I realized something was not right as soon as the words were out of my mouth. The cleaning lady in our building had asked me how I make chilli, and I started, "Well, I just open the can..." The other ladies in the room went silent, and I was left sitting in front of my computer in the newsroom, feeling more than a little awkward. Food out of a can is not what a southern belle serves up.
I had been curious in the kitchen as a little girl, but my mom found it too stressful to deal with my recipe inventions and the mess that was sure to follow. Eventually, I was banned from the kitchen except to do the cleanup after the meal. In college, there wasn't much space or reason to cook for myself, so I did very little of it. On my own, I was too busy starting my career as a journalist. When I got married, I had very little idea of how to make a meal, but I had dreams of a house filled with wonderful aromas from the kitchen. So, I set out to cook.
It was like those bad auditions for American Idol. I was so bad I didn't know it. My husband dubbed the smoke detector "the dinner bell." I frequently had to scrape or cut away charred edges and blackened skins--and not the cajun kind--just so there would be something salvageable for us to eat.
One of the ladies from church, probably out of pity, gave me a cookbook. My mother started offering helpful advice as well. And, with the help of the Food Network, I started to figure out how to make things that were not just palatable, but kind of good. Pretty darn good, actually.
Fast-forward a few years to a few weeks ago, when the office manager in our PR group asked what I'd made for dinner the night before. I explained that I'd made a big pot of chilli--really tasty stuff--and cornbread from scratch. I commented that I might have put a little too much sugar in it.
It was the same awkward silence that had greeted me in a different office years earlier.
"Sugar? In your cornbread? That's unheard of," she said.
"No, it's good," I insisted.
"No, that's cake," she said.
Apparently, southern belles also do not put sugar in their cornbread.
This one does.
So, here's the recipe:
About 1 1/2 cups of self-rising corn meal (makes it easier)
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup canola oil
1 cup flour
And...
1/4 cup sugar
Mix it up, pour into a greased baking dish (or iron skillet) put in a preheated oven (about 450 degrees) and bake about 25 minutes.
It comes out pretty fluffy, but so yummy. Best served up hot with a glass of cold milk. Mmmmmmm.
Monday, February 26
Friday, February 16
One of my coworkers flung a copy of a pop culture magazine across the table in our breakroom. It was opened to a story about Barbaro, the Derby winner and Tripe Crown hopeful who went down in epic form. We had watched him fight back from stunning injury, images of horse hero Seabiscuit in our heads as we imagined him racing again after a broken leg.
The article was about his death following another attempt to mend the animal. "I'm glad he's dead!" my coworker exclaimed. "That horse had suffered enough. I'm tired of hearing about it." She went on to say that she believed the owners had kept him alive so long, not for the love of the horse, but to get him well enough to sire offspring and realize a fortune via his bloodline, since racehorses can't be bred artificially. But I think there was more to it.
I think what she was really protesting was the proliferation of Barbaro stories on the air, on the computer, in our magazines and newspapers.
I could say something about our star-crazed society which takes great pleasure in beating dead horses (sorry, bad pun)--when something manages to capture our attention for a moment. We want to see it from every angle, analyze it, dissect it, consume it, until there's nothing left, and even then, we're not satisfied.
I suppose the message was pounded a little harder here, given than horseracing is such a big part of our culture in the Bluegrass. The spring and fall meets are as much a part of life as going to church--more for some folks than others. Horses are legendary here, and few more so than Barbaro. I saw people weep when the news broke of his death. (I have to admit that I felt a little sad, too.)
Still, it's all about perspective. He was a fast horse. He had a strong will to live, apparently. A good animal. Will it make my life any different, though?
Nope.
Not me. My life is full enough without having to consume that of someone I don't even know.
So, while I wish the horse had survived, I think I can agree with my coworker this much: Let sleeping horses lie.
The article was about his death following another attempt to mend the animal. "I'm glad he's dead!" my coworker exclaimed. "That horse had suffered enough. I'm tired of hearing about it." She went on to say that she believed the owners had kept him alive so long, not for the love of the horse, but to get him well enough to sire offspring and realize a fortune via his bloodline, since racehorses can't be bred artificially. But I think there was more to it.
I think what she was really protesting was the proliferation of Barbaro stories on the air, on the computer, in our magazines and newspapers.
I could say something about our star-crazed society which takes great pleasure in beating dead horses (sorry, bad pun)--when something manages to capture our attention for a moment. We want to see it from every angle, analyze it, dissect it, consume it, until there's nothing left, and even then, we're not satisfied.
I suppose the message was pounded a little harder here, given than horseracing is such a big part of our culture in the Bluegrass. The spring and fall meets are as much a part of life as going to church--more for some folks than others. Horses are legendary here, and few more so than Barbaro. I saw people weep when the news broke of his death. (I have to admit that I felt a little sad, too.)
Still, it's all about perspective. He was a fast horse. He had a strong will to live, apparently. A good animal. Will it make my life any different, though?
Nope.
Not me. My life is full enough without having to consume that of someone I don't even know.
So, while I wish the horse had survived, I think I can agree with my coworker this much: Let sleeping horses lie.
Wednesday, February 14
Courage
Ann always smiles.
She was diagnosed with diabetes as a child, and the disease ravaged her body, causing kidney failure and debillitating neuropathy in her feet.
She was optimistic.
As a young adult, she had a double transplant, kidneys and pancreas. It was a long ride up the creek with only a small, stubborn paddle. Her body struggled.
She was grateful for a second chance.
For a few weeks recently, she limped around the office wearing a splint on her foot, which was encased in a soft boot. Her diabetes was cured by the transplant, but she must still deal with the damage it left behind. She shook off every offer of sympathy, instead using the opportunity to encourage us to be organ donors. She used her evenings to help educate college students about the importance of organ donation, and she enouraged others to become involved.
She is happy to be alive.
Ann always smiles.
She was diagnosed with diabetes as a child, and the disease ravaged her body, causing kidney failure and debillitating neuropathy in her feet.
She was optimistic.
As a young adult, she had a double transplant, kidneys and pancreas. It was a long ride up the creek with only a small, stubborn paddle. Her body struggled.
She was grateful for a second chance.
For a few weeks recently, she limped around the office wearing a splint on her foot, which was encased in a soft boot. Her diabetes was cured by the transplant, but she must still deal with the damage it left behind. She shook off every offer of sympathy, instead using the opportunity to encourage us to be organ donors. She used her evenings to help educate college students about the importance of organ donation, and she enouraged others to become involved.
She is happy to be alive.
Ann always smiles.
Thursday, February 8
Monday, February 5
To be a kid again...
...when snow isn't about the trouble it will make during rush hour, but instead about what kind of snow angel or snowball it will make.
Friday, February 2
White Bluegrass
I see so many scenes like this--actually, far more beautiful than this--but rarely have my camera. I happened to have it today. I snapped this on my way home by just pointing the camera at the windshield and clicking without looking at the frame. This isn't a great photo by great photo standards, but you get the feeling of the scene, even if you can't see both horses very well. The greatest thrill is watching the horses break into a run at sunset, when the light is golden. I'm always amazed at the traffic whizzing by, busy drivers who don't seem to notice the treasures just beyond the window. I hope to find time one weekend to just drive around and take my time getting a nice photo, but with two girls and a full schedule, doesn't look like it's happening anytime soon. Still, this goes to show there's lots of beauty around, if we just take a moment to notice.
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