racheld

I just keep having visions of that angry badger in The Gods Must Be Crazy being pedaled away like ET by the mad professor in Back To The Future and I just heehaw again. Will Advil help an aching face?

But did you like the first one? Hubby loves them, and I want to, but I just can't get past That. First. One.

I differ in one instance. We were there several years ago and went to one of those picnic-tables-indoors/paper-towels-for-napkins places, ordered platters of about 10 things on the menu, and I STILL dream of those ribs. I was raised on Deep-South Memphis PIT barbecue; it's mopped with a rag on a stick, slow-cooked for a day, then chopped or pulled with lots of the crackly, crusty outsides blended into the tender, melting pork within. This was BEEF barbecue, dry-rubbed and seasoned. Huge hunks of tender, not-too-juicy meat, falling pinkly from the bones with each bite. Brown on the outside, with that perfect deep-rose center that bespeaks HOURS on a real pit, with the hand of a Master Pitman at the helm. No sauce, just perfectly seasoned, perfectly tended meat, presented on a big plastic platter with no adornments necessary. Can't remember the name of the restaurant, but the combination of dishes we ordered was called "The Cadillac." We were riding a boat down the river one evening looking up at all the Christmas lights. Someone mentioned the place, and we tried it. Perfect. Memorable. Wish you'd found it when you were there.

Bicycle basket............ Raccoon........ Pedal faster........... Cast iron pottttttt............. Wheeze. Cough. Sputter.

We ate in a Colorado restaurant once, where the menu was a CLEAVER, with the items and prices etched into the metal. And one entire wall was semi-transparent, but must have been more than a foot thick, because it was made of adobe spacked around laid-on-their-sides wine bottles, with the bottoms toward the restaurant, like hundreds of little portholes with the light coming through. I didn't go out and see what the outside looked like.

EEEEEWWWWW!!! Brainburn!!! Please edit away that last line before it's too late.

I always put a drop into the glazed carrot skillet, along with a glug of Buttershot.

Wonderful, Melissa. I wish everyone gave directions, as well as menus and pictures. I love details...don't care if they say I turned and took a sip of my wine, then went back to the saute pan. Lovely. And I've been craving that cucumber salad; we used to have it all the time at our fave Korean place, which put about a dozen little dishes of good stuff on the table even before you ordered. It was all yummy, but I always let Hubby have the minnows.

I hadn't realized the time had passed so quickly, but my two grown children and I spoke of her fondly yesterday over lunch. When they were small, our rural home with its spiky TV antenna admitted only three channels: ABC, NBC and PBS. We watched Miss Julia every week, faithfully copying all her ingredients and directions, and, as I stated in last year's thread, we pretended we were going to find cepes and truffles at our local Safeway. We replicated her dishes as best we could, enjoying her as much for the fun and entertainment as for the food and the recipes. So we got an early start on her Anniversary Remembrance---we were enjoying good food and thoughts of a friend, never met, but happily remembered.

See the WHISK thread under COOKING. And is there a title for that? Maybe a chef's medal, like a caduceus? You gotta read it.

ALL HAIL, THE WHISK HERO!!!! (bowing as low as Arthur will allow). I am now more in awe of your heroic snake-killin' than of any appliance or utensil in your quite impressive arsenal. I stepped wary in our Southern peapatch for a lot of years, I've taken a .22 shot at a snake or two, and had a couple of BIIIIIG rattlers hung up on the pump house roof, but this kleps the gateau!!! You beat a rattlesnake to death with a kitchen whisk. Albeit a very large whisk and a small snake. Do not denigrate your role in a most exemplary task. I do not think ANY chef, cook, helper, or any minion of cuisine can claim that title. Wow. And Wow again. I'm sure there's a title in here somewhere for that. And a medal. Toques doff!!!! rachel PS Did you cook it?

