Pardon Me

I am in a food coma.

Yankee Cousin said "I want to cook dinner."

I said "Okay".  I'm not stupid, you know.

I felt a little guilty because she's in there cooking and I'm not, and I am the one who always is...

Anyway, I did some laundry, made a phone call, etc.

Then the food was ready; we ate like hogs.

Although we forced ourselves to clean up the kitchen, it was extremely difficult. Sorta like running through water that is up to your neck.

Got her done, though.

But I am barely functioning.

Need a nap. Too late in the day to do so....

I'm in  a food coma, sitting upright.

Blame it on the Folks

During this harsh winter, when there have been hours at a time that we have been unable to leave our house, we have found relief.

We eat.

I was a bit apprehensive when putting on my jeans yesterday for fear they wouldn't meet in the  middle. I have been watching myself practically balloon out this past week.

They did fasten, and to town we went.

But, truly, we have cooked and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Does snow increase the appetite?

Salmon, chicken, steak, pork chops, spaghetti, vegetable lasagna, taters, corn, beans, peas. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I do believe it's obvious whose fault this is, however: our folks.

Did they not have to fatten up during the winter months for the onslaught of hard labor come spring and summer?

Look at what all you will have to do when springtime finally peers over the horizon and smiles.

You'll have to- um - cut some fresh flowers to bring into the house. Pay the yard boys for mowing and stuff. Open a window to let in fresh air. Close the window so you can stop sneezing and call the cleaning lady to dust and vacuum all the pollen off everything. And you probably have a library book or two that needs returning.

See what I mean.

All the fault lies with our folks.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

Soup Beans and Cornbread

I have mentioned southern cooking before, and made fun of folks getting "bean soup" and "soup beans" mixed up because they ain't from around here.

But yesterday as I ate this meal I had prepared (along with fried taters, chow chow and a sweet onion), I realized how much history it brought back to my memory.

I could sense my Daddy John sitting there, his one ring finger bent to his wrist from arthritis, the light glinting off his glasses, the easy grin he had when hearing something funny.

I could see my Mama Hill serving me 'pop taties' in my old green high chair, lots of family surrounding us, conversation all around.

I could  hear my mother-in-law's sweet giggle, laughing at something silly Husband or myself had said, as she set the kitchen table with cornbread, soup beans and fried potatoes. She always made extra potatoes because she knew how much I loved them.

I could hear my own Mother's voice on the telephone, telling me that somebody needed to come and get a pot of soup beans she'd just finished cooking. The blessing of that is, I may hear her say that tomorrow.

How wonderful it is to see Husband's eyes light up when he knows that's what I'm cooking for dinner or supper. His favorite meal, bar none.

The simple pleasures of life are what make memories and sweetness in our life.

There is nothing better.

The Chef is Out....Way Out

I received an invitation to a bridal shower the other day. And tucked inside was what has recently become in vogue; a card on which  for me to write down my favorite recipe for the bride.

Well, this leaves me with a dilemma.

I still have the recipe "Betty Jo's Burnt Toast". I've tried it a few times, but frankly it makes me too nervous. I'm always afraid the toaster oven will burst into flames.

And then there is "Brenda's Boiled Water". This seems like a cinch.  But as you may already know, a watched pot never boils, and I just don't have time to stand around.

Now, I can cook taters. Fried, mashed, stewed, baked, cheesed, garlicked, you name it.

I can bake, broil, roast, fry, and use chicken in creamed sauces.

I make a mean spaghetti sauce.

T-bone steaks, watch out.

I can cook a pone of cornbread.

Green beans, field, blackeye, crowder and icky green peas, I can cook.

Biscuits taste good, but I can't get them to stick together.

I see a recipe in a magazine and the name of  it sounds good. The magazines says something like "Throw Together  Dinner in Eight Easy Minutes"

As follows:

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees.

I can do that. Well, technically, I can't. My digital thingie that controls the zero and the nine won't work, so I have to put it on 448.  Then the oven beeps at me and changes it to 450, as if to say, "Fool! I don't do 448!"

But by the time I start reading the ingredients, I quickly see something I don't only not have, I have never even heard of the ingredient in all my 59  years.

I quietly close the magazine, hunt up Domino's coupons, give them a quick call,  and pick up my latest book of fiction.

I suspect the recipe is fiction, too.

Maybe I can write on the bride-to-be's recipe card about 'whop 'em' biscuits.

You  know you have to hit the cardboard exactly right on the precise edge of the counter or you won't be able to open them correctly.

That right there could be a chef's worse nightmare, that could.