racheld

I just posted mine in the Southern Food Culture thread under "Fried Corn--and three" PLUS: Popsicles in the shade Baked beans and potato salad at Thanksgiving---who else serves THAT? Pulled pork barbecue, slaw on Jalapeno/corn/cheese cornbread, the heavy, eggy, no-sugar kind with lots of crust A freezer of peach or banana ice cream---smushed fruit, whole milk, a can of Eagle brand, hand-cranked under a pecan tree Vanilla boiled custard, ditto---it's like eating frozen creme Anglaise Fallapart potroast with carrots, potatoes and (don't laugh) Brussels sprouts Maw's famous caramel cake or any dessert from her talented hands A gallon pot of pinto or Northern beans with several pounds of ham cooked to a velvety softness---with that GOOOOD cornbread and a slice of sweet onion My childhood neighbor's sugar-laden, lemony iced tea Snap beans, cooked down LOW, with a bit of ham and onion; tiny potatoes steamed on top Chicken salad at any gathering of Good Church Ladies---they outdo each other for best and fanciest A plate of anything from the monthly Church Supper buffet table: Ten kinds of fried chicken, Campbell's-based casseroles, Jello in many combinations, salads straight out of Southern Living, and PIE---any kind My Mammaw's Friday Pineapple Cake---especially by Monday or Tuesday It's getting too late in the day to continue---I gotta go COOK something!!!

If you haven't traveled yet---you could try Madidi in Clarksdale, MS. It's straight down Hwy 61 from all the casino frenzy in Tunica, MS. Twenty years ago, Tunica county was THE poorest county, per capita, in the USA. THEN the "riverboats" were built to accomodate about a dozen casinos, and the state highway department ignored every pothole and patchwork road South of Clarksdale, to install DELUXE four-lanes from Memphis to the slot machines. And it WORKED. Tunica county has a nice annual income, people fly in from all over the world, and the money pours in. Madidi is the new (three years or less) restaurant owned by Morgan Freeman, a frequent visitor between movie locations, and his partner. It's nicely upscale for the area, and you can watch the local matrons in their little black dresses sit up and purr at the famous man. Food is definitely NOT local, save for perhaps a bit of farm-raised catfish used in one of those Gucci appetizers. The chef is innovative, the dishes are well-conceived and well prepared, and you MAY get to share a glass of wine with the host. It's very near Ground Zero, his blues "juke joint" which features quite a lively selection of very talented performers. The atmosphere is full of blues and the fragrance of fried catfish, there is a great energy in the room, yet when Morgan is in the house, the blues takes second place to camera flashes and hugs all round, all night. It feels a bit like that horrendous "Rocco" program on TV last year, about the chef they couldn't keep in the kitchen---he was out front hugging the ladies, and they WOULD NOT LEAVE so they could turn the tables. (Except that Morgan is a lovely person, handsome and gracious and with an IQ out the roof, with wonderful manners and a voice like chocolate velvet). (And WOO he can dance). But the place to see (and sample) is on down 61 south of town to Hopson's. An old farm commissary has been made into a fabulous barbecue joint, with all the requisite pits and grills and pitmen schooled in the old ways. The Delta planters send their hands there to pick up their noon dinners, and then host their own debutante daughters' wedding rehearsal dinners for all the out-of-town dignitaries in that humble, paper-towel, truly finger-licking place. It's history combined with historical food in the best of ways, a taste of the TRUE South. And you can stay the night at the Shack Up Inn--several preserved cabins (A/C and electricity installed, the only concession to the century) with their own decor and atmosphere. These were NOT slave cabins, but TENANT HOUSES, home to vast families which worked the fields dawn to dusk in that hellish Delta sun. I hope it's not too late---but there's always next time. I've a hankerin' to go now myself. rachel

B'Stilla? B'Stia? A neighbor taught me to make it several years ago---and it's usually phyllo, lots of layers. Though I did chicken out and make it with.....well, you know.

