTE of the stuff---we discussed champagne this afternoon, and quickly decided against. We looked at each other and just said, "Naaaah." Besides, I'm goofy enough sober). I remember bringing a cold wet cloth to a roommate our freshman year. I reached to put the folded cloth on her pale, sweaty forehead as she lay, cutting class in our dim room, reeking Jagermeister through every pore. "Don't touch my hair," she moaned. "It HURTS." Was it Dean Martin who said he felt sorry for people who don't drink---cause the way they wake up is the best they're gonna feel all DAY. PS: A Delta Bullshot skips all that sissy Mary stuff altogether---pour the bull-yon straight over the vodka. And stick a green onion in it.

judiu, I insist that you put my words right back into my mouth, this instant!

I think that MR would be delighted with your success, your colorful photos, and your own delight at the success of the recipe.

My favorite handling of the cell-phone obnox occurred in the For Better or For Worse strip, way back when Michael and Deanna were dating---he had taken her to a lovely restaurant, evinced by the candlelight and white cloths and shadows of ferns around the perimeter. As well as the demeanor of the nicely-dressed young couple, with Michael's jacket-and-tie a clue that this was an important occasion. A loud man at an adjoining table was sending up endless balloons of yak-yak-yak into his cell, and in about the sixth or eighth frame, Michael began to construct his OWN cell phone from a pistolet, a toothpick, an olive to cap the jaunty antenna. He uttered a loud BRRRRR-IIINNNG, then answered, rose, and handed the edible phone to the loud man, saying, "It's for you," to the applause and wide grins of several adjoining tables.

Welcome, Mary 4488!!! I'm not surprised at all the good cooking that goes on in your house---lots of little towns in the South have a small Mideastern restaurant or two---ours boasted the most marvelous Kibbeh and tabbouleh, and the taste for those just takes hold, and all the home kitchens which heretofore boasted salt and pepper and maybe cinnamon for the Christmas cookies, are filling the shelves with cumin and cardamom and bulghur and all sorts of peppers and spices. And though I've made them all my life, I would never have thought of serving fig preserves with olives, pita and feta for breakfast. Our couple-of-hundred years of serving the preserves on buttered biscuits is nothing to the time your own combination has been traditional.

Right after YUM and whimper, I guess I'd have to say this particular combination calls for a "Mucho Gusto, Y'all!!"

AHHH, another graduate of the Aint Polly Cooking School and Pointed Remark Emporium!!! (I DO hope she failed at the latter---NOBODY liked Aint Polly. She was a sister of my dear, dear Mother-in-Law, feared by us all, uncluding her parents, because of her sharp tongue and unremitting pursuit of a soft spot in any armor. She made mac and cheese with eggs, hoop cheese (weep for the waste) and LOTS of sugar---that's how Unca Vern liked it, cause that's how HIS MAMMA made it. Being a family heirloom did not enhance the recipe A-TALL, and we dreaded her bringing it to any family event, though her thrifty nature and LONG way to travel (20 miles) negated her need to contribute very often---a great relief to us all. And just seeing the "crumbs on top" debate on another thread was a deja yuk of the crunchy, grainy, sugary texture of those unfortunate sugar-crusted elbows baked on top til dessicated.

← . . .and smell your pictures

If Chris were ever going to be interested in a younger woman---you'd have his full attention with all the old cameras. I can see about twenty of his on the shelf just above the computer desk. He's a list-maker and a pro/con graph fella, too, pondering all the advantages and perks, etc. before he buys. (And I love that I've "inherited" his next-oldest one for all my little snappings as I cook and serve). "WE" photographed an East Indian wedding a few weeks ago, and I know the caterers were wondering about the crazy lady getting shot after shot along the buffet---probably not a customary wedding shot. It was all fabulous, and I got their recipe for cilantro chutney---HOTTT.