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.
So Thanksgiving dinner has been served, eaten, and cleaned up. Most of the relatives have gone home, and you’re reclining, semi-comatose, on the sofa. Then Aunt Minnie from Altoona begins talking about Christmas shopping, and she Wants.To.Start.Tonight.
Here’s my wish for you:
I hope that after more than 30 years together, you and your SO (significant other) are still capable of surprising the heck out of each other.
I’ll bet you think this is going to be about dieting, don’t you?
Recently, I’ve learned something.
I’ve realized why my mom is so eager to have Petey and me visit, and why she doesn’t like it when we show up late, or leave early.
Normally my spouse and I enjoy each other’s company, and lead a relatively strife-free existence. But right now, I’m a little bit ticked off at Petey.
It’s well known that I’m no fan of the energy draining heat and humidity of our North Carolina summer. I watch for the subtlest of changes to leaf colors the way a middle school boy looks for whiskers on his upper lip.
Even though it was a dog biscuit, anything that smells that good baking has got to taste amazing, right?
Well, we’ll see.
Y’know, I should probably back up a bit here.
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.