THIS IS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN ON THIS ENTIRE WEBSITE!!! You are an artist and a genius!! Excuse me while I go look some more. rachel

Odd-but-delicious assortment for entertaining several family members invited over for Finale of Amazing Race. Several made requests for their fave party dish, so we had little bits for an unmatched, unbalanced meal: Croissants with: Tuna Salad or Chicken Salad with Apples and Pecans or Smoked Turkey Breast, Provolone and Shredded Lettuce Spinach-Tortilla Wraps with Crabmeat, Scallions, Cream Cheese and Mayo Tiniest Baby Carrots and Grape Tomatoes with Dillranch Dip Grill-seared Ribeye, Cubed, Served Cold on Toothpicks Alabama Hoop Cheese and Crackers Spanikopita Hearts of Romaine with Raita Tiny Pearl Potatoes cooked in broth from corned beef brisket Fresh Pineapple Sticks and Giant Strawberries Kahlua Brownies

May I suggest a tiny enamel-lined pillbox---mine is from Bilston & Battersea, a gift way back in the 70's. It's round, about 1 1/2" across, and the tiny hinge just keeps on workin' and keeping the contents tight inside. It's been carrying plain salt, and then sea salt, for many years. I don't waste good fleur de sel on someone else's cooking. Most metal containers will tarnish and corrode with a steady diet of salt next to their skins, but enamel---it just doesn't change at all. And I cannot believe chefs are so above themselves that they would COME OUT to upbraid you for a perceived criticism of their cooking. Guess I need to get out more. But not to THEIR places.

There's a "fried corn" tradition in our family which starts when one of the menfolks backs a pickup up into the shade of the backyard. He wheels that familiar vehicle with a masterful hand, past the lawnchairs and into just the right spot, though he can hardly see over the high green mass of roasin' ears piled into the truckbed. He's been out in that dusty, smothery taller-than-he field since right at daylight, snapping those hot green pockets of corn from the waving stalks. It's field corn, white corn, not those yellow sweet ears for boiling and munching from the cob. This is starch-laden, thicken-in-a-minute, heavy white milk-swollen corn, made to be cut and stirred into custardy perfection. He'll leave you the pickup; you gather whatever helpers you can. He's on to more important work...he'll go mount a tractor cab or another truck and carry on with his long, dusty day. It is time for whoever is in the house, or who can be called or commanded or coerced into gathering under those trees for corn duty. The whish of husks, the crisp snap of the stems, an occasional whack onto the grayed old picnic table to dislodge the frowning, disgruntled cornworm, and the pans of white ears grow fuller as the pile of greenery on the ground gains in height. Smaller hands are handed brushes, to briskly "silk" the corn--Southern cooks are as finicky about cornsilks as they are about no dark meat in the chickensalad. They'd as soon find a bug in the pot as a cornsilk---that's just trashy. Experienced hands take the corn into the kitchen, where the backsplash and several yards of counter and ESPECIALLY the oversink windows are lined with taped-on newspaper, fresh garbage bags, or paper towels, take your pick---just don't let that splash hit the counters. Why, when old Mr. Prysock was laid out at home, someone had to scrape all the dried cornsplashings off the windowsill before that kitchen was fit to serve in. The GCL didn't let on, but they never did look at Mrs. P's cooking the same again. Great washings and splashings and laying out on kitchen towels---neat rows form pyramids, fresh damp cool of wrung-out towels cover the waiting mounds, and the cutting begins. Very sharp knife, dishpan in sink, corn held tipdown, and one neat cut sliced down, taking just the tiniest tip off each kernel. Then the blade is reversed, scraping down each side in rotation until the white milky nectar is released into the bottom of the pan. Three or four hundred ears are prepared this way, then comes the "blanching" of pan after pan over LOW heat, flat-paddle stirring until the small bubbles rise--each bubble a gentle "puh" as the mass thickens. Quick cooling of pans set into icewater, quicker scooping into small square freezer boxes, and the chore is done. There is no actual frying to the fried corn of my family's recipe. The same black skillet which turned out equally brown-crusted cornbread and catfish and chicken served to cook my Mother's fried corn. She plopped a stick of Blue Bonnet into the skillet and stuck it into the heating oven to melt. Two or three of the pint containers, straight from the freezer, were dipped briefly into hot water to loosen the contents, then the frozen white blocks were clunked out into the hot skillet. A moat of water was poured around, salt showered across the top, then into the oven. An occasional pull of the skillet out with one hand, as the other spoon-scraped the thawing corn off the tops of the mounds; when all had been melted and stirred into the water, the skillet went back in, to bake into a custardy, golden-topped creamy perfection unrivaled in taste and texture. Tiny crunches of the kerneltips punctuated the velvety bites; balance of salt and butter and crusty top made this the most memorable dish in my Mom's considerable arsenal of killer recipes. Despite the starch-laden Thanksgiving table's having dressing, potatoes, sweet potatoes AND cheese and macaroni, the skillet of corn held precedence over it all, surpassing even the turkey in importance. There were center-spooners, savoring the silky creaminess; the crust-scrapers enjoyed the crunchy butteriness mixed into their spoonful. Nobody skipped the corn. I have to depend on Farmers' Markets, and seldom do I "put up" three hundred ears at one time, but I have the skillet and the know-how, and the taste lives on.

