We interrupt this blog for a short commercial break. DO NOT MISS THIS. GO SEE IT ON OPENING WEEKEND. I'm not kidding. We were very fortunate and grateful to screen the movie at the Fox Theater this evening, and even with me medicated, it was awesome. Do your life and your marriage right ... get your tickets and go. Not married? Doesn't matter ... it's something we all need to hear. Especially in these times. September 26th. DO NOT MISS OUT.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
A new kind of chef
Last night, I finally finished a soup I had started about a week ago.
Earlier in the year, I had a white bean soup at a downtown Atlanta restaurant, and I vowed I'd try to make it at home, because it was so good. I found a recipe and held on to it for months. Then I finally bought some dried beans, and held on to them for a while.
About a week ago, I soaked the beans, which took about 12 hours. Then I drained them and stored them, because I was too beat to make the soup by the time the beans had soaked.
But last night, I pulled out the beans and set out on the 1 hour, 5 minute prep (an unrealistic estimate from the recipe, which turned out to be almost two hours) of this cheesy white bean soup.
It was worth the wait. All the kids loved it. They kept wanting to give compliments to the chef, routing them to Veda. "Oh no ... this was your father's makings ... he's the chef of the night." And many thanks and praises came my way.
"But what about the sandwiches? I didn't make those," I admitted. "Let's say they were made by my sous chef."
Chaz took another bite of sandwich and looked at it, then turned to Veda. "Sue! These sandwiches are GREAT!"
Earlier in the year, I had a white bean soup at a downtown Atlanta restaurant, and I vowed I'd try to make it at home, because it was so good. I found a recipe and held on to it for months. Then I finally bought some dried beans, and held on to them for a while.
About a week ago, I soaked the beans, which took about 12 hours. Then I drained them and stored them, because I was too beat to make the soup by the time the beans had soaked.
But last night, I pulled out the beans and set out on the 1 hour, 5 minute prep (an unrealistic estimate from the recipe, which turned out to be almost two hours) of this cheesy white bean soup.
It was worth the wait. All the kids loved it. They kept wanting to give compliments to the chef, routing them to Veda. "Oh no ... this was your father's makings ... he's the chef of the night." And many thanks and praises came my way.
"But what about the sandwiches? I didn't make those," I admitted. "Let's say they were made by my sous chef."
Chaz took another bite of sandwich and looked at it, then turned to Veda. "Sue! These sandwiches are GREAT!"
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
It's just tiny rocks ...
Sand.
Now before I go totally off the deep end, let me set the record straight. I love walking on the beach. The beach is sand. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. So you'd think I love sand.
Well, if it would stay on the beach, perhaps. But it doesn't. And it doesn't in spades.
Perhaps it's a childhood trauma. I do remember being caught up in a particularly heavy surf and having my rear end drug through the sand, coming up with enough inside the lining of my swimsuit to level out the greens of a small golf course. Even at that tender age, I knew what uncomfortable meant when you're dealing with the area around the Gentiles, and SAND was certainly not a friend.
We spent about two hours at the beach today. My children seemed to have no problem with the fact that they were covered head to toe in the granular stuff. Now mind you, they didn't want to walk back to the car in it, but that's beyond the point.
I had been squatting with my back to the Gulf of Mexico building my sand resort ... one of those drizzle castles with a moat and then a retaining wall and another moat to fend off the raging sea. Unbeknownst to me, with each wave bashing into my posterior, tablespoons of the sugary stuff were depositing themselves inside my board shorts. Layering themselves between the outer shell and the lining. Crikey.
I got up (which took a second or two) and for a minute, I was alarmed. I thought I had my cell phone and that it had fallen out of my pocket into the leg of my board shorts. "No, that can't be. I don't have pockets." Plus, it was on both sides, on the backs of my thighs.
Arrgh ... you guessed it.
So I waded out into the surf, shaking the bottom of my board shorts trying to free myself from the grit. Perhaps no one was watching. Yeah, right ... EVERYBODY does a little people-watching on the beach. Don't say you haven't, because you have. And especially white pasty males shaking their legs in unnatural ways in the green surf.
After the bizarre water dance, I thought I had it all removed, and we set out on our journey to cross the blazing noonday Sahara back to the beachside showers to rinse off. Like a dribbling little public beach shower really gets it all. Nope. Especially when it's in your hair.
We get back to my in-laws house and the kids hit the showers. Had I been crafty enough, I could have used the sand that came off of them to make the concrete for our new addition's foundation. Why weren't they uncomfortable??? They sat in that stuff all the way from the beach to the house! A 20-minute ride! I would have been going bonkers.
How is it that sand can get in places where other natural resources can't? Apparently I had gotten into it more than I realized. You know you're cursed by the sand gods if you take a potty break and you pass sand.
