I'm not sure how certain recipes are named. Fool? Devils on horseback? Whoopie pies? Dutch baby? Spotted dick? No clue. Another on that list is preacher cookies. I was first introduced to them at my childhood church's monthly fellowship meal, so I like to think that some little old lady made these for her preacher all the time and so they were named thusly.
Longtime readers might remember my first attempt at container gardening. The results were mixed.
Fact: There is absolutely, positively no comparison between the macaroni and cheese from that familiar blue box and a batch made completely from scratch (#scratchbatch*). They're not even similar!
If I think about it too much, meatloaf seems kind of disgusting. Before it's magically transformed through the power of heat into a browned, aromatic dinner delight, it is, essentially, a brick of raw cow products (or pig or bird).
Now that we have a back yard (and a front yard!)(we have yards!!), we've unintentionally become amateur bird watchers.
I think I knew the phrase "thufferin' thuccotash" long before I actually tasted succotash for the first time.
Though it wasn't always the case, I'd definitely firmly label myself as a morning person.
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