A Memphis friend sent an e-mail yesterday with the ad for a new book he thought I'd like: Being Dead Is No Excuse--The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral by Gayden Metcalfe and Charlotte Hays. I sped off to Borders after lunch today, bearing in hand a nice Mothers' Day gift certificate, and bought me a copy. And laughed all the way home, reading bits and pieces to Hubby, who was driving as I read and giggled. It's framed mainly in Greenville, MS, the official bottom-of-the-Delta in some circles, with Memphis being the apex. In that expanse of good Mississippi dirt, everyone knows that before you press your black dress, before you order floral tributes, you go put some rolls to rise or an aspic to set, or at least put a boiling of eggs on the stove. But the Delta itself, place of my own birth and raising and that of my children, is a place unto itself, with more customs and mores and opinions and rules of etiquette and order and inborn knowledge of what's fittin' and what's trashy, than are found anywhere else on Earth--I doubt that even Buckingham Palace has rules about thigh meat in chicken salad. And opinions there are. Of the neighbors, fellow church members, people who just happen to be looking when you get up to something, people who aren't looking but are gonna hear about it at their standing beauty shop appointment or in Piggly Wiggly, people who could care less about politics and world affairs, but who savor your indiscretion/misfortune/lapse of judgement with eager ears and lips pursed to taste and relish and pass it on as soon and with as much embellishment as possible. And the opinions of the Good Church Ladies of small Southern towns rule and conquer and surpass all the might and majesty of any Crusader, any king or emperor or Pope who ever put fanny to throne. Small towns have mayors and aldermen and city councils and church boards and all manner of governing bodies, but the rules are made and enforced by the women who staff the church committees and the civic clubs and the garden clubs and the DOC/DAR branches, dealing out luncheons and teas and cocktail parties and meet-the-Preacher dinners with aplomb and ease. A small-town Eastern Star alone could rule nations, and put on a mean afternoon reception in the bargain. They decide the fate of the world, then go home and tell it to their husbands, their children, and any hapless household staff and neighbor within reach. The entire concept of the book is built around giving Unca Morris or O-Man Holliman or Aint Margaret Ursoola the best sendoff the family and community can muster. And the funeral feasts which "make" the day---great founderings of soup-laden casseroles, aspics, devilled eggs, pound cakes---all named for the originator of the recipe (or the woman whose kitchen she worked in 12-hours-a-day, then went home to feed her own family) are the centerpiece of the book, with recipes and origins and little cautionary tales of people who claimed the recipe falsely or altered it by adding this and that, just ruining it beyond recognition. I KNOW these people---every one of them. I went to school with them, to church with them, was related to or friends with EVERY character related in this book. Not literally; characters vary, places change, but Good Church Ladies remain the same throughout the Delta, and I was raised by and acquainted with a goodly number, God Bless 'Em. (And, come to think of it, served quite a stint as as GCL myself, though my rule-making and world-changing was limited to keeping a dozen Cub Scouts in line every Thursday at 3). And these zany descriptions of funerals and families and mishaps and drunken revels and eating eating eating are done with a sure hand, a witty, deft touch which makes me want to streak right through all in one sitting. The recipes look mighty tasty, as well. I think I'm gonna like this book. I'll go back and read now. And maybe put on some eggs to boil.

Ice cream anytime.

We had the BEST galactoboureko tonight, as guests of friends who had discovered a great Greek place downtown. We DID save room for dessert, and each couple shared a plate---swirls of chocolate sauce on the plate, dusting of cinnamon as a base for the 4" square slab of glorious sweet custardy perfection. Just the right combination of eggs and milk and sugar, with a master's hand on the vanilla and the cooking time. Only three sheets of phyllo top and bottom, whispery as paper, crisp and buttery. The slices were almost 2" high, and so rich I could not finish my half; no worry--Hubby was glad to oblige. We're all transplanted Southerners, and when our host asked if we liked it, I said that a whole Baptist church full of women cooking for a church supper would turn in their aprons and bow down before the cook who brought THIS dish. I do believe it was the BEST dessert I've ever had in a restaurant. Simply perfect.

Chefpeon---what a great test and even greater post about it!!! I was going to post yesterday and remark on the steadiness of your hand, and now today, you've gone and done all that painstaking research on our behalf. Wow. Where were you when LOTR was being filmed? You could have turned out knights' hats by the hundreds. Oh, and by the way---Betty Crocker called---wants to borrow your cat.

