Good morning.
This won't be anything really new, just a couple of ideas on how you can use food in your refrigerator to make a couple of really good meals.
I had three large red tomatoes that had been sitting out in my kitchen for a few days, and knew I had to deal with them. Numero uno was past it when I got around to it; it was well on the way to bad. So I tossed it, but the other two were still intact and looked good though too ripe to slice. So I cut them into quarters and blended them in my mini Cuisineart until they were liquid. I poured them into a jar and had them in the refrigerator while I pondered the rest of my options.
I had a cold cooked dinosaur chicken breast in the refrigerator as well, but what with driving all over the creation and going to the hospital on the docket this week, it had been sitting there and looked mighty petrified.
So, I took that chicken breast and put it into a saucepan and added chicken broth to cover. I added onions because I love them so much and to me they add to anything. I sprinkled in a few herbs of the oregano/rosemary/marjoram type, and set it to cook. After it had all simmered for a time, I added the tomato puree that I'd set aside earlier in the refrigerator. The whole broth took on the most beautiful color, a brilliant yet fresh looking yellow-red orange...and smelled heavenly.
After a time, I decided that that chicken breast had softened up for long enough, and I took it out and laid it onto a platter and with two forks I first removed the skin (for the kitty, who actually ate it) and then pulled the chicken apart into shreds. The shreds actually covered the whole platter thickly and were a ton of good meat. There were bones because you know I don't like clones, and those I tossed.
When lunch time came, I took out half of the meat, put it into a bowl, cut a lot of celery, added Hellman's Mayonesa Con Limon, and put it away into the refrigerator as a salad for another meal.
The remaining chicken, as I eyed it, looked like a good five tacos' worth at least, so I took five tortillas out of the refrigerator and put them into a baking pan and sprayed them with spray olive oil and put them into the oven. I also took several tablespoonsful of the broth and mixed it into the chicken on the platter.
I opened a can of hominy and heated it up. I opened a can of pinto beans and heated them up.
I removed the softened tortillas (they soften up quickly) and added to each one a large portion of shredded chicken, and a large pinch of lo-fat shredded cheese. I folded them and set them aside to go back into the oven in a moment.
The broth, in the meantime, was simmering away . Lunch was almost ready. I looked in the refrigerator and found a bag of cut-up chard, and I shredded some of the leaves/stems/whatever. I put the tacos back into the oven until thoroughly warm and melted.
For lunch we each got a bowl of delicious golden red broth. Theodore got four generous tacos and I got one. We each had a serving of frijoles and hominy on our plates. I sprinkled shredded chard over the tacos (instead of lettuce, which I also like--but the chard is more nutritious.)
It was a good and filling main meal of the day, with very little fat and lots of nutrition and flavor. Bonus was that I put the last of the hominy and beans into the last of the broth, and put it all into the refrigerator for a soup today at supper. I'll just add a bit of chicken broth from the carton in the refrigerator. (A very convenient thing to have around.)
This last soup could also have some ginger or some coconut added and it wouldn't be a bit out of line, if you wanted a slightly different cast of ethnicity to your soup. Fusion cuisine, de veras.YAZZYBEL
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Thursday, June 6, 2013
June 6, 1944
Good morning!
Sixty nine years ago today, I was at Methodist Church Camp in the heart of the hill country of Texas. It was a beautiful experience in a beautiful place.
Every morning, we went to a chapel meeting before the day began, and at that meeting, I remember, the announcement was made that the Allied Forces had commenced an invasion onto the German-held coast of Normandy. It was a day of great patriotic pride and hope that our nation would soon lead us all into the vanquishment of the Nazi regime in Europe. I was fifteen years old, and have a snapshot that commemorates that day in my life. And thousands of miles away, boys not much older than I were undergoing a tremendous and terrible ordeal that would end their lives or change them forever, in order to save all their fellow Americans. We at that church camp were not unaware of their sacrifice, and in our young thoughtless way we had all of those young soldiers in our thoughts all day long.