Several years go, we went to one of those "family" places for breakfast. My husband always has the pancake breakfast with all the extras--eggs and bacon and grits and the fruit sauce and the "whipped cream." We were waited on by a young lady who just did. not. get. it. She flustered her way through setting down water glasses, did manage to give us a menu each, and told us breathlessly that she was new and they had given her four tables and she just could not keep up and got someone else to take two of them, and she was just going to have one, now, and that was us. We ordered, as she laboriously wrote on the pad, like a stenographer who is just learning shorthand. Tell, write, pause. Repeat. And with the "over easy" and the "cherry sauce, please," she was just out of her depth. We patiently, slowly enunciated our order, and she left to get the drinks. She returned with two iced teas. Hubby asked for lemon. She went away and returned with two wedges lying forlornly on her cork tray, no bowl or saucer. She picked them up one at at time in her fingers, looked around bewildered for somewhere to put them, and set them neatly onto the tabletop, balanced and rocking on their little round sides. We held our giggles til she left, and shared the laugh with several folks nearby, as they had been watching in amazement. Her progress down the aisle could be followed by the "I just can't DO four tables" concerto, and she had repeated it to perhaps six nearby groups, when she finally returned with our food. It was surprisingly accurate, though she had forgotten the napkins. And Hubby said he'd like to get the whipped cream for his pancakes. She fled and returned, walking slowly and carefully, a small bowl of fluffy white grasped in front of her like a child carrying soup. Which it was, alas. The fresh-from-the-hot-dishwasher bowl she had sprayed the cream into had melted all the bottom additives, making a whey-ish liquid which followed Newton's First Law of Gravity--when she reached across to set it down, it slid out of the bowl and went PLOOP! right into his crotch. There he sat, neatly garnished, while the whole area broke up in HeeHaws. She and several others came running with napkins and water and apologies, but we were laughing too hard to cooperate. I never saw the Dear Thing after that episode, and hope she has moved on to greater things (which don't involve food or sharp objects). Complain to the Manager? I should SAY not....I'd PAY to see that again.

Wow, Andi Dear, You're equipped for the next egg influx, cream stream or chocolate inflation! My only ones are a Pampered Chef, really nice, solid metal sheath of a handle, very sturdy shiny wires (I HATE those parties, and bought the ONE thing I thought I could really use). It was about 30.00, and I found its twin at Goodwill a couple of months later, brand new, for 99 cents. There's the immense cheffy one, standing tall and proud mongst all the ladles and spoons and tongs and servers in the big utensil pot on the counter; I seldom use the two-foot monstrosity, but I HAVE one. Must prove SOMETHING about my cooking skills, if only to keep it sanitary and shiny. And the tiny 5" model, with a plastic handle imprinted with some product logo---it was the province of dear Granddaughter the long time she lived here with us, from the time her baby hands could grasp it, and she was allowed to stir air in a wee bowl as I made batters and whipped cream. I use it now just for vinaigrette, in a special little heavy juice glass...it makes a perfect emulsion and stirs nice memories. I received one of the spring-only types a couple of years ago, a tiny one with a filament of wire slender as a thread---it jingled cheerfully, was painted a nice white, and scattered paint chips into the first liquid I stirred with it. I think it went out several trashdays ago. That's it for me, but your trove is amazing---you're equipped for any number of quick kitchen necessities, from fannin' the fire (top left) to beating a teensy carpet (far right) to taking a fun break to swirl the air full of bubbles (far left). What fun to have such a collection! [insert envious emoticon here]

The perfect roundness of one Lindt-in-the-blue-foil, with its gentle collapse of shell, then the flowing of the rich dark sweetness, after a very salty, very smoky burger at one of those Yee-Haw seared-steak places. I came home seeking out the ice machine for a tall frosty glass of water, then some CHOCOLATE.

Now I'm trying NOT to.

