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.
Determined not to return to the grocery store until I use up stuff that’s not paying rent to live at my house, I plundered through the freezer today.
I had six bags of frozen spinach , a bag of flash frozen chicken breasts, and some other stuff I couldn’t identify. A long time lover of spinach, I decided to improvise, or I could set the spinach outside and watch the raccoons run for the hills. I decided to cook it up.
There is nothing still in working order in my home. The central heat went out last month – good riddance. I no longer have to worry about hot flashes.
This morning after I got out of my bath, I heard gurgling in my kitchen sink – clear across the house.