In 1988, when I was in Paris on June 6th, we were all made aware that many many ex-servicemen from all over the world were converging upon France in memory of that invasion forty four years earlier. I was mostly concentrating on being in the Louvre and trying to get into the Goya exhibit. The Goya room was not to open for some forty five minutes after lunch, whether that day or every day, and while I waited in the hallway, I looked out the window at Paris (never boring) and chatted to a fellow tourist who was waiting too. He was a tall, thin older American, and we were talking about how congested the traffic was and how many people were in the museum that day.
"It's forty four years since I was here last," he said. "Oh," said I blithely and unthinking, "I'll bet it was a lot more calm and quiet then."
"No," he said quietly. "It was D-Day, and I was on the beach at Normandy."
It all bore in on me then, the reality of what he was going through as I sat under the live-oaks in the Hill Country. The long years that had passed for each of us then, and the chance that had brought us together so much later on, to meet in a waiting area at the Louvre in Paris, waiting for the Goya rooms to open up. YAZZYBEL
Sixty nine years ago today, I was at Methodist Church Camp in the heart of the hill country of Texas. It was a beautiful experience in a beautiful place.
Every morning, we went to a chapel meeting before the day began, and at that meeting, I remember, the announcement was made that the Allied Forces had commenced an invasion onto the German-held coast of Normandy. It was a day of great patriotic pride and hope that our nation would soon lead us all into the vanquishment of the Nazi regime in Europe. I was fifteen years old, and have a snapshot that commemorates that day in my life. And thousands of miles away, boys not much older than I were undergoing a tremendous and terrible ordeal that would end their lives or change them forever, in order to save all their fellow Americans. We at that church camp were not unaware of their sacrifice, and in our young thoughtless way we had all of those young soldiers in our thoughts all day long.
In 1988, when I was in Paris on June 6th, we were all made aware that many many ex-servicemen from all over the world were converging upon France in memory of that invasion forty four years earlier. I was mostly concentrating on being in the Louvre and trying to get into the Goya exhibit. The Goya room was not to open for some forty five minutes after lunch, whether that day or every day, and while I waited in the hallway, I looked out the window at Paris (never boring) and chatted to a fellow tourist who was waiting too. He was a tall, thin older American, and we were talking about how congested the traffic was and how many people were in the museum that day.
"It's forty four years since I was here last," he said. "Oh," said I blithely and unthinking, "I'll bet it was a lot more calm and quiet then."
"No," he said quietly. "It was D-Day, and I was on the beach at Normandy."
It all bore in on me then, the reality of what he was going through as I sat under the live-oaks in the Hill Country. The long years that had passed for each of us then, and the chance that had brought us together so much later on, to meet in a waiting area at the Louvre in Paris, waiting for the Goya rooms to open up. YAZZYBEL
Monday, June 3, 2013
Where Are The Old Crows When You Need 'Em?
Good morning.
For girls' eyes only!!
I have finally decided that I need a bra. Desperately.
I have been skipping blithely through life thinking that my recent conversion to teddies (cami's) is going to do it for me, and be a lot more comfortable--but a recent photo and a stray glance into the mirror have shown me otherwise. I need a new, fitted garment, and when it fits I will get three. But there's a catch.
When I was young I'd go up to a place like Saks in La Jolla, or Worth's on El Cajon Blvd. or even the Broadway, and in the lingerie department there would always be an Older Lady, well corseted herself, who came over and made your life miserable as you looking through the lingerie on your own.
"You need a support garment," she would say, looking you up and down with steely eyes. It didnt matter if you said that you were plenty firm on your own and actually were not sagging at all, those eyes of steel had seen it all, and she'd seen you and found you lacking.
That's the lady I need now. But the trouble is--I am the old crow now. And, as far as I've found, the lingerie salons are staffed by a girl of twenty who's just horrified to be asked to contemplate your problems or to do anything to remediate what she considers a hopeless situation.
