racheld

When we were in England a couple of years ago, I was already a devoted Nigella fan, so when we passed a room service tray just sitting there idly in the hall, dirty dishes and forlorn deserted little packets of stuff, I knelt down and took a couple of each packet, starting with the BROWN SAUCE her Goddessness puts on so many things. The packets were like spills, long thin things like fat straws, not like our little flat wisps. There were hot mustard, brown sauce, ketchup and maybe Worchestershire; can't really remember. Carted them home in a baggie inside my carryon. Except for the novelty of the shape, etc., no big deal. And Brown Sauce---it's just A-1 in a Gucci wrapper. Don't think I would have bothered with the jam on the breakfast table every a.m., especially the usual flavours, but there was one wee jar of "Bramble Jelly"---the favorite of dear Jennifer Dickson-Wright, bless her heart---and one of Black Currant, again klept for the novelty value. The Bramble was exactly like the blackberry jelly I've made all my life, and the other, just jelly. The romance of it turned my head. I've read too much Austen, and watched too much Masterpiece Theatre. But the little jars are still in my fridge door, refilled everytime Granddaughter visits. She always exclaims, "My little JAR!" PS--My sister's college roommate went to France every other year on what she saved by carting home everything on every restaurant table. My skin still cringes when I remember her shouting after us as we headed for the register, "Don't Y'all want some of this BUDDER???"

M-M-M!! Chicken grease and PineSol--the odor of an age, hitting the nose like a blanket when you open the door of a below-the-M/D 7-11. And that's what they're mostly called, where I come from, those smoky, munchie-laden rooms with the window grime obliterated by cigarette ads and gospel-singing posters. The place could be held hostage for days, with more people just wandering in, with no hint of the proceedings inside to be seen through the double-covered glass. The keepers are invariably a BIG guy whose apron is stretched to capacity, his feed cap worn 24/7, exceptions maybe bed and funerals, and the tiny, quick, mall-haired little woman in the Chic jeans, her doll-sized hips and little cricketlegs dashing to and from the fryer, the lottery counter, the too-high cigarette dispenser which she lunges at whilst she squints through the fumes of her own. There's a hot counter, with its tumbles of drumsticks and potato logs, its Saran-wrapped ham 'n' cheese, its torture rack of endlessly-rolling hotdogs, their sweaty skins turning from red to mauve to ashen brown as they trundle ceaselessly to nowhere. There's also coffee, but the old Bunns with their leftover brew turned to battery acid, a caffeine reduction to glaze the eyes and jangle the nerves past bearing, have been replaced by the new stuff, the mochas and caps and lattes and espressos, all flowing from the same tap, all going into the same fancy cups with their little paper hotpads. Newspapers, magazines leaning heavily to trucking, wrestling, and C/W music, little farmish publications in which you can find lily bulbs, hound pups, tractor parts, and your future beloved (I know; I did) abound, alongside every flavor of Dorito, chip, pretzel, jerky, and Hostess product known to man. If I may join Fresser in betraying my age, in MY day our local "filling station" had a little cafe' in the side, behind smartly-polished windows. The owner's nephew was quite an artist, and could write ANYTHING from the inside out, so you drove up and were entertained as you pumped. There might be poetry, a limerick, a bit of Scripture, and surrounding that would be pictures---his hand with one of those bottles of white shoe polish (the kind with the little wand with the applicator doohickey) was legendary. He tinted several bottles with food color, and always had the appropriate hue on hand for any season---Autumn was his best, I think, with leaves and pumpkins and scores of little animals romping mongst the shocks and sheaves. Mahlon was a genius, and quite possibly the only backwards-writing, inside-drawing shoepolish artist in existence. We loved the show, and I hope he's still going strong. The owner was a nice maiden lady who had "cooked for the public" all her life, in the school cafeteria (when they really COOKED, and the fragrance of northern beans and ham and cornbread would greet you in the hall between Geometry and PE. She had also owned the "Dairy Bar" on a busy, dusty, hot corner, open year round, with enough flat-mashed, bread-added burgers in their flimsy waxed paper wrappers passed through that flappy little screen window to sink a barge. She built and rented houses, and probably had twenty of them, built a nickel at a time. In the station caffay, she served good honest homecooked food, and even a "haafe-lunch" of meat, two, bread and a meager slice of pie...for seventy-five cents. And that's how old I am.

