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    middle o' nowhere, VA
  1. So, I admit I'm a long time e-gullet reader and infrequent writer (this, I think makes post four or five) and to make matters worse, late to the discussion. Still, I recently spent some time researching a story on rooftop honey and bees and really loved this article and the discussion. I wanted to pass along the info I recently picked up about city honey in an unlikely place: Chicago. So, there are a couple of hives on top of City Hall (part of an eco-friendly rooftop garden) but more interesting to me is the Chicago Honey Co-op - their 30 members have 100 hives atop a warehouse on the ci
  2. kriskitchen

    Bad Home Cookin'

    Thanks! And with that warm welcome, I've worked up enough nerve to share one more (oh, but if mom ever knew...) So...sometimes she experimented. I remember distinctly the Day of The Brown Rice. Somehow, the rice absorbed all the matter in the kitchen, becoming a mass so heavy it could have earned a spot on the table of elements. And she made us eat it. That was the rule: if it's there, it must be eaten until it's gone. That went for the brown rice, the endless array of leftovers that became sandwiches, stew, the onions that went on to breed at the bottom of the crisper drawer, the cheese
  3. kriskitchen

    Bad Home Cookin'

    Oh do I remember my nemesis: cube steak. It was on a weekly rotation in the house o' mom. I am certain that our family dog, Ginger, was driven to her death by this evil meat. Cube steak (or as it was sometimes called in our house 'minute steak') is an odd subdivision of the beef family, small bits of meat stitched together by endless chewy indigestible cartilage. It's cow-flavored nylon. My sister and I would chew and chew until it would break down no further and then, discretely cough the residue into a napkin, ball the napkin into hand, drop hand to lap and hurl the nylon beef ball to
  4. “You can tell more about a man by looking in his refrigerator than in his eyes.” Or so goes the prayer that I mutter to myself as I eyeball the cracked faux-wood refrigerator handle. Amana side-by-side, Harvest Gold, circa 1974. The rubber seal puckers open with a loud fwak. In the next room, I hear my husband’s voice swing up a notch. Poor thing. Andy is trapped in a conversation with our host about titanium drivers. His heroic enthusiasm is to keep the man from thinking about my whereabouts. From discovering that I’m rummaging through his kitchen like some fridge burglar. * “Why don
  5. Yesterday, Nocciola gelato w/ chocolate syrup. Today, breakfast of champions: Nutella on toast. I've got a serious hazelnut jones going on.
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