It doesn’t matter what kind of childhood you had. It might be eating ice cream for supper or watching TV in your boxers, but every kid has something that they vow they will do differently once they get their own home. My best girlfriend Bo absolutely refuses to flip the top sheet upside down when making her bed, so when folded over the blanket it’s right side up.
Like many other little boys, this one likes action movies, amusement parks and peanut butter cookies. He always wears baseball caps, and you can divine what he had for lunch by interpreting spots on his T-shirt. He’s a charming, typical little boy. Except this little boy is Petey, my 54-year-old husband.
Don’t ever go shopping on an empty stomach.
When The Kid was home, I made a big batch of pink sauce studded with Italian sausage. I like Gunnoe’s, but haven’t seen it in stores for years. Now I buy sausage at Costco. The sauce calls for about twelve links, but because it came from Costco, I have enough left in my freezer to open my own sandwich stand at the next state fair.
I was going to be a judge at Duke Homestead for its Pork, Pickles, and Peanuts festival, but I had some concerns.
I’ve long been intrigued by the notion of a pub crawl. But I’m a shockingly cheap drunk. So after the first half of the first spirituous libation, I’d be dancing on top of the table, closely followed by napping underneath it.
Petey’s question: “Did you try to poison us?”
Did you ever consider two very different people, say, Clint Eastwood and Justin Bieber, and marvel that they are from the same species?
Ladies, have I got a guy for you. It’s our family friend and my sensei of culinary arts, Chef Chrissie.
I absolutely adore Durham’s Farmers Market. But I have a horrible problem. It starts at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. For me, that’s practically the middle of the night.
Yesterday was a big day. I went to Costco, and only spent $1.35.
And I left as happy as a country singer at a sequin convention.
Petey and The Kid love spicy food. They relish vittles that make me break out in a sweat just by viewing them. If a dish even has a bit too much black pepper, it’s too burny for me and my timid palate.
But, I love onions. Raw or cooked, I never met an onion I didn’t like. But puzzlingly, my spouse and child run like bunnies from most members of the allium family. You’d think with their love of scorching foodstuffs, onions would be a walk in the park.
Pastry is hard.
Did you ever have a piece of pie where the crust has more in common with a welcome mat than an actual baked good?
I haven’t told this to y’all yet, but it’s really cool.
For Christmas, The Kid brought me face bacon — as least that’s what my little chef calls it.
My mom takes on way too much.
I forget it sometimes, but she’s not young. She gets around pretty well for somebody who went to kindergarten with Galileo, though.