Nothing frozen ever appeals, but I could mortgage the children for some of everything in the dip-em-up olive case, the cheese tasting counter, the all-out-there breads with odd shapes and fragrances and a dusting of flour all over their bodies. Anything actually gettable without opening PLASTIC or foil or cardboard---that's what loads my cart. (Though about twice a year, I succumb and buy a birthday cake when it's no one's birthday). The produce, the colors and crispnesses and juiciness; the rosy cuts of steak and the pale blush of pork tenderloin, disappearing into the crackle of white paper with a flourish of the butcher's pink fingers; curls of headless shrimp lying in icy languor; sausages linked and hanging, or lying alone in their rich luxury of flavors--those are my quarry, along with the jars of mustards and roasted peppers and chutneys and vinegars. A lift of each clear lid at the Voortman's cookie display, with a nip of the grabber into each flavor, double on the Windmills--one for driving home---then into the wisp of bag. Buttonpush to release the gleaming, sumptuous coffeebeans, flavor after flavor, into my waiting, open silver bags; scritch of clear scoop into bin after bin of quinoa, cranberry beans, lentils, sea salt; shoosh of metal scoop into the in-the-shell almonds, lying like abandoned peach pits in a tub; great dredgings of cashews and peanuts and bursting, meaty pecans. Strangely, I bypass the tableau of deli-prepared foods, the kale-lined coolness harboring salads and spreads, square chunks of rigid lasagna and torn threads of too-red barbecue; the loaded-baked-potato salad and the Asian noodle salad and the tabbouleh way too green with parsley and mint---I can make better of all these at home, and so they do not tempt. The foods which draw and enchant my hungers are the brined ones, the faraway grown and prepared ones, milk changed to cheese by some alchemy of time and microbes. I crave the ones I know not how to make or grow, and the ones which offer flavors of childhood, unreplicable by any but the original recipe. Shopping, no. It's the foraging, hunting, gathering, bringing in to stock the larder, sating the appetites for salt and sweet and rich and bitter, filling up the pantry, making safe the home.

My most memorable "win" was a contest sponsored each month by the magazine published by our Electric Power Company in the rural South. I had seen the food pages every month for years, and it was a veritable compendium of enough recipes using mushroom soup to make the Campbells rich beyond the dreams of avarice. The recipe which made me resolve to enter was an honorable mention: Rabbit and dumplings, which, in its entirety was something like: Cook your rabbit, make dumplings just like for chicken, cook them in the rabbit broth. I would read every month, wince, laugh, sometimes be pleasantly surprised, and was always entertained. So I typed up a recipe we had used for many years as a party fingerfood: Asparagus Rollups. The name itself was clever enough to merit honorable mention, I reasoned, since hardly an issue passed without a soup-laden dish titled XXXX Casserole. Ditto a salad recipe: XXXXXX Salad. If anyone's squeamish, stop reading NOW. The recipe used grated cheese, Durkee's dressing, a little mayo, and powdered garlic, spread onto laboriously rolled-flat Wonder Bread. This flappy, preservatives-laden concoction was then rolled around a spear of CANNED asparagus, brushed all over with melted butter, and baked till crispy. And people at parties ATE IT UP. Any invitation to one particular friend brought an instant acceptance, with "I hope you're making those AsPEARgus things." And it was surprisingly tasty, served in a pretty basket on a linen napkin, alongside our special chicken salad. So I sent in the recipe, and a month or so later, I got a phone call...I had won the month's contest, and a representative would be at my home to make my picture for NEXT month's issue, and to deliver my gift. And so I took off work, stayed home, primped a bit, and the young man rang the bell promptly at 9 a.m. He shuffled a bit on the porch, cleared his throat a few times, squinted in the bright Alabama sun. I asked him in; he said they were not allowed to enter houses. I stood on the porch in that August heat, squinting a bit myself. I asked how they chose the recipe; he said it sounded good. He shuffled some more, asked how I came by the recipe. I said I made it up; he nodded sagely. As he nodded, I noticed for the first time that his scalp gleamed in the sun like chrome on a Buick. And it was gleaming in little regimented rows, perfectly spaced and perfectly delineated by tiny divots of hair in a pattern unknown to nature. I tried to move my eyes, but the sage nodding and the shuffling did not serve to sway me from my fascinated stare at his hairline. The little shocks were so perfectly spaced, they looked like beautifully-plowed fieldrows whizzing past your car window. The sun bounced off his clean scalp; I tried again to avert---in vain. The guy had DOLLHAIR. And his doctor---scalptician, whatever, had the steadiest hands in all the civilized world. It was PERFECT---a work of art, a stunning symmetry marching across his head like a platoon of micro-Marines. I cannot say how long we stood there. He asked another question or two, filling up thirty seconds in that forever-morning, and I hope I replied with some semblance of sense. I occasionally chattered brightly, bringing in the weather and the crops and all the mosquitoes we'd been having; then silence would overtake us, and I'd mutely wait for him to ask something else, or hand me that little box and take his leave, or SOMETHING to get my mind off his hairline. So finally he did; he presented the little B&D food-whirler with a flourish, snapped one picture (in which I presented an amazed, almost stunned DITH expression, whether from the unexpected flash or the odd morning I seemed to be having). That was fifteen years ago, and I still have that little chopper, most recently used during the stay of our daughter and her huge land tortoise...I chopped POUNDS of green vegetables during Sheldon's visit. And I still have that image of the dear young fellow, with his new hair immaculately parted in all directions, like a cornfield in the sun. I wish him well and hope he grew a beautiful crop.

