If your thoughts about being at the beach in California are something out of the TV show “Baywatch”, you’ve clearly never been to the beach in California. At least nowhere north of Los Angeles. There’s a reason why.
I have to say, I honestly feel sorry for anyone who’s never had the opportunity to eat a fresh fig. If that’s you, don’t despair, you still might be able to grow your own, even if you’re not in the ideal climate.
It’s easy to get into a rut with something like breakfast. It’s early, the caffeine from your coffee hasn’t kicked in. Your family hasn’t had a meal in a while. It’s not a good start.
Who picked a peck of pickled peppers? I did! Except I honestly don’t know how much a peck is. I think it might be a lot.
Earlier this spring, the Old Man and I went to a concert at a local theater. The band was Neil Young with Crazy Horse, the theater was a historic building from the late 1930s.
If the original creator of pesto was still alive, it would be on my bucket list to find them and give them a long, garlicky kiss of thanks. I owe the quality of my gastronomic life to that person.
I’m not talking about beautiful sunsets, stunning wildlife, or Abe Lincoln’s likeness in a potato chip. I’m talking inexplicable, logic defying phenomena that emotionally moves you to the core. I do.
How far back into your childhood can you remember something from? Real memories, not just recreations of stories you have heard from others. It’s tricky to know for sure, isn’t it?
I’ve had a lot of peppers from the garden lately, and as much as I like to eat them, after a while I kind of want to shake things up a bit. Yes, there can be too much of a good thing.