Amen to both, Sister!! My first ML was a birthday gift from my parents---I saw my Mom's set, admired and coveted, and mentioned how much I'd like the big one. I DID NOT KNOW until after the birthday that the thing had cost nearly a hundred DOLLARS!! I was SO embarrassed. I still have it, MANY years later, and have now acquired two smaller ones, for a grand total of fifteen dollars at a yard sale, though it took DAYS to get the wide tape off, as they were all banded together in a bondage worthy of mummy status. Might one ask what YOU paid for your big one?---I love a bargain. And we have a great cabinet full of the jelly jars--both sizes...I love the mouthfeel of the lip and the hot/cold capacity of them. The clink of Summer ice rattling in a glass of lemony tea Yesterday's find at a distant Goodwill as we traveled was sixteen gorgeous jewel-toned dessert plates---eight ruby, four ambery gold, four sapphire. They were stacked in sets of four, with $1.99 stickers, but the color was half-price this week, so I got all sixteen for FOUR dollars!! What a find! I'm having a lawn tea for my DEAR neighbor's eightieth birthday in a couple of weeks, so they will be perfect on the dessert table. Also found a beautiful white satiny damask cloth for one of those horrid "banquet" folding tables I plan to use for the savories...will disguise it nicely and add to the pretty of the day. More anon, I'm sure...'tis the season. edited for a missing "a" in front of "non"---a logical slip of the keys, for my High School best friend is a master seamstress, and in our daily e-correspondence, I sign all my posts: moire non

Hey, Rp! Welcome!! I LOVE BitterWaitress, but hadn't heard of the Stained Apron site...will try that one. There's also a thread or two every day in Etiquette Hell re: restaurants, mostly from the customer's POV, and a hilarious site called Customers Suck. Vinegar Boy is on his way to Urban Legend status. Anyway, loved your well-worded post; looking forward to many more. rachel

What a lovely surprise to come home from a long day out and find YOU blogging!! Good pictures, good descriptions, GOOOOD music...Wow. S'gonna be a great week!!!

Y'all have to go look at the "3 a.m. Party Grub" thread. Two of our three Wunderkinds are over there, showing pictures and discussing hangovers, fried lettuce and smoked eel/mashed potato sandwiches.

Quite a lot of backstory, and a good thing, too. I saw "last post, BryanZ" and thought: OK, the Boy Genius has broken the yolk of the FIRST poached egg for the noodles, and has a wee fleck of yellow out of place in one of his otherwise perfectly gorgeous creations. But no, it was a beautiful plate, a simply stunning arrangement of fresh and crisp and green and red and yellow. ANYBODY would have been glad to sit down to that plate. And all the ingredients SOUND delicious. We'd all try it. It has Megan's cucumbers, Susan and SnowAngel's corn and tomatoes, a peach and DUCK, for Heaven's sake!! May all your failures be that beautiful.

Clumps of wet napkins and the ceiling of the school cafeteria. We had nine gobs sticking up there before a teacher caught us. And I can still hear a friend's explanation: "But they made the most satisfyin' little SPUTS!"

Oh, Sunny Dear. Do sit down---that Southern sun has weakened your brain. If you are indeed serious, and actually "at yourself," then I do fear that your grave, treasonous statement will be grounds for stripping of your GRITS rank, removal of any and all sweater sets from your wardrobe, and conscription of your white gloves, pearls and charm bracelet, as well as all memberships in the DOC, DAR, and/or Junior League. Not like CHOCOLATE???!!! That's like carving all the Wisterias into topiary. I've gotta go get me a tall glass of iced tea and fan awhile.

Not having read the first link, I can only suppose it may have debunked my first SIL's absolute truth: Chewing celery and carrots burns more calories than contained within. And that "cold water boils faster" thing always sounds like the Bunsen version of a Moebius strip.

I always hate to follow the cool sophistication of Megan's meals ( and patriotic this time, as well)---but we had a lovely brunchy meal about eleven today. We meant to be out and about on this glorious day, but a coffee-in-hand stroll round the garden in the morning coolth met my outside needs for just now. The hostas are threatening to take over the backyard, have almost covered the former compost mound, and have grown high enough to disguise most of the new one. Roses and petunias and zinnias are blooming their hearts out, and the wind chimes play all their notes for me when I'm out there. We had an onion/green pepper/ham saute over scrambled eggs, with a sprinkle of Tillamook cheddar, the last of our block. The other one went to the coast with Chris last weekend. I always take or send great mounds of muffins, poundcake, cheeses, bagels, and anything that will make a quick breakfast for the twenty or so folks who drop in before ten every morning while we're there. We re-heated yesterday's Ma Po Tofu, and it was wonderful atop the eggs. We named it Huevos Hzrt8w. We also had toasted bagels, creamcheese, and homegrown tomato slices topped with homemade pimiento cheese. Cold mango slices for dessert. Chris is off to a photo-shoot at the zoo. We watched an Animal Planet rescue of a baby walrus a couple of months ago, and fell in love with the little guy. He's a teenager now, in walrus years, and lives just across town at OUR zoo!!