When's the party? Somewhere in this house is a tablecloth---a 60" round one, brown, which I gold-sprayed with little bees and skeps for a Groom's table in '01. The cake was a three-tiered square, poured ganache over whipped ganache, stencil-powdered with gold dust bees and skeps. It was quite striking, with roses and leaves made of double-chocolate ganache for stability in piping. I can't wait to see your pics of the cake!!!

I've got half a loaf of that GOOOOOOD Shapiro's rye on my kitchen counter right now. One location is a block from DD's work, and the other is right off the interstate, so Hubby's daily treks can "take him right by there" at any time---a constantly reiterated mantra when he's in the mood to bring home a pound of CB and a loaf of rye for dinner. The rye is a use-it-up staple for us, never discarded or sent out for the backyard birds, as are all loaves of other kinds. The other night at home, we had appetizer of chopped liver on very thin, buttery skillet-toasted sheets of it, then a corned beef sandwich, although we do not apply half as much of the beef as is doled out by those quick-slicing, mustard-spreading line people at the deli. Our Georgia daughter takes loaves of it home with her, as she became addicted to skillet-toast every morning for breakfast, and we slice and toast for days, right down to that last thin, melba-ed heel of the loaf. My own favorite sandwich there is chicken salad on an onion roll. The salad is made with roasted chicken, grapes, and a very little bit of mayo. I scrape off half the salad for eating with a fork, (alongside that little bowl of PERFECT potato salad, made with the softest hunks of potato, boiled eggs, tiny bits of crisp onion, and mustardy mayo). Hubby is a deli-platter man when we eat there---a huge platter of lox, bagels, tomato and onion slices, cream cheese, a mound of chopped liver, and a baseball bat pickle wedge. The latkes are outstanding, but I've never tried any of the other hot foods on the steam table...though seeing a lot of the regulars tuck into an enormous plate/bowl of the rich yellow buttery-looking chicken noodles tells me that the noodles must be something really special. And the desserts are wonderful; it's hard to decide, though the key lime anything and the tapioca cups are our usual choice, homey and just right to finish such a heavy meal. The food and service are just the same as when we came up here 15 years ago, despite the closing and renovations which took quite some time...the staff must have been really loyal or really valuable to wait around that long. The one thing I do wish they'd replace---swap today's canned Coke for those wonderful little glass bottles with ICE in them, like I remember from our first visits. They crackled over the ice in the glass, sparkling up into the air, and were a perfect crisp taste counterpoint to the smooth, salty beef and hearty bread. I see the yearning in your posts, and wish I could take you ALL downtown for a nosh RIGHT NOW!!!! rachel

Never any food pics at our house, unless it's all gussied up for a party. I plate and arrange and garnish, etc., but when it's hot, we sit DOWN. Tonight was crisp iceberg and English cucumber slices/Maytag dressing; roasted turkey breast with pan gravy; mashed potatoes with sour cream; tiny green peas, (frozen, but delicious in that potato nest nevertheless); cranberry sauce straight out of the can. Hubby was raised on Ocean Spray, and no matter how many cut-glass compotes of orange peel/fresh cranberry/pecan/whatever there are on the table with turkey, a big old glob of that burgundy jelly is gonna be on his plate.

