About this time every year, I get a real thing for oranges. Call it the legacy of growing up in a band-fruit town. I exercised my auntly duty and bought fruit from the nephews, who are now both in band, meaning I purchased two count ’em two boxes of fruit. I’ve got a box of amazingly slick-skinned navel oranges in the kitchen. And a box of pink grapefruit in the car. I don’t even like…
Dang, my friends can cook. And they’re spilling secrets like beans from a bag with a big ol’ hole in it. Come for the links, stay for the bad similes!
SS visited this weekend, and, hoping to counteract the heaping amounts of awfulness we ingested at IHOP (or, I-Poh those of us who may be dyslexic), we went to the grocery story Sunday night to stock up on semi- to mostly healthy things to make for dinner. We settled on the ingredients for some grilled chicken wraps and I decided that I wanted to try to recreate the roasted grapes I had at Lesley’s house…
I want to take it out behind a middle school and get it pregnant. I was just lamenting last night to Ay that I haven’t been to a single cookout this year, and just now my dad calls me to tell me that he’s loading up the truck with fifty pounts of ground beef, ten chickens, and two hogs*, but that I may need to pick up hot dogs on my way to Saltillo. Along…
So, internet, I’m up late (not really, it’s only 12:30, but I’m tired), unable to find anything of quality on television. It smells like cat shit in here and I have had a sour stomach all day and haven’t had much of an appetite until now (after crunching down on a nearly two-inch-long chicken bone in my three-day old chicken salad sandwich, I lost my appetite for a while). I don’t know what’s wrong with…
[for Sunday, Nov. 4] I think the world, as a whole, would be a whole lot better off if people went on picnics more often. And if everyone could have access to Phil’s chicken salad. Project 365
Brittney wrote a little while back about her crush on the pomegranate, and someone commented that it seems like a whole lotta work for a little bit of fruit. It’s technically true, I suppose, but how lovely and meditative to stand over a bowl of water, your hands submerged, gently coaxing each seed from its little cubby and then discarding the pulp. When you’re done and you’ve cleared away the cloudy water and the bits…
I’ve still not gotten over the irrational love/hate/mostly hate thing I have for Savannah, but never did I expect to find something in Savannah I can actually gush about and say that I really, really like. Uptown is this restaurant on Main Street that’s kind of in the tradition of trendy New York bistros, where things are black and glossy and stylish and asymmetrical and that sort of thing. I’d eaten there once before when…
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