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My Granny Goode--known as "Goody Granny" when my brother and I were very young, because of the constant supply of treats on hand whenever she was in the vicinity. We lived far apart and rarely saw one another, but that just made the smell of her kitchen all the more magical. Long since gone, but never forgotten. Granny Goode's Sweet Cream Pie lives on.

I am utterly addicted to Vanilla Creme Frosted Mini-Wheats. I eat them by the handful, straight from the box, like cookies.

Suzi, a friend of my eight-year-old son's uses just such a device. My son thinks it's very cool and has said (more than once) that he wishes he could have one too. Should this become an option for your daughter, it certainly seems to be easy for Matt to use. The school nurse did a presentation in my son's class at the beginning of last year, explaining to the kids what diabetes is and why Matt would be "poking himself all day," as my son describes it--nobody was afraid or worried or treated Matt like an outsider, as far as I can tell. In fact, he's one of the more popular kids in class. (My son is pretty much convinced that this is because of his diabetes and his cool medical devices. )

I love Callebaut--very creamy, and the perfect addition to blondies. I like Lindt as well, but I find it more sweet than creamy. (If white chocolate goes wrong, I find, it's usually with this ratio.)

Bluebell is our local Texas favorite, making all kinds of regional goodies like Tres Leches, Dos Amigos (Mexican chocolate and Mexican vanilla--mmmmmmm), and a recent addition, Cantelope and Cream.

"Cheese on four Quarters?" "Cheese on four Quarters is two, please." "Cheese two Quarters. Thank you." Ah, I remember it like it was yesterday, though actually it was . . . eek! 25 years ago. I worked at McDonald's in Boise, Idaho during my last two years of high school. That happened to be the time when McNuggets were first being introduced, and they were all the rage. I ate more than my share of them using my half-price employee discount--I don't think they offer the honey mustard dipping sauce anymore, but that was my favorite. Happy Meals were also relatively new, as I recall. We had one promotion where the HM's came in a plastic spaceship, rather than a cardboard box, but the top and bottom of the spaceship would not snap together once the food was inside, and my boss insisted that we could not just put the food on a tray and hand the kid a spaceship. "That's not Mickey Style," he said. The store where I worked was very clean, and I often had to do lobby cleanup (almost always a girl's job, because the guys had to do grill cleanup after closing.) Trust me, there is no worse smell on earth than a trashbag full of McDonald's food that's been ripening for half an hour or more. And then those bags had to be transported out back, to the dumpster, where other bags had been ripening in the sun all day . . . Not an experience I'd want to repeat, and I'll encourage my own kids to find other kinds of jobs, but I did learn some good lessons there. And when I got a job as a cashier at the university bookstore during grad school, my boss was in awe of my ability to keep a cool head during the hectic periods at the beginning and end of a semester. That was nothing compared to a lunch hour at McD's.

All right, I admit it: I can't make Jello. Whenever I try, it refuses to gel. People stare at me when I tell them this; they're convinced I must be joking. When they realize I'm not, they laugh out loud. (Oh, the cruelty!) My mother once insisted that I could make Jello. "Anybody can do it," she said. So she watched from over my shoulder while I carefully followed the directions on the box--and was stunned when the Jello didn't gel. I've come to the conclusion that I must be missing the Jello gene. Fortunately, at this point in my life, I'm not particularly interested in making Jello; when I do, it's usually by way of demonstration (see above.) What are the dishes you can't make, no matter how hard you try?

When I was a kid, any time I (or my siblings) had an upset stomach and couldn't keep down any food, my mother made a batch of jello. Rather than letting it cool and gel, she had us drink a small glass of "jello juice" while it was still warm. It always made us feel better, and it nearly always stayed down when nothing else would. I've offered my own kids "jello juice" a few times, when I was feeling desperate in the face of a stomach virus, and it has the same effect on them. No idea why this works but, for us, it does.

