I’ve always felt that there are two kinds of people who frequent tea parties (not counting little kids and their guests drinking imaginary tea out of thimbles).
First, genteel ladies and gentlemen who like to get dressed up, and be around other fancy types. I don’t know a whole lot of those people; I mainly hobnob with the sweat suit set.
The sad, grubby little clipping had been stuck on the fridge forever. I’d torn the recipe from some magazine months, or even a year ago.
“But it wears out the pasta pots!”
That was the Newtonian-level reasoning behind Olive Garden’s policy of cooking pasta in unsalted water.
In high school, there was a guy named Kenny Brite. He was one of those old geezers that sit around the general store spinning yarns, only in a teenager’s body.
Take heed my readers, and you shall all know
How to have three steak dinners without too much dough
Oh jeez, I just reread this. Is it really as uber-dopey as it looks? Sorry.
Over the winter our Anatolian shepherd Riker was fighting a skin allergy. He was put on steroids.
My poor mother.
Growing up, I tormented both parents. Criminally lazy, I did my very few chores only after the threat of bodily harm. I took evil delight in pushing my brother’s buttons (most of which I’d installed). I’d try to see how many kids I could drive with in my 1971 Dodge Dart Swinger, Lancelot (the record stands at 11). My religion was “Question Authority.”
He was quiet, wore glasses and was the kind of redhead that ran a real risk of bursting into flame when exposed to the sun. He was also one of the smartest, and most talented kids in our class.
Ladies and germs — we have an authentic Christmas miracle.
I’ve mentioned before how impossible is it to get Petey to choose our evening meal. I get bupkis, neither by spontaneous utterance, nor when he’s prodded by a spouse who shall not be named.
Perhaps you’ve noticed my email handle at the end of the column every week; it’s ‘Momsequitur’.
When I write a column, it’s a careful dance.
My kitchen sensai, Chef Chrissie, has taught me many things.
I’ve done it a total of three times.
The first time was like being flung out of a giant slingshot. The next two were more gentle and gradual. The final time it lasted six hours.
Many people do it alone, but being a novice I always did it with another person.
“They’re either going to be amazing or a horrible, horrible failure”.
Yeah, I could act like a grownup and stoically deal with the summer heat and humidity. But whining and moaning like a big sweaty baby is how I live my truth.