She went into the fitting room with you, and she pinched and pulled any garments you took with you, and she pointed out failings here or there, and she made suggestions based on thirty years' experience in underwear fitting rooms. She was more knowledgeable than your gynecologist; she'd seen everything.
Well, here am I with one old worn out bra; I thoughtlessly tossed the others when I went over to cami's. Without the old saleslady, I guess I'll have to rely for the fitting of new ones on the only old crow I have around: me!! YAZZYBEL
For girls' eyes only!!
I have finally decided that I need a bra. Desperately.
I have been skipping blithely through life thinking that my recent conversion to teddies (cami's) is going to do it for me, and be a lot more comfortable--but a recent photo and a stray glance into the mirror have shown me otherwise. I need a new, fitted garment, and when it fits I will get three. But there's a catch.
When I was young I'd go up to a place like Saks in La Jolla, or Worth's on El Cajon Blvd. or even the Broadway, and in the lingerie department there would always be an Older Lady, well corseted herself, who came over and made your life miserable as you looking through the lingerie on your own.
"You need a support garment," she would say, looking you up and down with steely eyes. It didnt matter if you said that you were plenty firm on your own and actually were not sagging at all, those eyes of steel had seen it all, and she'd seen you and found you lacking.
That's the lady I need now. But the trouble is--I am the old crow now. And, as far as I've found, the lingerie salons are staffed by a girl of twenty who's just horrified to be asked to contemplate your problems or to do anything to remediate what she considers a hopeless situation.
She went into the fitting room with you, and she pinched and pulled any garments you took with you, and she pointed out failings here or there, and she made suggestions based on thirty years' experience in underwear fitting rooms. She was more knowledgeable than your gynecologist; she'd seen everything.
Well, here am I with one old worn out bra; I thoughtlessly tossed the others when I went over to cami's. Without the old saleslady, I guess I'll have to rely for the fitting of new ones on the only old crow I have around: me!! YAZZYBEL
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Sunday
Sunday, and no ride to look around in my beautiful city. That's because I planned to go over to Anderson's Nursery and squander some bucks...but a friend reminded me that today's the Rock and Roll Marathon and everything west of the church is swamped with running humanity.
So, I came back to CV with my tail between my legs, and went to the Goodwill where I squandered some money on a blue oxford-cloth shirt to cover my swimsuit when I go water walking, and a couple of VHS--yes I still play that archaic form of entertainment--and a brass standing lamp for when I am trying to read in bed. Its light will supplement the weak light from the bedside lamp.
It was incredibly dark and cold this morning at church. I had thought myself silly to put on my white quilted jacket, but changed my mind when I walked up to the steps and saw M., greeting at the door, and shivering and hugging her arms in her pink tee shirt top.
Only thirty people were at early service, thanks to the Rock and Roll Marathon, which takes away our parking and scares away the wary. I forgot about it and came anyway, which was lucky as I got a close parking space by fate. We were all placed up on the chancel near the altar, with the clergy huddled more or less in the middle.
Nobody knew what to do or where to go or how to proceed, but that practice of putting us up front on slow days is increasing so soon it will be down pat.
I got an interesting view of the church from where I was, straight down the aisle (and it was pitch dark out there, remember) leading to the huge rose-window at the back. Our stained glass windows are remarkable, and with a black surround and lighted with a cold gray outside light, they are very striking. Chartres blue is probably the leading color. And rose windows are just beautiful.
So that was my religious experience today, other than a short chat with friends afterward on the virtues of the Paleo diet. Oh, I wish I could just go on it and stick to it. My heart attack has made me squeamish as to the ingesting of fatty meats..(though I really think LDL is the result of too much carbo.) See how wishy-washy I am? I think I will make it a prayer quest, to be able to try the Paleo and stick to it. YAZZYBEL
So, I came back to CV with my tail between my legs, and went to the Goodwill where I squandered some money on a blue oxford-cloth shirt to cover my swimsuit when I go water walking, and a couple of VHS--yes I still play that archaic form of entertainment--and a brass standing lamp for when I am trying to read in bed. Its light will supplement the weak light from the bedside lamp.