So I hit the showers to rid once and for all (until the next beach trip) these microscopic boulders plaguing my crevices. Down the drain they went, perhaps on their way back to the sea. Farewell and good riddance.
And don't even get me started on sunscreen ...
Now before I go totally off the deep end, let me set the record straight. I love walking on the beach. The beach is sand. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. So you'd think I love sand.
Well, if it would stay on the beach, perhaps. But it doesn't. And it doesn't in spades.
Perhaps it's a childhood trauma. I do remember being caught up in a particularly heavy surf and having my rear end drug through the sand, coming up with enough inside the lining of my swimsuit to level out the greens of a small golf course. Even at that tender age, I knew what uncomfortable meant when you're dealing with the area around the Gentiles, and SAND was certainly not a friend.
We spent about two hours at the beach today. My children seemed to have no problem with the fact that they were covered head to toe in the granular stuff. Now mind you, they didn't want to walk back to the car in it, but that's beyond the point.
I had been squatting with my back to the Gulf of Mexico building my sand resort ... one of those drizzle castles with a moat and then a retaining wall and another moat to fend off the raging sea. Unbeknownst to me, with each wave bashing into my posterior, tablespoons of the sugary stuff were depositing themselves inside my board shorts. Layering themselves between the outer shell and the lining. Crikey.
I got up (which took a second or two) and for a minute, I was alarmed. I thought I had my cell phone and that it had fallen out of my pocket into the leg of my board shorts. "No, that can't be. I don't have pockets." Plus, it was on both sides, on the backs of my thighs.
Arrgh ... you guessed it.
So I waded out into the surf, shaking the bottom of my board shorts trying to free myself from the grit. Perhaps no one was watching. Yeah, right ... EVERYBODY does a little people-watching on the beach. Don't say you haven't, because you have. And especially white pasty males shaking their legs in unnatural ways in the green surf.
After the bizarre water dance, I thought I had it all removed, and we set out on our journey to cross the blazing noonday Sahara back to the beachside showers to rinse off. Like a dribbling little public beach shower really gets it all. Nope. Especially when it's in your hair.
We get back to my in-laws house and the kids hit the showers. Had I been crafty enough, I could have used the sand that came off of them to make the concrete for our new addition's foundation. Why weren't they uncomfortable??? They sat in that stuff all the way from the beach to the house! A 20-minute ride! I would have been going bonkers.
How is it that sand can get in places where other natural resources can't? Apparently I had gotten into it more than I realized. You know you're cursed by the sand gods if you take a potty break and you pass sand.
So I hit the showers to rid once and for all (until the next beach trip) these microscopic boulders plaguing my crevices. Down the drain they went, perhaps on their way back to the sea. Farewell and good riddance.
And don't even get me started on sunscreen ...
Saturday, August 2, 2008
God Bless Truett Cathy
This man has to be one of the greatest heros of our time.
For those of you who are under-rock dwellers, Truett Cathy is the man behind Chick-fil-A. Beyond his unwavering dedication to God and support of family, including refusing to open restaurants on Sunday, he has one thing that just rocks my world.
He got the recipe for public school yeast rolls and uses it to make his Chick-n-Minis.
When I found these little jewels of poultry for breakfast, I was in heaven. I used to trade stuff to get yeast rolls in school. I even mentioned them in my high school graduation speech.
Now call me strange (as if you haven't before), but I used to put stuff in my rolls. Green beans. Mashed potatoes. And certainly any type of meat we had been served up, however mysterious it may be. I loved making yeast roll sandwiches. I still make sandwiches out of stuff, much to the chagrin of my wife as my children gleefully request to "put mac and cheese in white bread like Daddy."
So thank you, Truett Cathy and all your marketing and research for bringing back these delicious baked goods to my life. And it doesn't hurt one bit that they are stuffed with a good ole piece of fried chicken. A man after my own heart.
For those of you who are under-rock dwellers, Truett Cathy is the man behind Chick-fil-A. Beyond his unwavering dedication to God and support of family, including refusing to open restaurants on Sunday, he has one thing that just rocks my world.
He got the recipe for public school yeast rolls and uses it to make his Chick-n-Minis.
When I found these little jewels of poultry for breakfast, I was in heaven. I used to trade stuff to get yeast rolls in school. I even mentioned them in my high school graduation speech.
Now call me strange (as if you haven't before), but I used to put stuff in my rolls. Green beans. Mashed potatoes. And certainly any type of meat we had been served up, however mysterious it may be. I loved making yeast roll sandwiches. I still make sandwiches out of stuff, much to the chagrin of my wife as my children gleefully request to "put mac and cheese in white bread like Daddy."
So thank you, Truett Cathy and all your marketing and research for bringing back these delicious baked goods to my life. And it doesn't hurt one bit that they are stuffed with a good ole piece of fried chicken. A man after my own heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)