ight now, as I write this, I am pretty darn gruntled.
We live pretty close to Brier Creek, and the Earth Fare (10341 Moncreiffe Road, Raleigh). I love shopping there because they have all kinds of interesting items; lots of unusual produce, many different cheeses, and more organic products than I knew existed.
When celebrities are interviewed and asked what the best thing about fame is, many of them say all the different people that they meet.
Some things are much harder than you imagine. So hard in fact, that if you knew in advance how difficult they would be, you’d probably pass.
The other night I had the Cooking Channel on. Before or after commercials they’ll sometimes run a quick clip with a simple recipe, or a cooking tip.
So last week Petey and I had a couple of errands to run. It was one of those really cold, windy, raw days. The kind of day where you’d happily stay bundled up in bed sipping hot chocolate if you could. But of course you can’t (or at least I can’t).
A potato salad party. A pork chop party. A buttermilk biscuit party.
I would be much happier to attend any of those parties instead of a pizza party. What is it about pizza that automatically makes it into a party? Even ice cream only rates “social” status. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person on the planet who doesn’t adore pizza.
I’ve written before about how Petey is the perfect spouse for me.
But on the fancy/romance scale, he lands well above Blackbeard, but somewhere below Pepe Le Pew. His heart’s in the right place, but he eschews elaborate trappings—he is absolutely and completely unpretentious.
It’s a bum rap.
Calling a faulty piece of machinery a lemon — it’s wrong and unfair. It’s just blatant anti-lemon propaganda.
So! How’s 1989 going? I know that you think there’s nothing left to learn, but I’m writing to you from 2015 to stop you from making the same mistakes that this Debbie made.
My very favorite line from the original Star Trek series is, “I’m a doctor, not an escalator!”
Hilarious, yes, but I kind of know from where Bones was coming.
When I was first given the opportunity to write this weekly love letter to food and the Bull City, I was completely at sea. I had all kinds of questions.
In my daydreams, I’m glamorous and alluring. Late at night, after an exclusive party, my driver brings me home to my large tastefully decorated apartment in a luxury building in Art Deco City.
I consider myself a pretty good home cook.
But even if I won the Nobel Prize in brownies, the Pulitzer in meatloaf, or even an Oscar for my green pork chili, my friend Bosco would never let me forget about the cheese straws I made for him.
As much as we love it, our family jokes that the worst first date ever would be lunch consisting only of Costco’s free samples.
We adore nibbling our way through the warehouse and grazing our weight in little bites.
First, let me start by saying that I am cognizant of the fact that neither peanuts nor chickpeas are nuts.
Both are legumes, but they possess a certain nutty quality. And not just because they think “Jaws 2” was better than the original and sandals with socks are a good look.