I was recently asked which of my collected recipes was my all-time favorite. This was certainly food for thought (pun intended) because I have several favorite dishes and meals that don’t necessarily require recipes.
Once I filtered those from my mental search criteria I asked myself which of my favorite dishes really depended on the recipe itself. Which one truly called upon the combinations of the specific ingredients and shouldn’t be altered too much? It didn’t take long to recall this recipe and, after much consideration, I have deemed it my all-time favorite!
The original recipe came from a Southern Living chowder ...
I’ve been absolutely starved for inspiration since the New Year. What do you write about when everyone is on a diet and every magazine is littered with bold headlines with the likes of, “The Wheatgrass Mold Diet!” and “Drink Your Own Urine to Lose 10 Pounds in 1 week!” My favorite foodie websites feature nothing but lightened-up recipes and salads. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good salad and have created some fabulous recipes of my own over the years, but who wants to eat cold greens when it’s freezing outside? Cuddling up by the fire with a bowl ...
My memories of growing up in a small Southern town are colored in the vibrant hues of love, fellowship and camaraderie, the earthy tones of upturned field rows and split fire wood, the crisp whites of the First Baptist church and linens on the clothes line, but those memories are also tinged of the dark purples and reds of regret.
Like many small towns, we had a mysterious character for the children to fear and be cruel to. Ours was a black man who walked the streets, limping; his body and face covered with white-pink scars, his lips contorted and eyebrows ...
Nothing gets me in the Christmas spirit like tequila shots and boilermakers. OK, so I know that may seem a little bizarre, if not sacrilegious, but there’s a story here.
For all intents and purposes, I was raised as an only child (I do have a much older half-brother but he never lived with us) so Mom, Dad and I had to crash the holiday goings-on of extended family for any semblance of that warm and fuzzy Norman Rockwell Christmas experience.
Most Christmas Eves were spent at Aunt Alice and Uncle Dave’s house – a place such the polar opposite of my ...
It’s so exhilarating to find a performer like Lauren Lucas. She’s powerful and curvy and sexy and talented and from South-by-God-Carolina! I've known Lauren since we were little girls and though I don't get to see her much now that she's in Nashville, I'm always a taken aback when I hear her strong and sultry voice or see those in-the-moment photos from her latest performances.
"With soulful pop melodies, country undertones, and thoughtful lyrics, Lauren is a powerhouse singer/songwriter and skilled multi-instrumentalist. Think Bonnie Raitt sipping tea with Dolly Parton at a blues joint." - Supersonic
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I’ve recently become aware of a shift in my dessert preferences from those made with chocolate to those made with fruit. Being the culinary anthropologist that I am, I’ve spent some time thinking about how and when my pendulum might have begun to swing.
Like anyone with a uterus, I have always held chocolate on the pedestal it belongs — right between lycra and Jesus. Then I started to notice that oatmeal raisin began to sound better than chocolate chip cookies, the pear tart outshined the chocolate cake, a slice of apple pie with ice-cream talked to me louder than the ...
One of the biggest fights my husband and I ever had was over bacon grease. Like any good Southern cook, I save bacon drippings for later use. Bacon grease is as important to some dishes as saffron or white truffle oil is to others. My cornbread wouldn’t be “My” cornbread without the bacon grease I heat in my cast iron skillet before adding the batter for that oh-so-perfect crust. If I have enough, I add it to the oil I fry my chicken in. I add it to green beans, crowder peas and any other slow-cooked Sunday Dinner vegetable side ...
I never really loved Thanksgiving turkey. I loved the things that went with it: fat-laden casseroles masquerading as vegetables, Uncle Dave drinking a little too much whiskey and rolling around on the living room floor with seven kids on his back, spending the whole morning in the kitchen cooking with Mom with the Macy’s Day parade in the background, that amazing dressing that was only cooked on this one day during the year, tabletops filled with pies and cakes and everyone piled up like hostages in the den later watching football and dozing in and out of consciousness.
But, if I’m ...
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