I would never be drawn to a plain raspberry muffin. Even if it was the most domed, moist-looking muffin ever made, I simply can't support the use of that fruit in that capacity. It's not that I don't like their flavor, I do--I can eat homemade raspberry ice cream with the best of 'em. The difference, friends, is that the ice cream is strained of all seed evidence.
As with screeching children and headache pain, I can tolerate Will Ferrell in moderation. I really enjoyed some of his SNL characters (Craig the Spartan cheerleader comes to mind), but I've found that it's quite the challenge to sit through one of his movies in its entirety.
Remember how I mentioned that my brother had decided to raise chickens? And how I foolishly decided to name them? I think Myrtle just ended up in my crockpot.
It's no secret that I love linguistics and have a fascination with words and their origins. Words from the English language have intrigued me for years, and now that I've begun learning German, it seems I'm moving into an obsession with its etymology.
While I claim to be proud of my Southern roots, it seems that I rarely post about truly Southern cuisine. However, every now and then I'll feature something that's foreign to my friends outside the southern chunk of the US, and I suspect this one may fall into that category.
I know there are a few more months before the Kentucky Derby, but it's not like I'll be attending anyway. All I really know about it is that it's an excuse for ladies to wear the most ridiculous hats ever created.
WHY, oh why is the mushed and molded combination of chicken, fruits, nuts, and vegetables called chicken salad? Is it because of the mayonnaise? It's misleading to me, for when someone tells me they're going to serve chicken salad, I don't necessarily know whether I should expect a bed of greens with grilled chicken sitting atop it or the aforementioned mixture. Methinks a distinction is needed.
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