Time-tested Recipes, Stories & Nostalgia
While it didn’t originate in the Strawberry Kitchen of the 1970s, this recipe for chicken pot pie very well could have, with its tell-tale ingredients of cream of celery soup and canned veggies. Please don’t hold the pedestrian ingredients against it.
In the 1970s, fish was what Catholics ate on Fridays. We weren’t Catholic. On Fridays, my parents would typically load us in the back of the Country Squire wagon and head out to Shakey’s Pizza or Pappy’s Hamburgers before taking in a family-friendly movie at the theater.
Why anyone makes brownies from a mix is beyond me. Not only do they taste like cardboard and have the mouth-feel of a dry sponge, mix brownies don’t take any less effort than scratch brownies. Plus, the latter can be thrown together in a jiffy.
Did ya’ll feel that? Yesterday morning, I walked outside to get the paper, and the temperature was, wait for it, in the seventies! This, coupled with the fact that those noxious cinnamon brooms are now polluting the entrance of every Publix in town.
Fair warning: this blog post is rated R, or at least a hard PG-13. If you’re offended by ribald humor, tune in again next week when we’ll be back to serving up the literary equivalent of tea cakes on lace doilies. This post also goes all the way around my elbow to get to my thumb.
It pains me to admit it, but I was a culinary Barbarian as a child. I dug the soft doughy centers out of French bread and dinner rolls, leaving the crusts in unsightly piles at the edge of my plate. I only liked lettuce of the iceberg variety, doused with salty Italian dressing.
Ice cream for breakfast? Yes, please! This recipe doesn’t look like much, but make it and you’ll thank me. If you don’t have a mini-processor, you can triple or quadruple this recipe, make it in a large processor, and store leftovers in the freezer.
There are some things I never tire of for breakfast, and here is one such concoctions. I have consumed one of these refreshing treats just about every morning during this long, hot, pandem-icky summer. Ya’ll, these are so. darn. good—“loud, rude slurping straw noises” good.
Do you remember your first adult dinner party? By that I mean, not a yawning affair you got dragged to by your parents, but rather a dinner you attended as a newly-minted adult, invited by a host who presumed you would be good company and an appreciative guest?