As I tried to find a place in the refrigerator for the Thanksgiving leftovers, I made an unsettling discovery. I’m pretty sure I have a mustard addiction. I counted 16 half used bottles of mustard in a freaky collection that is clearly out of control.
No, I won’t be cooking this year even though I will offer a traditional Thanksgiving dinner thanks to Boulder Canyon Kettle Chips. Yes, you read that right. My Nashville son, William, arrived at our airiport with a complete Thanksgiving dinner in a bag….Kettle Chip bags.
It’s all my cousin’s fault. She’s a fabulous cook and over the years I’ve obtained some special recipes from her. None ever turn out like hers which makes me suspect she is leaving something critical out of the list of ingredients.
First, they nixed smoking and subjected female spectators to purse searches. Now they’ve gone too far.
A new policy at NFL stadiums limits the size of purses to “small clutch bags” roughly the size of a cell phone! Anything more has to be carried in a large clear plastic bag, like the ones you use for sandwiches. How tacky.
Once upon a time I fancied myself a gourmet cook. I put paper booties on my crown roasts and added white truffle oil to my grits. I stuffed every vegetable I could find, thinking it couldn’t possibly taste good on its own.
Mine was a simple case of “cooking to impress” to cover my inherent inadequacies in the kitchen. The sad truth is, my southern mother never taught me to cook because I made such a mess in the kitchen. Still do.