Dried WHAT? There's a FACE in there!!

Saturday morning, we had a replay of last week: hzrt8w's Ma Po Tofu, hot and delicious with pork and ginger and scallions. A scoop of white rice for its cooling, and a quick ham/onion/green pepper/bean sprout fried rice cause there was everything in the fridge. It was super-delicious, VERY filling, and held us all til suppertime. Lovely with a bowl of sliced peaches and vanilla yogurt. This may become a tradition, but might be a bit much for Summer. DD and I are GRITS girls through and through, but this was marvelous. ETA: today we had "popcorn for breakfast"---our euphemism for going to the earliest matinee---X-Men rocked!

Wow. Just Wow. What a debut!!! Welcome to eG---though your posts have been few, they're welcome ANYTIME. Just beautiful. And almost enough chocolate.

GORGEOUS breakfasts, ALL!!! Daniel, Chris came over to show me how to adjust a windowframe just as the thread came up. "Oh, OH!! I said. "Daniel's last. He just cooked breakfast---wait til you see his plating and the BACON!!" We read your words, I loved the idea of a cream-toast, and as he walked away he said, "You made ME eggs and grits." I'll take the compliment/comparison. Yours sounded yummy...haven't had even double-cream since England a couple of years ago, but I'm having an 80th birthday lawn tea for my dear neighbor next month, and that's on the menu.

I was really asking about the makeup, since everyone seems to do just a three-second shuffle, giving lip (or finger) service to sanitation. And Rachel's so-touted "really thirty-minutes" would have to allow for someone at home to do the entire "Happy Birthday" routine that we were taught in kindergarten, in order to keep salmonella off the menu. And Rachel hits that sink SOMETIME in every show, just not for any real wash. She could do that routine with a fingerbowl and a doily. I understand take after take, but the "real" thirty minutes at home would include a good scrub, especially after chicken. If you're gonna build a show around perfect timing, allow for everything needed in the time frame. Thas' all.

It may have been mentioned before, but do the FN people have makeup on their hands? They all seem to wear long sleeves (cue SL waving huge white butterfly swoops over the skillet of chicken tenders), and never really seem to wash their hands. RR runs to the sink after handling chicken; under the water, rub palms together three times, back and cut salad. I know time is limited, but is there another reason they never really WASH? Like dislodging Max Factor #27?

Oh, Dear LORD!! I forgot about the frizzy chicken!!! My Mammaw kept a chickenyard years after her property should have been zoned rural-animal-free---but she had a small neat enclosed space with a little house with its inclined plank up to the little window, and six or eight nice boxy nests up on a rack for the hens' laying-spot. I loved to go out and get the eggs, trying to steal them warm from the old grumps when I could, but preferring to catch them all outside so I could retrieve the eggs without injury to my forearms or face. Every year or so, Mammaw and Mother would order a hundred little "poults" from a nursery, raise them for a few months, then I would be sent away for the day to play with cousins, whilst they did their business of getting the chickens into the freezer without my dismay and tears. One batch of the little fellows had a very odd standout in the batch---a weirdly sculpted floofy guy whose feathers did not fit any semblance of chicken style. The poor creature looked as if it had been wired to a socket, or combed by a hairdresser on speed. Its plumage was a mass of swirls and swoops, wispy tendrils and curly locks, and the other chickens not only looked askance, they pecked it. They chased and harrassed it unmercifully, until I persuaded Mother to let me take it home with us, to live in the little fenced area out back by the garbage bins. And so we did, and it grew, on a diet of mash and cracked corn and table scraps and the plentiful worms out in that fertile area. But it was SO UGLY, just dear to me because of my tender heart and the fact that I had no other pets. Then Easter came, and every child in town seemed to get a little cheeping dyed chicken in an Easter basket. I did not, and being the resourceful only child that I was, decided to make my own. The drugstore had a bin of sale items, in which were several of those after-Easter packs of fizzy dye tablets, marked down to maybe a dime for the pack. I bought one, smuggled it home, and when Mother was away at Missionary Society or Garden Club or some ladies' do, I got out the garden bucket, the pack of dye, and mixed away. I knew enough cooking chemistry at that early age to know that dilution would lessen the effect, so I made sure that there was at least a fizz per cup, and also knew color mixes, in that red and orange and yellow would match up without making brown or black. So I put all three in the three cups of water in the bottom of the bucket, poured in a good glug of vinegar, and it bubbled away. When the action subsided, I picked up BiddyChick, stood her in the bucket, and laved her feathers with hand-scoops of the liquid. I discovered that it's really hard to make a chicken squat, especially in a bucket. The actual feathers withstood the process, staying their customary ecru/white, but the frizzy, fluffy ends and tendrils picked up the shocking-orange dye, hanging in forlorn stained drips all own her sides and neck. The color ran in rivulets all down and over the poor thing, mottling her already-unfortunate appearance into a garish blobby wreck of oranges and peach and tanny pinks. She looked even worse wet than dry. Until she dried. Then all the fluff and whirl regained its springy bounce, and she took off across the yard like a lurching psychedelic dandelion on legs (also bright orange, except for the horridly-brown toenails, I remember). She was a smart chicken, one who DID have the sense to get in out of the rain. Had she gotten wet a time or two, the effect might have faded sooner, but she spent the Summer as a local celebrity, the Chicken from Mars, and I think I could have sold tickets. And the color also faded from my hands and arms in several days, but totally negated ANY pretense of innocence in the wretched affair. She lived for YEARS, and I still fancied I could see tinges of orange when the sun was just right. ed:syntax and to add that fifteen minutes of flap and squawk pretty much dyes the dyer, as well.