I've always been in love with Vanilla. Capital V. I thought it the loveliest of scents, and would sniff and sniff at the bottle cap when I was too young to be trusted with that big glass bottle of Watkins that my Mammaw or Mother was using to doctor up a pie or cake or homemade ice cream. Its a good thing it's not really tasty on its own; I remember sticking an adventurous tonguetip down into the lid and being shockingly disappointed at the bitter, mouthfilling taste. Had it been naturally sweet, I'd probably have gone off on a toot of great proportions, climbing a chair to the shelf for my fix, til they caught me nipping at the bottle. I don't think they had many other uses than desserts for the lovely stuff, but soon I caught on to its enticing scent, and had many a secret trip to the spice cabinet before going out for school, to Sunday School, to a birthday party, etc. I was forbidden the "grownup" scents: My Mom's Shalimar, Mammaw's latest bargain from the Avon Lady, my city Aunts' sophisticated, musky Chanels and Joys. So I would make some reason to detour into the kitchen before leaving the house, in order to dab a drop of the lovely vanilla-essence behind my ears and in the crooks of my elbows. I waltzed through the day, confident in my own enticing aroma, and AFTER I discovered cinnamon and oil of clove as a fragrant addition, I must have gone around town for more than a year, faint tan smears on my skin, my whole aura redolent of cookies and pie. Thank goodness dogs are carnivores; I'd have had whole hordes following me home. And when I was in college (graduated from McCormick to Shalimar of my own), my roommate was a graduate student in Chemistry. She worked long hours in the lab after classes, and would come in very late, after I had gone to bed. One semester she was working on synthesizing Vanillin, and I would wake in the darkness, inhale that heavenly scent from her entrance, and smile. I STILL wish they'd bottle that stuff and sell it at Nordstrom. My vanilla bottle (STILL Watkins; we found our own supplier in the Yellow Pages) gets a workout nearly every day...we use it in iced tea, pies, cakes, puddings, party punch, as a richening note in several mixed drinks as well as cut and pureed fruit, in coffee, pie crusts, all sorts of breads and muffins and desserts. And I keep a vanilla bean faithfully tucked down into each sugar cannister. I've been known to dab a bit onto a lightbulb, and YES, behind my ears once in a while for old times' sake. Brings back some nice memories, and sometimes makes Hubby waltz me across the kitchen to an oldies tune. So what if Vanilla is the quiet, unnoticed kid, the wallflower whose mere presence points up the special attributes of her peers? It adds a lovely undernote, a richness, a depth, an extra level to so many other flavors. Even CHOCOLATE is enhanced by its paler companion, borne up to new heights and enticements. And Vanilla ice cream alone is, if nothing else, quite a good reason for getting up in the morning. So Hooray and Huzzah for whoever found that wonderful plant with its glorious scent and possibilities. But as much as I LOVE the stuff, I still shudder at the thought of that lobster dish.

Garlic/herb boursin on baguette slices; Oliver Camelot mead or Killian's Red. Nine-herb rotisserie chicken on a bed of fluffy rice to capture the juices. The rest was leftovers: Last night's purplehull peas with snaps; shell pasta salad with cucumber and tomato. More fresh cucumber and tomato slices. A lovely Tupperware of fresh Turmeric-spiced/brined paperthin sliced onion pickles, delivered this afternoon by a friend. Perfect with the meal. Dessert: Haven't had it yet...I'm sipping Tawny Port before LOST comes on.

I feel shallow speaking of biscuits in this very serious thread, but these are good: We had lunch with friends several years ago, and I can't remember what else she served, but the biscuits were outstanding. They were golden and light, and had a perfectly-crumbly crumb inside, plus a lovely herby/garlicky flavor, like the most delicate herb/cheese biscuit. We all commented on the delicious flavor and great texture and the crisp crust, and she said, "They're easy---just Bisquick and Ranch." And they were. A glop of Ranch (regular, with real mayo and milk) in a couple of cups of Bisquick. She added a little sharp cheese, though the two-ingredient recipe didn't call for it. Onto a buttered pan, brush with more butter, hot oven, and some kind of alchemical miracle which changed those two church-cookbook items into bread fit for any table. I've served them quite a few times; they are a lovely addition to salad lunches, especially chicken salad or a fruit plate. I even served them to Cap'n Kirk once. I think he pretty much likes anything. Denny Crane!!

Lindt balls in the blue package.

There's something funny going on here. Somebody, somewhere, either said some prayers or sent out lure-calls or SOMETHING, cause when I went out with the trash just at dusk, there were no birds (cue Twilight Zone theme here). None. No sound, no whirry wings, no poop. None. The patio is clean, the furniture is pristine (as much as the hose could get it after six weeks of daily washings). Nothing stirred the leaves, no limbs swayed. The air is clean and fresh and summery, with no hint of visiting poopers. I owe somebody a thank you. For all prayers, chants, thoughts, hexes, curses, spells and mindmelds, my hearty appreciation. Hubby was so tired and hungry when he got home, he didn't even notice. I almost hate to tell him. He enjoys the fireworks so.

A cooking contest!!! Just my thing!!! And now I've dissed them so badly upthread re their dusty parsley, they'll disqualify me on sight. They'll know it was me. I just know it. Poo.

OH, ((((Diva))))!!! I hope you're having a good sleep and will tell us all about it. It is GORGEOUS!!!! My Daddy always used to say that he's glad we got pictures cause all the beautiful things I made got "et up" anyway. Just beautiful. rachel

I'm late for the peaches you wanted to use up, but you STILL need to go look at Page 22 in the "Breakfast" thread. But not without a peach handy to munch on...the pics will make you CRAVE.

