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Finally, just when it seemed winter would never end, March has arrived, and if it’s March, spring must be just around the corner.
Three thousand years B.C., possibly even more, the Incans were cultivating and consuming quinoa, which they called the “Mother of Grains.”
What goes ’round, comes ’round, as the saying goes. If you have patience and can wait long enough, that is.
It’s a lethal combination, cowardice and vitriol. And that lethal combination is seeping into one of the most society-changing, communication revolutions of our lifetime.
Centuries ago, the Jade Emperor of China decided to throw a party. He invited all the animals to come, intending to designate the first 12 in the order of their arrival as the official animal for each of the 12 months of the Chinese calendar, which he hoped would help his subjects better remember the Zodiac cycle.
Tomorrow is the 179th anniversary of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson’s birthday, and I can already hear your comments. “Who’s this Dodgson character and why would I care if tomorrow is his birthdate?”
How can they do this to us? We go all our lives believing we’re born under an astrological sign that partially determines our personality traits, influences major events in our lives, even tells us who would be the best type of person to marry. Not that many of us paid that much attention to the advice, but nevertheless, now we find out it was all a big mistake.
Goat in the fridge? Kimchee on the stove? Bacon and eggs on your pizza? Gourmet hot dogs on the dinner table? Pie in the oven? A pampered chicken or two in the back yard, waiting to become a humane meal?
It seems only a year or three ago that we were in the midst of New Year hysteria, waiting to see the end of the ’90s, counting the seconds until the dawning of that bright, shiny new year, 2000, the beginning of a new millennium.
Why is it that we only drag out the old punch bowl over the holidays? The rest of the year it sits in the back of a closet or cupboard, neglected until holiday party time, which is too bad because a carefully constructed punch can be a welcome treat any time of the year.
After reading a couple of newspapers, watching the latest news on TV and logging in to news stories on the Internet, I’ve come to a conclusion regarding holiday spirit this year.
There are truffles sniffed and rooted from the ground by pigs and dogs, ugly and costing more than we even want to think about. But, fortunately for us, they’re not the only truffles around, and this is the perfect time of year to tackle truffle-making right in the privacy of your own kitchen. No pigs or dogs involved, unless your best-friend pooch is in the kitchen with you.
If you were born in any year between 1946 and 1964, I probably don’t need to tell you what you’ve been labeled. That’s right; you’re officially a Boomer, part of the surge of babies born after the end of World War II.
Before we get to the subject at hand, which is leftovers, I have to fix an error in last week’s recipes.
The Oscar for a starring role will go, of course, to the plump, juicy, golden brown turkey, sitting center stage on the Thanksgiving table.
November is a month of mixed blessings, in my mind.
Once upon a time, long ago and far away, there lived a miserly, mean-tempered but very shrewd grouch named Jack, who happened to be very fond of turnips and often carried one or two with him in his pockets. (Keep this important fact in mind; you’ll need it later.)
“Caller reported a dead deer at the side of the road. Caller reported hitting a deer on Whatever Road. Caller says an injured deer is in their yard.”
Margaret Walton wants equality among the barista body-bearing set