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Lovely food, all around. I am PEA GREEN over all those DARK luscious tomatoes. And the cat guarding the seat, my hind foot!!! I see the fuzzy sentinel is ignoring the salmon---but half the ale is missing.

Our best friends came to dinner tonight, along with their daughter, newly home from a trek in Tibet and a sojourn up part of Everest. On the patio: White sangria with nectarines Crackers with garlic/chive/parsley fresh yogurt cheese, drained overnight in the refrigerator Pannetini with Tapenade English cucumber cups with crab/shrimp mousse Grill-roasted pork loin rubbed with garlic/seasalt/paprika/olive oil Grilled halved zucchini and baby purple Japanese eggplant. These eggplants had the most beautiful shiny lavender skins, like enameled jewelry amongst the leaves. Grilled pineapple spears Saffron rice salad with tri-color pepper confetti Salad of baby green beans, white beans, julienne of jicama/three peppers/Vidalias in a sweet sesame vinaigrette Sliced tomatoes with basil (meant to be Caprese, but I COULD NOT locate that ball of fresh Mozza I bought Friday). Romaine hearts with raita Sweetcorn spoonbread Lemon sponge cake with sweetened mascarpone/lemon zest filling Coffee and liqueurs The tomatoes, cucumber, basil, parsley, and eggplant came from the garden just a little while before dinner. We had had to postpone this dinner twice already, and when they raved over dinner, I said after all that postponing, we probably should have taken them on a cruise.

At the MidSouth Fair in Memphis the rolled-out flappy frozen bread dough, plate-sized circles, deep-fried and sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar, are called Scones. The same items here at the State Fair are called Elephant Ears.

Yep. Had many a one of these on a little doilied plate, along with creamcheese finger sandwiches and squirt-cheese in Bugles. This was the garnish du jour of my youth, and everybody's Mama made them. Except one enterprising lady who thought they'd be nicer colored GREEN---try dropping a few drops of McCormick green into a pot with redhots...neither the pickles nor the pot were ever the same again. I'd forgotten these little gems. They were of the era of Make-any-flavor-of-jam, just start with figs. Figs turned into some strange concoctions, depending on the flavor of Jello dumped into the pot. And sometimes, they left the peel on the cucumber, if it was not too large and tough (not quite to that fat, yellowed stage at which we kids stuck in several wooden matches or toothpicks for legs, and made piggies). After all, the "bought" apples still had THEIR peels. Except for the redhots and cinnamon, it's a lot like the Lime Pickle recipe I still make to this day. But with smaller, tender cucumbers.

Oh, Mr. Mayhaw Man---you thought I was KNOCKING the dish? I'm the original GRITS girl, the okra fanatic, the dyed-in-the-cotton Delta woman with recipes for every congealed salad and pimiento cheese between here and the Home Demonstration Club. And I wasn't comparing Miss Paula and Sandra...I just said SL would have LOVED to premiere that dish. Though I did defend Miss Semi once, on the Rachel Ray thread, and got my toes soundly nipped, so I'm staying away from that one. And time for true confessions here: I MADE the pudding once, but I cheated. I gazed at the box with the leftover Tigertails after houseguests had left after pastries and coffee on the patio early one morning, and had that beauty in the oven by 9 a.m., Eagle Brand and all. The family took one look, said "What's that brown streak?" and had gingerly little spoonfuls after dinner. It was TOO rich for human consumption (and unlike Truvy/Dolly, I did not serve it over ice cream to cut the sweetness), so I put it out by the potting shed for our resident possum and raccoon. (Though I later DID find a possum carcass out behind the compost pile, I refuse to believe it was Death by Donuts). Count me as a Paula fan. Mayo rules!! And she's a great laugher.

