Boring oatmeal is my normal breakfast of champions. Monday through Friday I dutifully prepare it and swallow it down for its heart-healthy powers. It helps that I sprinkle copious amounts of brown sugar over it and stir in a little heavyweight whole milk. Yet no matter what I add with every bite I still know I’m eating oatmeal.
Which is why I love weekend breakfasts. Plenty of coffee, fluffy pancakes, and lots of time to dwell over the paper make weekend breakfasts some of my favorite meals of the week. Unfortunately a hectic work schedule over this past weekend had me eating oatmeal on the run this past Saturday and Sunday. And when I woke up this morning, despite it being Monday, I just couldn’t stomach another bowl.
Call me tacky, but all I wanted to make for Valentine’s day was a red soup that could be garnished with a heart made from cream. A soup like this, I thought to myself, would be the ultimate culinary expression of my love. Borscht, the soup made from fresh beets that originated in Russia and Poland, is red and thus became my soup of choice. This despite the fact that my special valentine hates beets and would not be compelled to eat them just because I used them in a soup that was cute and holiday-appropriate.
It’s not often that I make dips, but when I was recently asked to bring a dip to a Super Bowl party, I knew I had to make something special. After all, dip at a Super Bowl party is right up there with turkey on Thanksgiving. It’s important and it better be good. Fortunately this recipe for caramelized onion dip is delicious. Unfortunately, I think I’m going to have to make another batch before the game tomorrow.
It started out innocently enough. Just a few carrot sticks to make sure that the dip was company-worthy. Quickly gobbled up, I pulled out the very old and very stale bag of chips from my pantry. The chips were terrible, but it didn’t matter. They were just the vehicle to get the dip to my mouth. Using that same logic, I dug out a spoon. And then I realized that not only had I eaten most of the dip, but that I was also about to start eating dip straight from a spoon. I harnessed what little dignity I had left, packaged up the dip, and stuck it in the very back of my refrigerator. So far I’ve managed to resist temptation, but I’m not sure I’m going to last much longer.
It’s the smell that pervades your car from miles away as you speed down a backwoods road. It makes your foot come off the accelerator and your mouth start watering. When you smell it, lunch becomes very important while your final destination can wait. The smoke is the telltale sign, but its the aroma of mesquite, applewood, or hickory that lets you know BBQ is in the vicinity.
As I write, this is what my house smells like. It’s making me crazy hungry and also causing me to have crazy thoughts. I’m actually praying that this smoky smell of BBQ pork straight from heaven itself will find its way into the upholstery and rugs of my house and stay there. I have no need for Glade air fresheners when my whole house smells deliciously like the BBQ place off of US-319 in backwoods Georgia. I am content and happy and I haven’t even tried the pork yet.