racheld

Was she referring perhaps to fries and dressing?

Deeper than the regret for the book you picked up, held warm in your hands, then replaced in the rack for "another time, maybe" is the place you'd "stop by on the way back." Direction changed, time shortened, or you returned by another route. And now and then there's a memory ping of the promising colors and shapes and shadows receding into the distance behind, on a road you'll never travel again.

Creek! Fred Three kindsa chicken salad

When you live far, far from the exotic restaurants, the must-go-to places, and must suffer from Panisse-envy and Laundry blues because you'll never make it to California just for THAT reason, but you can savor the SEEING and the telling, because everybody who goes there is gonna post pictures. When you and your daughter discuss what Megan said and what Daniel cooked, relate the news from the regular contingent with the familiarity of family, and await the latest Daily Gullet prose with the fervor of a Potter fan in line at Borders. When you look upon cyber-strangers as friends to dinner, and upon yourself as their virtu-guest, enjoying the food and the prep and the camaraderie born of easy company and familiar surroundings. When you approach a store aisle for a purchase, step back and handblock a frame for a photo-shot.

The Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1860's edition, which I had acquired at an estate sale and sent to my sister's then-Mother-in-Law as a gift for her retirement from teaching high school Home Economics---it just seemed an appropriate thing, somehow, and I liked her. I've wished for it back for my OWN collection of oldies, and still remember the beautiful drawings of tall, towering jellies, their crenellations high and imposing as castles, and the quaint, "First draw your rabbit," as well as nostrums and potions and VERY old wives' tales as to such diverse things as childbirth, laundry, and horseshoeing. There was a lovely inscription in the front, in thin, brownish, elegant script: "To Delia on her wedding," dated 18 sixty-something. I wish I had that book back.

I've been known to get homesick for places I've never been. Right now, I'm pining for the LONG shadows on the desert, with the whisper of a cooldown breeze a-comin' before suppertime. We had a RAY as well, ornery and irascible and brilliant and a demon at the stove. I thought for a moment that yours might have been THE Scovill who was the Fahrenheit of the pepper world, especially with his propensity for scattering prospective diners to the winds on a whim. Between your gaspacho and Percy's glorious concoction, both with good Spanish sherry, I know what's for patio supper tonight. I'm gonna sacrifice a good glug of this gift of Amontillado to the cause. Every time I see the bottle, I think, ""For the love of GOD, Montresor!!" My heart's in the desert today.

←

This is the third time I've heard mention of Moab in two days: once in a phone call from a friend whose daughter is there now, setting up a website for a client; once when Chris was reading a passage from Louis L'Amour to me, and I said, "Mo-Ab, not Mobe--like in the Bible." And then the sight of those rosy spires this morning---sunrise on a promising week. And I do hope my pronunciation was correct---a lifetime of Sundays spent in uncomfortable Baptist pews, fire and brimstone ringing round the rafters, is my only guide...perhaps the Deep South pronunciation leaves something to be desired. Looking forward to the week from a place I've never seen save in vista-laden photographs. Wide open spaces, endless possibilities.

Your Exalted Fabness: The tours and plans and markets and banter have been delightful, and this glimpse of your busy, interesting life has been a very bright part of my week. Thank you for making us a part of your week's activities and for sharing your fun fellows and their histories. Jean Luc standing guard, your beautiful, welcoming home, the easy comradeship of your whole family, and all that whirlwind which is you---we have been fortunate, indeed. You've run your Choos off for us, and it's been MOST enjoyable. Go have an espresso in that Queen cup and rest on your laurels. And start a kit reno blog NOW.

Chick-fil-a's barbecue sauce with a little squeeze from the packet of mayo. That was the subject of my very first post ever on eG, so it need not be repeated. Besides, I've been working on a yard sale for three days already, am almost comatose, and don't think I can work myself into a sufficiently orgasmic state right now to do the subject justice.

I wanna know about that LOOOONNNNGGG sink. How wide & deep is it? Looks like you coulda bathed Bob in it. I LOVE slate!!! In spite of the fact that my kitchen was stripped to the echoes a week before I was scheduled to cater dinner for 200 for Son's wedding, and the slate took two days of that to put down, and I had houseguests coming, and then Chris said well, you WANTED to paint the kitchen---now's the best time with all the stuff out---I STILL love my gorgeous slate-green slate.

There's no tee-niney font to whisper with. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Oh, what the heck---I have five sons. My life has not been a sheltered one. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The above was posted before dinner, after a LONG day of canning pear preserves---eleven pints and two fridge boxes---and getting seven tablesful of stuff out and priced and shiny, ready for tomorrow's neighborhood yard sale. I can only plead famishment and fatigue. Edited to preserve some sense of decorum.

Only my genteel Southern raisin' kept me from saying what I thought the TOP TWO were. And the Fresser-shopping---no LIPSTICK???