Oh, Yeah!! Krispy Kremes are a true Southern delicacy, right up there with grits and fried okra. And after Krispy Kreme wedding cakes, why is anyone surprised at the KK bread pudding? Sandra Lee must be pea-green that she didn't think of it first. And what's next? They can go just so far in the kitchen, so any day now I expect them to emerge on a craft show, maybe a stack threaded up the wooden handle of a toilet plunger, like those stacks of paper rolls with the cutesy little crocheted pig's head. Be prepared.

Thank you, Hiroyuki, for clearing that up with a better explanation than mine, which wasn't one, in the first place. And that's a much more attractive Winny than those that come in a can here, all pink and gooshy, with that unattractive gelid substance clinging to their bottoms. Vienna sausages (called VYE-eenies in the South) are not given to much pretense, such as being carved into sea creatures or birds, but they can use all the improvement they can get. And those little molds are certainly interesting. But you DO have to admit that octopus is the stuff of Kindergarten nightmares. And Grandma nightmares as well. Finding THAT little pink monster in your lunchtime sandwich could make you swear off lunch altogether. Which, for most of us, might not be such a bad idea, I suppose. Thank you for responding from so far away to our silliness. We can be serious about tipping and stove sizes and the proper recipe for larb for just so long, and the group cries out for a bit of nonsense. This was fun. Winny Winny Winny. My husband is going to wake up and come in here and think I'm watching Mr. Ed reruns. Good Night.

OK. I've got everybody confused, unless GG's pulling our legs, especially mine, which have always been rather short, so no harm done. In the link just above, click on "Here" then click on follow "this link" for instructions. It takes you straight to a package of the things, TWO packages, in fact, plus a charming cartoon child holding one aloft on an oddly-shaped fork, which may be another version of a spork, perhaps a fork/chopstick mix referred to as a "chork" or perhaps a "foick." Oh, just forget it. Except I can't...I've STILL got that little word whizbanging around in my brain, only it's not so funny anymore. Poo. (rachel, flouncing away in a High Dudgeon, which is REALLY hard to step up into)

Here. And here. And on one of the above sites, it is recommended for use with a WINNY. The word has been reverberating around in my head, causing me to burst into giggles at inappropriate times, and once a downright guffaw in a MOST unsuitable place. If they sue, look for papers in the mail...I'm passing on the litigation to you. YOU started it!!!

My own Mother was a lavish dispenser of casseroles, Jello salads, pimiento cheese-stuffed celery and devilled eggs at any time of stress, mourning or need. When we closed out their home several years ago, I found little bits of adhesive tape on the backs and bottoms of several pieces, with her name still legible after all the washings and returnings. And one dish, a rectangular piece of pottery which we were forbidden to touch, always with the caution that it was the "one thing I have left of all our wedding presents" also had its little faded bit of cloth tape adhered. I've always wondered what occasion, what person of stature or closeness or need-to-impressness led to that family heirloom's being pressed into service when all those other dishes and platters and bowls lay ready to hand. It's a piece of painted pottery, not a chip nor a stain, and it stands propped on one of my hutches in the dining room, its garish maroon flowers shining in the sunlight. I wash it occasionally and return it to its slot, but have never had the heart to scrape off that little bit of memory from the back, her name emblazoned for the return of her dish, and my remembrance of a generous hand, a good cook, a kind neighbor who rushed to provide food and strength to the ailing and bereaved.