Great post, West!! I could see (and smell) all that oozy chocolate. Chocolate is one of the miracles of the world, a great gift, a boon to mankind and womankind. But treated in that fashion---too much of a (good?) thing. I didn't think I had a "too much" story to relate, but I think the Yorkshire pudding might fit the bill--it certainly fitted the plate. When I went to England for the first time, I had a list of things to try and see and do and buy and experience, quite a few of them food-related. I wanted a bowl of porridge in Scotland (related in another thread), roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, a real afternoon tea with scones and cream and jam, and several other traditional things (all of which were accomplished and enjoyed very much). So the first night on the road, we had dinner at our little hotel, and it was the only buffet of the trip. As I passed the gentleman who was "carving the joint," I asked for the beef. He misunderstood and carved off two hefty, steaming, juicy slices of the pork instead. I just accepted it, went right down the line, retrieved my nice golden pudding with its muffinpan shape, poured the rich brown gravy from the silver boat onto both, and had one of the best dining experiences of my life. It was rich and salty and BEEFY with the essence of the meat. The pork was luscious and juicy and flavorful in the little puddle of gravy, and the pudding was just as I had imagined; just perfect. What a good start to this trip, I thought--the food is wonderful. And so it was, for every single meal. Later in the week, we stopped for lunch in the lake district, and Yorkshire pudding was one of the features of the day. I thought I'd try it one more time, and it was a bit different from the first. My plate arrived, or at least I hoped there was a plate under the weight of that huge bowl-shaped piece of browned dough holding its pint of gravy. The gravy was not so rich this time, nor did it have that tang of good meat essence nor the satisfying flavor of anything but browned flour and whatever liquid was used to make it. But it made up in quantity. It was enormous. It covered a dinner plate, with just room on the edges for the server to get a tiny thumb-grip on either side. It looked as if a brown caketin had been appropriated from the kitchen, filled with brown liquid, and sent to table, its little ridges of sides barely holding in the flood. It sloshed when it was set before me, and the quandary arose: dip a spoon and eat gravy soup until the bread ramparts could be breached, or cut right in, thus granting exit to enough brown sauce to flood the pretty tablecloth and perhaps flow back toward the kitchen. I'm a generous cook, with a lavish hand with the groceries, but I've served MEALS without that much gravy on the table. Then we looked around us. Whole families were chowing down on plates of the kiddie-pool sized servings. Twig-sized young women were tucking into the stuff with the gusto of lorry-drivers, and small children had their OWN great moats of brown in front of them. It was amazing. This was food for hearty hikers, tramping into the house in Wellies, beaming and rosy-cheeking their way through great trenchers of heavy food and gallons of steaming tea. Flour and water were the order of the day, and we were all consuming enough carbs to bankrupt Atkins two years early. The pudding appeared to have been baked in a pieplate or cakepan, with inch-high sides which rose up and held its juicy burden, and the bottom just like a piecrust, though springy and tender. I shared spoonfuls of the gravy all round the table; my companions accepted great bowls and saucers of it. One had no receptacle save her plate, so she lifted her teacup to the tablecloth and accepted a saucerful. This stuff could have made a Biblical legend, a story passed down for generations on Friday nights as the gravy which never ran out. We all dipped and slurped and it made immediate "English dip" for the hearty sandwiches of all others at the table. I managed to down about a third of the rich eggy bready pudding, saturated as it was with the salty sauce, and passed samples to everyone else. When we left to go trekking through Wordsworth country, there was STILL a great moat of gravy left on that plate, with the golden pudding swelling and growing limply pale in the light of the cloudy afternoon.

A bowl of Silver Queen corn, bought, cut and cooked within an hour of the stalk. The crisp little silks were a fresh pale green as they fell away with the brush. It was a creamy, rich, beautiful soupy bowl, with just the right amount of butter and salt. I had just fried the requisite six chicken wings to accompany (and because Hubby, who does ALL the corn cooking, requires a tiny bit of the oil and all the lovely brown crispy scrapings from the bottom of the chicken skillet). They are the "secret ingredient" in his Heavenly corn. The other bowl of heirloom tomato chunks with seasalt, with a spoon into the corn, savor the bite---spoon into tomato, relish that taste--alternating the deep rich sweetness with the tang of homegrown tomato, warm from the garden, until both bowls were empty and Summer's finest dinner combination had been enjoyed once again.