These days, most residence halls do not allow students to have hot plates, Foreman grills, toaster ovens, microwaves--except for those provided and designated for public use--or much of anything beyond a hot pot, a coffee maker and an air popper. All in the name of safety, of course. And given that every campus I've taught or lived on has had at least one fire in campus housing per year, I don't think this policy is a bad idea. That being said, I'll add that I made lots and lots of pasta dishes using my little hot pot, both cold salads (small refrigerators are almost always permissible) and hot entrees. You can boil small portions of chicken in stock, then dice and use in green salads or pasta dishes. It's also useful for melting chocolate (fondue, anyone?) I never tried a cheese fondue in the hot pot, but I'm guessing that might work as well.

Is the Airliner still open in Iowa City? While I was a student at the writers' workshop, that was my favoriate place for a big old burger lunch. It turned into a sorority/fraternity hangout in the evenings, but during the day it couldn't be beat. I was also fond of the Brown Bottle for Italian food. Haven't been back to Iowa City in 15 years, though, so it's possible neither of these places still exist.

What about Sugar Cream Pie? (The name of which basically tells you what's in it.) I must take issue with the notion that peach cobbler isn't a traditional southern dessert. Around these parts of Texas, anyway, the ubiquitous peach cobbler is second only to pecan pie. And before anyone says that Texas isn't really part of The South, let me remind you that them's fightin' words . . .

Me either, Therese! In my earlier post, I should have mentioned that yoga was a terrific suggestion for Miz Ducky. My best friend is a yoga therapist; she works with a number of clients who have specific health issues, creating a yoga practice that works within (and eventually challenges, if possible or desirable) whatever health parameters that person is dealing with. I'm sure there are similar therapists in your area, Miz D. Yoga is a great friend to all of us who would, given our druthers, rather eat than sweat.

Peaches. It's summer, after all, and this is Texas.

Just to reiterate Anna's point--portion control, not food control, is the only "plan" that works long-term. This was the message I finally, finally managed to absorb from three stints with Weight Watchers. When I got it through my head that telling myself "No more ice cream! Ever!" was a sure-fire way to fail at getting my weight under control, I was able to see that eating a small serving of real ice cream on occasion wasn't a problem; eating a pint of lowfat ice cream, in one sitting, on a regular basis, certainly was. As I try to teach my kids now, there's no such thing as a bad food or a good food; there are foods we should eat more of and foods we should eat less of. I don't want them to think that deprivation is the road to healthy living; I want them to eat that ice cream cone with abandon. And then go home and make a nice big salad for dinner.

My mom made this same dish, but we called it scalloped potatoes. Because of the ham, we ate it as a main dish. I was twelve years old before someone pointed out that this was odd--that scalloped potatoes were, like mashed potatoes, supposed to be a side dish. She hasn't made this casserole in years, for some reason, but it was always one of my favorites. Her salmon croquettes are darn tasty, too. These she makes for me anytime I'm home for a visit, along with what we've always called "raw fries"-- pan fried sliced potatoes and onions. Mmmmmm. Can you tell that I grew up in Idaho, home of the famous potatoes?

I agree. my husband and I did a taste test with all three products--the original Diet Coke, the DC with Splenda, and the Zero. Maybe it's psychological, but I definitely preferred the original DC. The DC with Splenda was okay, but I found the Zero completely undrinkable. My eight-year-old son, on the other hand, took a sip and pronounced it "Awesome!" If they're aiming at a younger demographic, it appears they hit their mark.

If you're hungry while passing through Boise on I-84, this will be a bit out of your way--but there's no better burger than what you'll find at the Westside Drive-In on State Street. Also try the frozen baked potato. (It's a sundae, not a side dish, and truly excellent.) A year ago I would have recommended the College Drive-In, just across the street from the university and closer to the Interstate--but, sadly, it closed down earlier this summer. I felt like I'd lost one of my arms when I heard the news from my sister. People waited in a three-hour line for one last banana-chocolate milkshake and Bronco Burger!

I'm a big Sonic fan, but I don't go deep into their menu. I know what I like, and I know it's going to be good, no matter which Sonic I visit--so they get points for consistency. The only fast food restaurant where I'm likely to try every new menu item is a Texas chain, Taco Cabana, which may have the best darn Mexican fast food known to humankind.

