These four little words were uttered upon first bite by esteemed and well-respected food critic, hubby Ryan.
Today’s recipe? The Seriously-Super Martha Stewart-Trumping Stuffed Greek Peppers. Okay, maybe just calling them Greek Stuffed Peppers will suffice. And they might not be as good as Martha’s, but what recipe is?
Before I rant about these peppers, though, a story of triumph…
Old Man Winter has the nasty habit of bringing in frigid temps and, normally, I embrace the ambiance. Snow, cold, a warm fire. You get it. But recently, with the cold came the cold I feel…in my face.
Yes. In my face.
I feel like my head, nose, and throat have been put in a vice. A twisted old rope pulled and twisted tight. A nauseating, shoot-me-now feeling. For the past few days, I have had more of a relationship with a Kleenex box than with my daughter or husband.
How’s your week going, dearest readers? Excited for a new recipe? A Valentine’s Day special?
If you are anything like my students, you may be giving your shoulders an apathetic or indifferent shrug. At least that is what I got yesterday in class when I opened a discussion about symbols (specifically hearts), meaning, and their expression.
Confession time…I love the NBC sitcom “The Office.” I may or may not know most dialogue and trivia involving the series. It really is an embarrassment how often I will turn it on and how much I belly up with laughter at Dwight’s ridiculous antics and Michael’s socially inappropriate behavior.
Being the diehard sports fanatic I am (sarcasm), I know this exclamation-heavy word is often followed by one team losing and another winning (bravo, Captain Obvious) and subsequently a large group of fans screaming their heads off in victory.
Who knows if the famed Italian chef and co-host of the show The Chew, Mr. Batali, ever really uttered these words.
I am sure, however, that they run true for me. Our kitchen is the most used and sometimes abused space in our home. Both literally and figuratively, it is where the slicing and dicing of our days take place.
No. None. Zero. Zilch. Zip. Negative. Cross it out. Don’t even think about it. Off limits. Now that I have been spending more days at home, there is a new rule at our house.
It’s rectangular, black and grey, and displays images of the outside world. That’s right, THE TV. And NO MORE of it. During the day, that is. Morning headlines and weather are okay. Evening news, I’m partial to NBC’s Brian Williams, and a Netflix episode (or two) is acceptable (sidenote, we are into Blacklist right now, just on Season 1, love Redd’s character).
There it sat with a puppy face, beckoning me to do something with it. It was January 3, four days after the expiration date. An un-opened container of cottage cheese alone on the top shelf of my fridge, staring down at me.