Off of a plate, off of a counter, out of a dish or bowl....... ← Thanks. I thought for a minute there that I'd missed some esoteric process for purifying it before baking. I had visions of dabbling into the bowl with both hands, carefully separating the grains, rubbing each one gently between my fingers like rinsing rice before cooking. I feel better now.

My husband took a prospective employee to lunch at our fave Chinese place. He was a bit on-the-fence about the guy, and figured a quiet conversation might do what interviews and tests did not. He felt that Prosp Emp was a bit abrupt in manner, plus did not take directions well, though he was good at building and repairing the machines. And I guess the lunch did the trick...not only was PE rather obnoxious to the waiter, but Hubby took it as a definite sign to pass on the fellow because when they delivered the little check tray, the guy's cookie was empty!

OH, MY!!! That is a GORGEOUS cake!! And all the details about your work and improv and all that rich, wonderful filling and frosting, etc. Great post. And the embellishments ALL look almost like clear jewels...are they transparent? Molded, handformed---what? Simply stunning. rachel

Several years ago, we were back "Home" --small Southern town, where everybody knows everybody, and their business---visiting Son #1 and DDIL. Saturday night after we had been to dinner, Hubby decided it was the time to stop and get a couple of cases of family favorites they don't seem to stock up here: Blue Plate mayo and Pride of Illinois corn. We were leaving next morning, and they were going to a "her side" family reunion, so she and I were going to their house to cook a bit for the big dinner planned for the gathering. The two guys got out to just run in and get the case items, and she called out, "Please get me a cucumber for the Summer Salad for tomorrow!!" So they went, and they shopped, and they emerged with one plastic sack adangle from S1's hand. The store was out of both items I had requested. Hubby was wetting his pants laughing and S1 practically THREW the bag into the backseat, exclaiming, "Two MEN buying a CUCUMBER on a SAREDY night!!! I'm not EVER going back in THAT store again!!!"

Sugar, carageenan, Polysorbate 80, Polyester/cotton blend, hopes, dreams, three unfortunate bridesmaid's dresses, eight crying fits, 22 unreturned RSVP's, 12 no-shows, 180 yards of tulle, 30 lbs. Jordan almonds, 6 hissy fits, uncountable "It's my SPECIAL DAAAAAAYYYYY" repetitions, agar gum, natural and artificial flavors. Did you look at the DRESS???!!

On this last (please, God) freezing night of this Spring: Chopped liver on skillet-toasted thin bread; long-simmered corned beef brisket on Shapiro's rye; lovely mustard varieties; crisp celery hearts; a tiny cheesecake-for-two with Bing cherry sauce. Icy beer, then Senseo decaf.

Hadn't heard of it. But check out the Wedding Cakes section. Anyone need a new Spring wardrobe?

I'm even WORSE---not a snob, but a HIDER---I stick that one package of Little Debbie Snack Cakes in between the Romaine and the big carton of fresh yogurt, hoping no one will see my shame. (Keep a few of those little packages in the freezer---better'n truffles at midnight). And I inventory every cart that passes by---picking up ideas, then picking up some of what THEY'RE having, or watching that fit young couple consult lists, the counter, the carb counter, the calorie counter, as they sparingly fill their basket with raw and oddly-named healthy things, and I'm not envying what's for dinner. Or seeing a prominent businesswoman with a cartful of every "helper" on the shelves, testament to her busy, busy life. Or the little couple, she in the rollycart, he doing the bending and lifting, getting their sparse rations for the week, and including three of the tell-alls from the magazine counter in the mix. People with cartsful of exotic herbs and vegetables and cuts of meat, going home to make a meal like those of their original homeland, the pile garnished with an incongruous couple of frozen pizzas. Or the young woman who consulted me in the aisle one day, showing me the recipe which called for 8 oz. of shiitake---she had picked up FOUR of the two-ounce DRIED type. I felt I had saved her life that day;she might have been suffocated in her own kitchen when all that fungi started swelling. And I do believe I later met her sister, who was bewailing the fact that the spice aisle had lemon PEEL, but no lemon ZEST. What is it about us kitchen types? Do we have a mark somewhere, so that novices gravitate to consult us? Maybe it's my appearance, or the three kinds of cheese, four greens, and all those kinds of mushrooms in my own cart...hope they hid the Little Debbie.

I should have said "blanched snow peas." String, blanch 30 seconds in boiling water, shock in ice water, pat dry, julienne. A dozen will do for a nice garnish. They just aren't the same raw, not that crisp green freshness, whereas a sugar-snap pea is crisp straight off the vine (which is how I REALLY like to enjoy one).