I love all the sours--they come in a sugar free variety, too, which makes them an almost guiltless pleasure--but the green apple is my favorite. Also pear and, though I haven't seen it recenty, grapefruit. Basically I love all the fruit flavors. I can eat a capuccino or chocolate or peanut butter, but those aren't the flavors I crave. I'm almost physically incapable of passing by a bag of the sours if I wander into the candy aisle at the grocery store (and avoid the candy aisle for precisely this reason.)

← Just wanted to say thanks for this idea. I made an ice cream cake for my husband for Father's Day and wanted to frost it in whipped cream--but I'm one of those people with a fear of making butter, having done this at a few crucial points in the past. Yesterday, I stopped whipping when I thought I was done, took the bowl out of the mixer--and the minute I did so, the cream collapsed. So I whisked for a bit longer, and suddenly I had these beautiful stiff peaks. I should add that I was using what my store sells as "Baker's Whipping Cream," which comes sweetened and with stabilizers added. I hadn't tried it before, but it worked so well that I certainly will use it again.

Exactly. I bought a four-pack at my local grocery store because I'm always up for something new . . . these smelled like grape Kool-Aid (or, actually, like this weird doll I had as a kid, which came in a grape-scented locket) and tasted like a good crisp apple. The smell/taste disjunction was intrusive.

Count me in. Yes, I'm a watermelon hater. Melon, in general, is not my thing, but I can choke down honeydew when I have to. I can't eat anything that's even been in the vicinity of watermelon. The first time I met my now-husband's family was on the 4th of July in Kansas and, yes, of course they offered me a big old slice of watermelon. It didn't occur to anyone that it was possible to dislike the wretched thing. I was torn between seeming weird and not throwing up at our first meeting. Ultimately, I decided that not throwing up was probably the better choice.

Perhaps because today is Mother's Day, I've been thinking about some of the staples in my own mother's repertoire. My mom was a pretty standard 1970's-issue cook, meaning we ate a lot of one-can-of-this-mixed-with-one-can-of-that casseroles while I was growing up; still, there are several things I associate with her only, things that taste like home, whether she makes them for me or I make them for myself. One of those things is what my family has always referred to as The Birthday Cake--a white cake with lemon filling (nothing fancy, usually just cooled lemon pudding spread between the layers) and a very light marshmallow frosting, called "Happy Birthday Frosting" on the recipe card I cribbed it from. That combination of lemon and marshmallow probably sounds disgusting, but it tastes like home to me. What tastes like home to you?

My heartbreak food of choice: rice pudding, heavy on the cinnamon and vanilla. Raisins optional. (I prefer dried apricots, myself.) My heartbreak therapy: bread. A good old-fashioned white bread, which can then be eaten warm, with butter and honey. The smell itself is healing. Above all, give yourself permission to eat/cook/buy whatever you want until resuming a new version of a normal life feels not only manageable, but necessary. The universe is wise! Trust that all this sadness will lead you to a new and much better place.

The rule at our house is that everyone tries three bites of everything, even if it's something you don't think you'll like, because tastebuds change. My son (Mr. Picky) is harder to please than my daughter, but he knows the rule and rarely tries to get around it. If I know the entree is something he isn't going to like, I try to be sensitive about that and make him something different--something easy, like a sandwich--but he still has to try the offending dish. Many times he'll say "That's not so bad" before switching back to his sandwich. He's already changed his mind on a number of things, making the sandwich option a less frequent requirement. Knowing he had an option was what eliminated the need for rebellious behavior. The point, for me, is getting the kids to try new things in a way that respects their right to not eat what they don't enjoy. I really don't want them eating out of guilt--that just sets the stage for all sorts of food-related issues. I realize adults have to do this sometimes, but hopefully not too often--and hopefully not at home. Mealtime was frequently a battle when I was growing up, and I really want the dinner table to be a pleasant place in my kids' memories. Still, I feel completely justified in telling my kids "This is not a restaurant and I am not your personal chef." Congrats on your new arrival, Toasted! I've been there (bedrest and all), and I know it's hard to remember how fast they grow up and life gets back to normal. Er . . . what passes for normal, anyway.