It was incredibly dark and cold this morning at church. I had thought myself silly to put on my white quilted jacket, but changed my mind when I walked up to the steps and saw M., greeting at the door, and shivering and hugging her arms in her pink tee shirt top.
Only thirty people were at early service, thanks to the Rock and Roll Marathon, which takes away our parking and scares away the wary. I forgot about it and came anyway, which was lucky as I got a close parking space by fate. We were all placed up on the chancel near the altar, with the clergy huddled more or less in the middle.
Nobody knew what to do or where to go or how to proceed, but that practice of putting us up front on slow days is increasing so soon it will be down pat.
I got an interesting view of the church from where I was, straight down the aisle (and it was pitch dark out there, remember) leading to the huge rose-window at the back. Our stained glass windows are remarkable, and with a black surround and lighted with a cold gray outside light, they are very striking. Chartres blue is probably the leading color. And rose windows are just beautiful.
So that was my religious experience today, other than a short chat with friends afterward on the virtues of the Paleo diet. Oh, I wish I could just go on it and stick to it. My heart attack has made me squeamish as to the ingesting of fatty meats..(though I really think LDL is the result of too much carbo.) See how wishy-washy I am? I think I will make it a prayer quest, to be able to try the Paleo and stick to it. YAZZYBEL
Saturday, June 1, 2013
The Really Simplest Guacamole
Good evening!
I read a website recently entitled, The Simplest Guacamole....it then proceeded to give a recipe that included everything but the kitchen sink, including mayonesa...a big no-no.
I also read about the Mexican peasant eating his midday lunch of a taco made of one tortilla and one small chile which he broke with his fingernail and smeared across the tortilla. I thought at the time that it was a very spartan lunch, but I am beginning to think, "the simpler the better."
I myself have often eaten a lunch of one tortilla lightly charred on the stove burner, and here is the guacamole I ate on it: one half ripe avocado, mashed up a bit, and spread across the tortilla. I love salt so I add that. Now THAT is one simple guacamole, and very conventient too.
I also loved butter tacos in those long lost days before my ataque de corazon. Toast tortilla as above, spread hot charred tortilla with a dab of cold butter, fold and eat, preferably over the sink. Repeat as required. Nowadays I hardly eat any butter at all. Do I miss it? Sometimes. But jam is a consolation.
You can see that I am a gourmet cook. Ha! But I am a gourmet eater for sure, and those simple items just described can't be beat for taste and satisfaction!!! YAZZYBEL
I read a website recently entitled, The Simplest Guacamole....it then proceeded to give a recipe that included everything but the kitchen sink, including mayonesa...a big no-no.
I also read about the Mexican peasant eating his midday lunch of a taco made of one tortilla and one small chile which he broke with his fingernail and smeared across the tortilla. I thought at the time that it was a very spartan lunch, but I am beginning to think, "the simpler the better."
I myself have often eaten a lunch of one tortilla lightly charred on the stove burner, and here is the guacamole I ate on it: one half ripe avocado, mashed up a bit, and spread across the tortilla. I love salt so I add that. Now THAT is one simple guacamole, and very conventient too.
I also loved butter tacos in those long lost days before my ataque de corazon. Toast tortilla as above, spread hot charred tortilla with a dab of cold butter, fold and eat, preferably over the sink. Repeat as required. Nowadays I hardly eat any butter at all. Do I miss it? Sometimes. But jam is a consolation.
You can see that I am a gourmet cook. Ha! But I am a gourmet eater for sure, and those simple items just described can't be beat for taste and satisfaction!!! YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
My City, My Beautiful City
Good Monday morning.
