I'm not making light of Thanksgiving Day by suggesting we should be thankful for leftovers. To have enough is a feast. To have leftovers is a blessing of abundance, and that's what Thanksgiving is all about.
If my wife wasn't such a good cook, I'd be 50 pounds lighter. I'm not blaming her, though.
My English IV teacher, Reomia Unold, said ambrosia was the food of the gods. I disagreed and told her so. She shook her head and sighed.
I'm often asked why I don't write other commentaries. It's better to write about things you know about, and it's easier to do it when it's something most folks can agree on - like food.
Basic training in 1973 at Fort Jackson, S.C., was not a culture shock to me. Daddy was a Marine, so I grew up under strict supervision and was used to being dropped for pushups or called a maggot.
Back in the Stone Ages - before hot wings were invented to satiate armchair quarterbacks, and when pro-football games were on Friday, Saturday or Monday and did not interfere with Sunday church services - football fanatics chowed down pounds of cheese, summer sausage and tater chips during the game.
Sometimes at a public gathering someone will privately comment on one of my food columns. Most are kind, telling me how much they agree with my assessment of steaks, seafood or certain restaurants. Others tell me up front I got it all wrong about which is better - North Carolina, Georgia, Texas, Memphis, Kansas City or St. Louis barbecue.
The other night, I enjoyed a microwave corn dog.
You probably wouldn't notice the place if you passed it a hundred times, maybe on your way to Lake Mayer for a picnic, or coming back from a shopping trip at The Pig in Sandfly - unless you have an eye for Spanish and a taste for delectable baked goods.
Running a restaurant is hard work. Just ask Estella - aka Dr. Estella Edwards Shabazz, city alderwoman for Savannah's 5th District.
When my wife and I were preparing for our first child, we attended a bunch of classes about birthing. They told us our daughter wouldn't develop a sense of taste for the first year or longer.
Jams, jellies and fruit preserves always have been an essential part of what I considered dessert - a cathead biscuit smothered with butter and homemade jam, jelly or preserves.
I chose the infantry because I love being outdoors. For years, I shivered in icy arctic winds, roasted under a blistering desert sun, melted under a thick jungle canopy or suffered from hypoxia on some remote mountain top.
Other than Atkinson's peanut-butter bars and the orange-slice jelly candies I enjoyed as a kid, I've been good about keeping candy at arm's length. But when I was stationed in Italy, I discovered that European chocolatiers take chocolate to a whole new level. Had my unit not rotated to Fort Bragg early, I might now be diabetic.
I prefer to buy organic fruits, veggies and meats. Rarely can I afford that, however, so I at least want it fresh. If I can't get it fresh, the next acceptable level is frozen. If I can't even get it frozen, I'll accept canned, depending on what's on the label.
I like bologna - the mild sausage made from beef or meat scraps (beef, pork, turkey and/or chicken), not baloney, the mess you hear from TV infomercials about snake-oil pills that increase your memory, help you lose weight, fight bad breath and increase your personal wealth.
Every day, twice a day I check my garden to see if I have any "maters" ripe and ready for picking. In less sophisticated parts of the country, this veggie-fruit is called a tomato, but I live in Georgia, so I call them maters.
It doesn't matter if you spell it donut or doughnut - these little ring-shaped dough cakes are deep-fried and smothered in sweetness. Donuts are a poor man's dessert.
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