Believe it or not….Chip Kelly is not the favorite chip of the NFL. Instead, try Tostitos. Super Bowl Sunday is coming up. It’s time to search our kitchen playbook to plan the menu.
We remember our veterans this time of year, and a special date comes to mind. Nov. 11, of course – the day World War I, the Great War, ended. In remembrance of all of our veterans, I’m sending a shoutout and a big “Thank You,” and hope you had a Happy Veterans Day.
Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. It’ll do magic believe it or not. Bippidy-boppity-boo. These words may not magically turn your pumpkin into a Rolls-Royce or produce the charming prince who is the man of your dreams, but they are a catchy tune that you can sing while you’re cooking up something special – like The Great Pumpkin Meatloaf.
It was sweet, good and fun for everyone. The Philadelphia Honey Festival, held last weekend, proved to bee the queen bee of festivals — one sweet treat. If you missed this year’s festival, mark your calendar for next September, and bee ready to buzz over there. Besides honey tastings from local beekeepers with jars of honey and honeycomb for sale, there were hive demonstrations, honey extractions, plant sales and children’s activities, along with music and a cooking contest. Additionally, two authors were on hand and discussed their new books – one a bee thriller about colony collapse disorder, sprinkled with suspense and romance, and the other about urban beekeeping. Libations made with honey for sampling included mead and Colonial porter — both “unbee-lievaby” tasty.
Bonjour! Vive les Frites!
Saints and begorrah, it’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s time for leprechauns, fairies and rainbows, and a pot of gold. Mix shamrocks and shenanigans along with some green beer (oh no!), a little blarney, and you’ve got to have some fun, or craic (pronounced crack), as they say in Ireland. That’s the truth, or my name isn’t Donna O’Zitter McBordelon.
Since Eve made that unforgivable mistake, traditionally, woman has labored by the sweat of her brow in the kitchen, among other places.
My hometown is not tattooed on my forehead. I don’t carry a sign saying so, but in conversations with out-of-towners, invariably, I’m asked, “Are you from Philadelphia?”
“I think I was born with a rolling pin in my hand,” I declared as I wielded the instrument of flat destruction across the pizza dough, flattening the lump into one, very thin cover for a Stromboli extraordinaire. We were making a Stromboli — my sister-in-law, Denise, and me. It would be our family’s last visit to Atlanta to see Nanny, my husband’s mother, who was in at-home hospice at Denise’s house. Denise wanted to learn how to make Stromboli. But who can do that without a rolling pin? A previous phone conversation had disclosed that we would be without that necessary tool, so I brought mine along on our trip from Philadelphia.