Yesterday, after church, I had a sneaky little vacation all by myself.
I didn't come straight home! I went lookin'.
When we first lived in San Diego in the early sixties, Mission Hills was practically all I knew. We first lived in an apartment in Clairemont but every night after supper we'd go riding around in search of our future neighborhood.
The evening that we first drove up Juan Street Hill, I said to my husband, "This is it!!" And before long we searched out a realtor, and before my second baby was born we were happily residing on Hickory Street. After a time, with baby number three coming along, we found another, larger house on Lyndon Road, with a huge canyon in back, and we moved there.
We hadn't paid a lot of attention to the canyons before we went there, but the canyons of San Diego are worthy of much notice. They range in size from the small and sequestered to the huge and open. Our canyon, for example, was fully a mile across at the top (I'm guessing) from our street to the houses of Washington Place across the way, and there was a deep steep incline in between, filled with bushes, plantings, wildflowers (radish and mustard) in spring, and trees. Still, it was wide and airy, and from this I began to call the canyon systems of my beautiful city, "air canals."
This canyon, as it rambled west, descended also, and came out not really very far from the Naval and Marine training bases at Point Loma. In the mornings as we lay abed on Hickory, we could hear the mighty roars of hundreds of young male voices calling out as they greeted the raising of the flag. Once in a while we'd find an abandoned uniform of day-wear down on the canyon where someone hoped, perhaps to return to his faraway home without detection.
There was lots of wild life in the canyon, foxes, raccoons, coyotes, who came out at night and ferretted around the houses for whatever they might find. We loved having them and I remember in a hot summer spell, filling a metal tank with water halfway down the canyon so that the foxes might drink.
As my kids grew up, I became a night walker, taking to the complicated knots of streets to discover ever more little neighborhoods within neighborhoods. There was a neverending display of differently designed residences and gardens. I 'd take my two chihuahuas on a leash and often I'd end up carrying them home as their little legs finally gave out on them.
To me, at that time, San Diego consisted of Mission Hills, Hillcrest, Point Loma, La Jolla and Clairemont. But a big change came for me when I began teaching in about 1970. Armed with the huge substitute teacher map provided by the San Diego City Schools for its subs, I went all over the area. Since I was concentrating on bi-lingual, the neighborhoods tended not to be the ones mentioned above, and I was out in the dawn looking for places I'd never even heard of. I'd go in in the dark, practically, be handed a door key, go into a cold dank empty room smelling of sour sponges, old chalk, and kids....look for a lesson plan, and lots of times just improvise when that inevitable bell rang and a crowd of raucous, curious little kids charged in.
It's toward those unfamiliar neighborhoods that I go now to look around. Places I'd never thought of before I saw them. The canyons are there, the neighborhoods albeit shabbier in some cases, filled with an ill-sitting but vibrant group of immigrant families from all over the world now; inhabiting the tree-shadowed woodsy lots, planting in the canyons, pushing their children on the sidewalks. And over all hangs the incredible San Diego weather: almost too still, almost too mild, almost too perfect.
It's amazing to me that I cannot even afford (outright is how I 'm thinking nowadays) to buy most of these derelicts. The prices in San Diego proper are almost astronomical. I wonder that these families can afford them. By renting them mostly, I am sure. But there are hard workers there, and people who know how to save and put by. If they don't own their house this year, just give them some time. It will be worth it.
So that's where I go driving, sometimes, after church of a Sunday. I give myself the limit of an hour so I won't get home too late...but faced with the prospect of maybe or surely leaving it forever before too long, I cherish every moment and every strange new street and every beautiful new canyon hiding behind it. YAZZYBEL
Yesterday, after church, I had a sneaky little vacation all by myself.
I didn't come straight home! I went lookin'.
When we first lived in San Diego in the early sixties, Mission Hills was practically all I knew. We first lived in an apartment in Clairemont but every night after supper we'd go riding around in search of our future neighborhood.