Until last year, we always did the State Fair with the maxim, "You have to have a corn dog for dinner. It's the LAWWWWW!" THEN, with three houseguests in tow, we wandered into the infestation of FRIED STUFF, seating ourselves at the cleanest dirty table, and sending the men of the party for One of EVERYTHING. They returned with a tenderloin sandwich for each member of the group (not for meeee---I stuck with the corn dog, with no wish for a visit from the Junkfood Police). Also limp, foldy, greasy paper plates holding, in no particular order: A bloomin' onion and some ersatz "ranch" which poured warm and clingy from its little fluty cup; a piled-high plate of swoopy, crisp-fried chips which had been laboriously made in a back room by little old ladies with their newly-acquired vegetable cutters---those little screwblade mechanisms which you insert into the potato, turn and turn, and voila! a corkscrew of starchy delight. A crinkly-lined basket of fried green tomatoes with a cheese dip; a $6.00 smoked turkey leg; a Kielbasa? with a heap of smushy, gloriously-scented grill-fried onions and peppers anointing it and all surfaces around with a yellowish ooze of oil. Five or six ears of margarine-dipped corn, sweating its yellow Summerness onto fingers and cheeks alike; A couple of lemon shakeups, some root beer, and a blessedly-frosty bottle of water for me. We talked, we laughed, we consumed. We nipped bits of onion, crackles of potato, bites of corndog; we laughed some more, observing the tide of life passing us by in tank tops and tattoos, bulging Bermudas and baby strollers. We ate and savored and downed enough grease to lubricate the 500 lineup. It was a most UNfortunate evening for me. I spent a restless night, a night of unsavory remembrance of flavors and textures and grease. I swore off any and all fried foods, pledged unswerving loyalty to fruit and salad, and hoped for morning. So THIS year, with just Hubby and me in attendance, a coolish evening, the pale pink roundness of the August moon lighting our way, we parked in an unaccustomed area, and the first food area we passed was the Cattlemen's Association tent. The glorious smells and the breezeflap of the tent ruffles called us in; I got a place for us at one of the many LONG plastic-covered tables, wiping up the remnants of other people's repasts with a handful of paper towels and a big squirt of the hand-cleaner from the handy machine. I requested "No grease, please." He returned with two sandwiches: a ribeye for him, with nothing between the bun and its smoky, rare beefiness but a dab of mayo, and a mustard/dill-pickles-only burger for me. He said his was good. Mine was the best burger I have eaten in many a year (other than at home, of course---I'm married to the GrillMaster of all time). The nice thick burger was cooked perfectly, just smoky enough, tender and juicy, with real grillmarks on the sides, nice even stripes--none of those madeup pretend black marks like those places that serve McDonald's in cowboy boots; the bun was fresh and toasty, and the Plochman's yellow and long slices of dill pickle were tongue-achingly sour. Just perfection. He had also gotten two "sides"--baked beans which sported more softly-cooked onion and chewy bacon than beans, with a good old Southern-sweet sauce. And the crispest, salty fries--just like you'd like them. He even had a little clear clamshell takeout box with a homemade chocolate cupcake, topped with a glop of passably-tasty vanilla frosting, then the whole thing coated in a poured fudge sauce, which was just on the edge of homemade-grainy, like the recipe on the Hershey's box you used in high school. We concurred that it was the nicest Fair meal we had ever eaten in all our fifteen years here. The evening was pleasant, the food really delicious, the crowds mostly civil and smiling, and the entertainment factor up in the 9 range. Especially when Garrison Keillor's band cranked up right next door in the arena with a swinging Bob Wills number. We sat so long listening to one of our favorite entertainments that we got kicked out of the quilts and pickles exhibits at closing time way before we had seen all the handiwork...oh, well. It was a lovely evening. I think the moon conspired to make up for all the mayhem and upset of last year. We had a wonderful time. And coming home was nice, as well, with the windows open and the neon fading into the distance, along with the scents of frying peppers and scorching sugar.

Fabulous word!!! Is it your own? May I klep it for later use? And I DO echo it in this instance. And with ALL the instances of it elucidated by descriptions of odd fusions and combinations, this board needs a grimace smiley. GRIMMIS. Or, with your permission, the "blergh" emoticon.

To add, when I would explain that Thai people (including myself) usually only used chopsticks for certain noodle dishes and Chinese food, people usually gave me a look as though I were full of shit. ← If they're used in certain noodle dishes, I guess you must HAVE some; I wondered why you don't just bring them and save yourself the stress of dealing with the customer. Let HIM sit there using the wrong utensil and looking like an ignoramus.

