I’m dedicating this month’s recipe to my dear, late father-in-law, Gwinn. Gwinn didn’t have a Greek bone in his body, but he was a full-blooded Hellenophile. His passion for all things Greek dated to a magical journey he made as a young man. While there, he became enchanted with the […]
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.
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.