The evening that we first drove up Juan Street Hill, I said to my husband, "This is it!!" And before long we searched out a realtor, and before my second baby was born we were happily residing on Hickory Street. After a time, with baby number three coming along, we found another, larger house on Lyndon Road, with a huge canyon in back, and we moved there.
We hadn't paid a lot of attention to the canyons before we went there, but the canyons of San Diego are worthy of much notice. They range in size from the small and sequestered to the huge and open. Our canyon, for example, was fully a mile across at the top (I'm guessing) from our street to the houses of Washington Place across the way, and there was a deep steep incline in between, filled with bushes, plantings, wildflowers (radish and mustard) in spring, and trees. Still, it was wide and airy, and from this I began to call the canyon systems of my beautiful city, "air canals."
This canyon, as it rambled west, descended also, and came out not really very far from the Naval and Marine training bases at Point Loma. In the mornings as we lay abed on Hickory, we could hear the mighty roars of hundreds of young male voices calling out as they greeted the raising of the flag. Once in a while we'd find an abandoned uniform of day-wear down on the canyon where someone hoped, perhaps to return to his faraway home without detection.
There was lots of wild life in the canyon, foxes, raccoons, coyotes, who came out at night and ferretted around the houses for whatever they might find. We loved having them and I remember in a hot summer spell, filling a metal tank with water halfway down the canyon so that the foxes might drink.
As my kids grew up, I became a night walker, taking to the complicated knots of streets to discover ever more little neighborhoods within neighborhoods. There was a neverending display of differently designed residences and gardens. I 'd take my two chihuahuas on a leash and often I'd end up carrying them home as their little legs finally gave out on them.
To me, at that time, San Diego consisted of Mission Hills, Hillcrest, Point Loma, La Jolla and Clairemont. But a big change came for me when I began teaching in about 1970. Armed with the huge substitute teacher map provided by the San Diego City Schools for its subs, I went all over the area. Since I was concentrating on bi-lingual, the neighborhoods tended not to be the ones mentioned above, and I was out in the dawn looking for places I'd never even heard of. I'd go in in the dark, practically, be handed a door key, go into a cold dank empty room smelling of sour sponges, old chalk, and kids....look for a lesson plan, and lots of times just improvise when that inevitable bell rang and a crowd of raucous, curious little kids charged in.
It's toward those unfamiliar neighborhoods that I go now to look around. Places I'd never thought of before I saw them. The canyons are there, the neighborhoods albeit shabbier in some cases, filled with an ill-sitting but vibrant group of immigrant families from all over the world now; inhabiting the tree-shadowed woodsy lots, planting in the canyons, pushing their children on the sidewalks. And over all hangs the incredible San Diego weather: almost too still, almost too mild, almost too perfect.
It's amazing to me that I cannot even afford (outright is how I 'm thinking nowadays) to buy most of these derelicts. The prices in San Diego proper are almost astronomical. I wonder that these families can afford them. By renting them mostly, I am sure. But there are hard workers there, and people who know how to save and put by. If they don't own their house this year, just give them some time. It will be worth it.
So that's where I go driving, sometimes, after church of a Sunday. I give myself the limit of an hour so I won't get home too late...but faced with the prospect of maybe or surely leaving it forever before too long, I cherish every moment and every strange new street and every beautiful new canyon hiding behind it. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
One, Toast with Butter is Delicious, and, Two, there are Too Many Chickens, or are they Chickens?
Good morning.
I am eating breakfast and my mind is running upon thoughts of food.
I am regretting toast with butter, which I no longer indulge in because of my pore little old artery attack, but--toast with jelly is good too and I do allow myself that though not with dilly bread as I had this morning.
I wake up hungry, which is a good sign. If you are consistently not hungry when you wake up in the morning, check your blood sugar. I've never eaten habitually after dinner, and the 'bedtime snack' is anathema.