I never quoted ME before, but I must rescind or edit or correct the above. We were talking last night, and someone reminded me of an unfortunate dish served one evening by Hubby's sister-in-law. It consisted of a can of mushroom soup, a little square pack of CHOPPED frozen broccoli, and a couple of boiled eggs. Alongside it was served a wooden bowl of iceberg, also chopped, with a tomato, a can of undrained kidney beans, and a pack of Fritos stirred in, along with a bottle of Catalina dressing. Taco salad, I think it was called. The juxtaposition of the two runny puddles on our plates, with their green-flecked brown vs. maroon color schemes---plus the odd spectrum of flavors and the decidedly unpleasant task of chewing the little woody stems of the broccoli---that made for an entertaining and keep-a-smile-on-your-face-no-matter-what evening. Chopped broccoli, with all the dregs and leaves and fibrous bits left in the bottom of the strainer after the spears have been artfully arranged in their little freezerbox coffins---bleeeeccccch. Otherwise, it's a lovely plant and a wonderful food. Maybe Divan over Grits---now there' an idea whose time is creeping up.

And, by extension from cooking back to hunting and gathering, there's always the ever-popular Pocket Fisherman.

Not from me. I'm a GRITS from WAY back, and I think broccoli in all its forms and incarnations a tasty and elegant dish. It is made exponentially more enticing by the company it keeps, and Grits are perfect, de facto and de jure. Ergo. I'm just sayin'.

There's a bagel HOLDER hanging by its little leather lanyard in my pantry. It's a beautiful piece of maple, carved into a nice little rectangular block with a half-bagel sized groove, which is in turn grooved by a sawed-in space which the knife is SUPPOSED to slice down into. Good luck. But it's a lovely piece of woodwork, and I like looking at its pretty varnished little self. The Batter Buddy is a neat IDEA, and as such, I adopted it as soon as I saw the commercials. I shake stuff in a gallon Ziploc, then dump the whole thing into my salad spinner, which is one of those first models, with two bowls, one perforated. All the flour goes through into the bottom bowl, which is old enough and bendy enough to squeeze just enough to make a pouring lip to get all the flour back into the bag, which then goes into the freezer for next time. Sounds a bit twee and complicated, but it's a matter of two minutes, and the shrimp/chicken bits/vegetables are all coated and ready for deep frying. I also have a bagful of plastic stuff...four of the card-suit-shaped little round red handles, each sporting a sharp little plastic spade, diamond, etc., shaped bottom. You just lay out cheese slices, ham, salami, bread, etc., and hop back and forth from one to the other, cutting cute little divots out of the slices, til you have a little stack, which the built-in plunger ejects. Stick in one of those frillpicks, and you're ready for a GURRMETT treat!! (They were a GIFT--decreases my shame factor, but I DID try 'em once, so it balances out). I gave away the set of four egg-coddlers to a guest who waxed ecstatic over them, and still have four or five mandolines, in a whole spectrum of plastic colors, lurking and waiting to bite in various unused cabinet space. And some I really like---half-moon plastic thingies like miniature versions of that hinged foldit omelet pan...the edges are nicely fluted, and they make quick work of anything folded into dough...great empanadas, fruit pies, a big one for a nice Pasty, etc. Even potstickers, if you're not too particular about the exact traditional fluting of the edges. And I used a tortilla press maybe twice. It went the way of all gadgets, into a box for the next Goodwill run. And I called Williams Sonoma and actually anticipated the arrival of this stuff...where's the blushing smilie?

