I don’t bake much, but when I do I love licking the beaters, spoons, bowl, whatever. If there is cake batter it needs to be licked.
I have three daughters, so I usually usually just let them have all the paraphenalia because sharing is the right thing to do.
Some time ago, I was working on a cake when all the girls were playing in their rooms. I got the cake in the oven and I went straight for the bowl. Have you ever eaten something where you just can’t stop?
I believe it was a peanut butter cake. Who can resist? In my weakness, I greedily wiped on the bowl’s interior with my whole hand. Batter covered my face like an infant eating strained peas. I’m certain I had batter in my eyebrows.
Then I was caught. All three girls bound for the kitchen and I attempt to gain composure. I couldn’t even make up a story as my face gave me away. I surrendered my cake batter cornucopia to those girls with the sunshiny faces. I’d be smiling too if I still had that bowl.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Sadly, it wasn’t the virtue of sharing. I learned to bake while the kids are in school.
Since Dave Ramsey took over our home two and a half years ago, we haven’t had many opportunities to go enjoy a meal. Today was different because I was only with my fourteen year old daughter, Alli, so it wasn’t too hard on my pocketbook.
I try to frequent local places because franchises sometimes seem really stale, unless of course you are talking about Five Guys. I just love those fries. This afternoon was no exception and we decided to visit The Real Pickle.
It’s been here as long as I can remember. I’ve only been here a couple of times prior, but those gastronomic experiences were definitely memorable. I usually get the shrimp poboy with remoulade sauce because it has always been excellent. Today, it was very good but it was too salty for my taste. We were the first customers of the day. Maybe the chef got too excited and oversalted the shrimp. Maybe I cut him off in traffic one day and he finally had his chance to get back at me. Nonetheless, I go light on the salt in my own cooking and I frequently have had meals at restaurants that were too salty for me. Perhaps I’m just a salt wuss.
On the plus side, the prawns were breaded nice and happy and were a fried jubilee. The spice level was excellent. I love firey hot food, and typically if I can detect ANY heat, it’s too much for many people I know, but I was surprised with a nice, warm burn. The remoulade was remoulade. I don’t care where you get it. Remoulade tastes great. It tastes good on everything. The bread was so light and crusty and had a hint of buttery delight. The fries? Well, they weren’t Five Guys.
Alli had a ham and something on a croissant. It wasn’t mine, so I didn’t pay much attention to it. She liked it and that is what’s important.
In fine, (I’ve always wanted the opportunity to say “in fine” as I remember it from the poem “Richard Cory“). In fine, the most important aspect was that I had an opportunity to spend some quality time with Alli. I need to take her to another Texas BBQ joint soon, but that’s another story.
This is an amalgamation of several recipes I looked at. I couldn’t find what I wanted, so I created this. I was looking for something that was sinteringly hot, yet was something delicious. I love deviled eggs.
I know it sounds silly. It’s a fact I haven’t shared much in the past. I haven’t even told my wife until about a month ago, though I’m sure she already suspected it.
There are some innocuous white foods like eggs, potatoes and rice, but I sincerely abhor mayonnaise, cream cheese, white milk (or milk in general)…you get the picture. There are exceptions to the rule, like when you need to use mayonnaise for tuna salad or cream cheese for a velvety peanut butter pie, but when I cook with these ingredients I have my cleansing ritual. There’s nothing worse than leaving a milk ring on the counter with the milk cap.
I’m sure my white food aversion stems from my dad’s efforts to cajole me into drinking white milk. I don’t know what his obsession was because I loved chocolate milk, but I guess at six or seven, I was his experiment in Nazi parenting.
Cajole is too soft a word. My dad was the White Milk Enforcer. Numerous times, he would wrestle me in the kitchen to pour that evil beverage down my throat. He would literally pour it down my throat after he pried my mouth open. My hatred for that ivory abomination ran so deeply that he usually ended up pouring two glasses onto my face only for it to soak us. After the fight was wrestled out of me I would finally submit so that I could brush my teeth and take a shower.
So I have an aversion to white food. It’s definitely not a hard and fast rule because to make delicious treats I frequently have to make exceptions, but I still have to scrub down like I’m about to perform an appendectomy after their use, though.