Having said that, I remember some wonderful after theater Dutch apple pie with ice cream that we used to eat in Dallas after going to the summer outdoor theaters...how wonderful that pie was, especially with good Texas vanilla ice cream on top. I'm thankful I indulged in that when I was twenty or twenty-one years of age, when my body could take it!!
And I have been thinking of the wonderful fried chicken restaurant in Waco, Texas, in the early fifties. Everyone went there after church for their Sunday dinner. That chicken was just scrumptious. And fried, fried, fried, glistening with richness there on the plate. (I was thinking of those dinners the other day upon eating a hard, greasy piece of supermarket fried chicken. Sigh!) And yes, I pull off the skin now, deed I do. Good girl~!!
That restaurant had one of the best banana pies I've ever eaten (though I didnt manage to get banana pie into the title up there.) It was made with a flaky baked crust, cooled and filled with sliced perfect bananas, a sprinkle or two of sugar, and whipped cream on top and served chilled. Oh, how good it was!
But back to the chicken--remember when I wrote about Too Many Lobsters not long ago? There are way way WAY too many chickens and especially chicken breasts out there on the market. Chicken breasts are rumoured to be pieces of CLONE, in the subterranean world in which I exist. Clone, I tell you, manufactured meat! Even if they are not, the number of slaughtered chickens required to put out the number of pieces of chicken meat out there on the supermarket shelves is ASTRONOMICAL.
There is astronomical suffering involved. It just ain't right, I tell you.
Vegan is the only way. A piece of fish stolen from the cold pristine waters of Scandinavia cannot always be amiss, but really, can't we see that, unless we grew it in our back yard and did it in ourselves, chicken as an American food just has to go? It's just too much. YAZZYBEL
I am eating breakfast and my mind is running upon thoughts of food.
I am regretting toast with butter, which I no longer indulge in because of my pore little old artery attack, but--toast with jelly is good too and I do allow myself that though not with dilly bread as I had this morning.
I wake up hungry, which is a good sign. If you are consistently not hungry when you wake up in the morning, check your blood sugar. I've never eaten habitually after dinner, and the 'bedtime snack' is anathema.
Having said that, I remember some wonderful after theater Dutch apple pie with ice cream that we used to eat in Dallas after going to the summer outdoor theaters...how wonderful that pie was, especially with good Texas vanilla ice cream on top. I'm thankful I indulged in that when I was twenty or twenty-one years of age, when my body could take it!!
And I have been thinking of the wonderful fried chicken restaurant in Waco, Texas, in the early fifties. Everyone went there after church for their Sunday dinner. That chicken was just scrumptious. And fried, fried, fried, glistening with richness there on the plate. (I was thinking of those dinners the other day upon eating a hard, greasy piece of supermarket fried chicken. Sigh!) And yes, I pull off the skin now, deed I do. Good girl~!!
That restaurant had one of the best banana pies I've ever eaten (though I didnt manage to get banana pie into the title up there.) It was made with a flaky baked crust, cooled and filled with sliced perfect bananas, a sprinkle or two of sugar, and whipped cream on top and served chilled. Oh, how good it was!
But back to the chicken--remember when I wrote about Too Many Lobsters not long ago? There are way way WAY too many chickens and especially chicken breasts out there on the market. Chicken breasts are rumoured to be pieces of CLONE, in the subterranean world in which I exist. Clone, I tell you, manufactured meat! Even if they are not, the number of slaughtered chickens required to put out the number of pieces of chicken meat out there on the supermarket shelves is ASTRONOMICAL.
There is astronomical suffering involved. It just ain't right, I tell you.
Vegan is the only way. A piece of fish stolen from the cold pristine waters of Scandinavia cannot always be amiss, but really, can't we see that, unless we grew it in our back yard and did it in ourselves, chicken as an American food just has to go? It's just too much. YAZZYBEL
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)