We purchased this house in the late 90's, and it came with a bonus--an extra kitchen downstairs. It's not a huge space, but much more inviting and convenient than the galley-style this little ranch was equipped with when it was built in the late 50s. The kitchen floor was that greige linoleum, in tiny random geometrics, of light enough color that it just would not stay clean---my Mother would have said it "just showed everything." I hated that floor, but could not really justify a replacement, though our dear neighbor is a "tile man" and I longed for that gorgeous graygreen foot-square slate that I mooned over in his showroom. One morning, I wandered into the kitchen in my nightgown, plugged in the percolator, and noticed two tiny antennae waving from behind a piece of framed needlepoint on the backsplash. I quickly slammed the frame against the wall, holding it with one hand whilst I reached for a paper towel to dispatch the intruder or clean up the remains, if it had been squashed behind the picture. Somehow my maneuverings loosened my grip on the frame, and a good-sized centipede squiggled out and away, leaping off the front of the counter as I jumped back, and dashing under the refrigerator. I called out for Hubby's assistance, perhaps too frantically and loudly, since he came dashing naked from the bathroom, still half wet and holding his towel. He knows I save ants from drowning, pick up spiders in my hand and take them outside, and will open the screen and shoo out an errant fly or wasp, but centipedes ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THIS HOUSE. Probably thinking I would take up residence in the nearest hotel if I did not see the corpse of that dreaded beast, he grabbed the refrigerator in both hands and swung it away from the wall and way out into the floor. In my moment of dismay and hurry to get rid of that bug, my mind actually saw him lift the fridge bodily and deposit it several feet away, like Clark Kent, had he been naked and no phone booth in sight. I know this did not happen, but his heroism marked that moment in my fevered brain AND on that ugly linoleum. There was a long gouge, with little accordion pleats running for about a foot between the refrigerator's original place and its resting place. So he killed the bug, disfigured the floor, replaced the fridge, soothed my oooey feelings, and all before breakfast and naked as Adam. It was imperative that we replace the floor, as #2 Son was getting married in 10 days, we had lots of houseguests coming, and I was catering the wedding dinner for 200, out of this tiny kitchen, plus making the Groom's cake. So we moved everything out into the dining room floor, including the cast-iron Franklin range, had the tile man in with my graygreen slate and THEN Hubby suggested that since everything was out of the kitchen, and I had been meaning to paint anyway. . . So that took another two days, and all was replaced. It was a hectic time, a rushed time, but the floor was put down, the guests came, the wedding was perfect, I gained a lovely DIL whom I love dearly, and I'll never forget the sight of my Hubby, stark naked, wrestling that fridge out of the way to kill that bug.

Throw a leftover picked-over roast chicken carcass into a big pot. Toss in a couple of onions, whatever grungy past-their prime carrots or limp celery are hanging around in the bottom drawer. Add some salt and pepper and a little powdered garlic. Some poultry seasoning, just a whiff. Cover with water and a lid, and let simmer an hour or so. Cut the top off a crinkly cello bag of egg noodles or egg dumplings (dry kind) and upend the bag over the pot. Let cook another 30 minutes or so, till most of the broth is absorbed into those big ole gooey noodles. Ladle big bowlsful, and slather a little French's mustard on mine. Watch out for bones. Serve with a little side bowl of Pride of Illinois cream corn, just heated. College lifesaver for 4 of us when snow kept us indoors for several days. Or when we felt flu-ish or down in the dumps. Well, you DID say comfort food. And WHO was that knockin' CC&PJ? That's Southern Gurrmett all the way.

JDiva, Dear, I hope you've recovered from all that work, and will soon be on again, telling us all about the cake. We're looking forward to all your tips and directions, the fillings, the construction, and pictures!!! The cake was just stunning, and we'd like to hear about the ceremony and ALL the compliments you must have been receiving. Please let us hear all about it. It was a masterpiece, and we're all ears. And eyes (did I mention pictures?).

Stroganoff with extra-wide eggy noodles, stir-fried shredded Napa with scallions, salad of kidney beans, Vidalias and three-colors of peppers, sliced tomatoes. We had no room for dessert after the Stroganoff, but later in the evening my sweet Hubby made us S'Mores--with peanut butter for him, Valrhona on my two.

Waldrug---Is that some sort of "green"-less pharmacy with a counter? You did such a good job with the others...please expostulate.

Bagels, maybe? But you're right. Death by Donut scans much better.

Does anyone else notice that when you read the first paragraphs of FoodTutor's posts really fast, that cat MOVES?