Phrases from my childhood, when we did indeed terrorize the farm animals with bubble wands and magic markers...tic tac toe on Mammaw's white cow comes to mind. And the brown-sizzled beans are the ones I pick out first, all that caramelly goodness in the sesame and balsamic!!

YESSSS!! That's what my dear old black Franklin has--I call them her fancy earbobs. She's probably fifty by now, and going strong. She's such a hotsy-totsy that I turn off the top pilots all Summer every year cause the three big cast-iron plates on top stay so hot they keep the whole downstairs racing with the air conditioning to see who will win the temp war. (OH--and take care the first few times you slide a pot, especially one full of hot stuff. During our first few months, I forgot a couple of times to allow for the "no seams" feature, and would slide something with a little too much force, causing the contents to slop a bit onto the stovetop, and once--thank goodness I hadn't lit the burner yet, because the pasta water sloshed over into my sandal).

I LOVE the orange. It's not quite so prevalent as the orange I had in the kitchen of our first house. They said what color; I said a nice orange---I came home one day and walked into Carol Brady's kitchen. And yours is so fresh and bright and NEW!!!

Coke floats. The most prized treat in our Granddaughter's menu, and it makes me want to run away. My BIL dips Skoal. He carries around a Sprite bottle. A Coke float lookes like the contents. Any kind of fish or seafood except canned tuna and the S/S shrimp at our fave Chinese place. Their crisp tempura-battered shrimp is acceptable, with a tiny drip of the sauce over. And I cannot watch anyone eating a fast-food burger or sandwich with the wrapper left half-on. I saw a co-worker several tables away consume half a paper napkin that way once, in two bites, and haven't looked at bought sandwiches the same since. "Fish Pickles" so beloved of Chris and DS#5---herring in sour cream, in the little glass jars. Anchovies, even in pictures. Brunswick Stew, Burgoo, Perloo, or any of the nomenclature variations which mean "thrown in a pot by a bunch of men drinking beer, was stirred for six hours with an oar, and has tiny bones in every bite." Dripping salad greens, especially from salad bars. Canned vegetable soup. The whirr of the can opener preceded the call to the doctor; my Mother thought it would cure anything. Canned slick spinach.

Great piece, Fresser, and so true. When I miss Chris in the middle of the night, he can always be found in the kitchen, crackers and milk in hand. And for day, he carries those disgusting huge pastel glucose tablets, like Sweet-Tarts, but just tooth-achingly SWEET. He's headed out for a long drive today, and his luggage includes a big apple, several diet drinks, and crackers and cheese.

If we had a blushing smiley, I'd confess that I took three of those little packets out of the downstairs freezer that I defrosted today---DD got them on sale some time ago. (Real Blush---I put them back when I was finished; their lifespan doesn't run out til June). But if that's the green I can expect, I think I'll go to the curb again before the truck comes early tomorrow.

Thank y'all for the week of smoking---it's been great. You'd all do Memphis in May proud.