AWWWWWWWW. MAJOR Covet on the knives. And I don't use big ones that much. They just LOOK so pretty---like a big card of new barrettes or the EXPENSIVE box of Crayolas. Just to HAVE. (And I'm not REALLY seven). And I also love Bassets---we have four Bassie-Boys a couple of doors down, who greet me every time I walk out the back fence. They have a big sign in their yard, with the word "Crossing" topped by that unmistakable droop-eared silhouette. I always wanted a Cleo. Waaa-OOOOOF!

And what colour were YOUR fairy wings?

I just did the experiment---though with no "control" to give any input. And by accident, at that. I scrubbed and quartered about eight fingerlings, dusted them with leftover chicken dredge (doesn't THAT sound appetizing). It was a bag of flour, salt, pepper, ground thyme, powdered garlic, etc., left after frying some drumsticks the other day, and socked away in the freezer for another time. Immersed them in 3/4 inch oil in fairly hot non-stick skillet, and they all were completely covered as they sizzled...no turning necessary. THEN Chris called in from the patio, "I'm gonna re-do these coals---they didn't catch like they shouda." So, almost brown and crisp, I scooped the potatoes out, laid them on the ready PT-covered plate, and stuck them in the microwave to keep warm. Ten minutes later, the steak went on, and I put the fries back into re-heated oil. Brown and very crisp, perfectly cooked all through, with little crispins of sizzled breading hanging enticingly all around. Delicious. Tasted just like they were made by the MIL who taught me.

Hiding from the laundry? ← You've just found the Secret Re-Entry Point. All those dryer-exit socks are returning, and will take over the planet, two at a time.

Handwriting! I love lists, especially handwritten. In my house, they're everywhere, they're everywhere. But it IS disconcerting to see ER underlined at the end of someone's cookery list. What WAS that?

Thanks, Y'all!!! It was a wonderful week.

But you coulda just used the "e" from "hed" and gone for "zein" and "el" for 25 and stayed legal, plus you'd get another food product in there. All this dining and fun and then one of my favorite games!! This has just been too much.

Okay, you know when I pass up CHOCOLATE CAKE for another picture, it's something special: rachel, ready to run out to my Asian market and grab handfuls of long beans. Or short, I don't care. Just so they're sizzled and sauced---SOON. DEE-licious.

I forgot one constant at every Fair I've been to here---Incapirka. They set up a tent outside the quilts and pickles building, and there's lots of picnic seating and benches and low concrete walls and garnishes to the building. We come outside into the Summer evening, sit in the ten-o'clock moonlight and the waft of fried everything, and enjoy the pan flute mastery of the nice man with the long braids and beautiful smile. Guitars, small hide-covered drums, rainsticks and gourds---wonderful rhythms and haunting melodies fade away behind us as we make our way out to the trolley which wends around the fairgrounds once, through the crowds and the every-color neon. Then we're into the windows-down car, and home. Another end-of-Summer ritual completed, as surely as the tilling-in of the emptied garden, the putting away of the dining tent, the storing of the lawn chairs, the bringing-in of the potted ferns.

For several years now, we've been buying a brand just called "Homemade"---it comes in a shiny gold ovalish half-gallon, and has the good rich taste of a real old-fashioned cooked vanilla custard (just like a Sunday-afternoon made-in-the-shade freezer kind of my childhood). It's yellow and very smooth, with no beanflecks, but plenty of real vanilla perfume and taste. (Only drawback is the package---the brassy gold paper leaves your fingers redolent of old pennies). And occasionally if it's on sale and the price difference is REALLY extreme, we pick up a carton (same shape, same size) with old Hmm-Hmmmm himself on the label---Pillsbury Homemade. Really good taste and silky texture. Maybe it's my redneck tastebuds. But I AM particular about my vanilla, and both of these are made with the real thing.

Lovely. Night, Night, Sweetpea.

The above "food writer" isn't just. She is a reporter, covering lots of subjects. I haven't taken the paper in quite a while, though during my last subscription, the "dining" reviews were being written by a charming young woman who seemed to grasp the rudiments. However, before her, there was a gentleman who held the chair with the longevity of a tenured prof and the tenacity of a tree root. His columns were the manly sort, no sauces or garni for him, oh, no. He and his wife sampled steaks and fish joints all over town, with a common thread, phoned in for every Friday's column: "We went to XXXXX on Tuesday. It was/was not crowded. My wife had the fish. I had the steak. She liked/disliked hers; I disliked/liked mine. We spent $90." Every. Single. Week. And he was quite the local celebrity for it, appearing at charity functions and cutting a ribbon at a new Arby's or Watson's Spa store every now and then. (And I must admit, if I ever start to order liver in any form, for any course, I hope someone who knows the language will clue me in).