Recommended wine for today’s entry: Solombra Reserva Pinot Grigio. This is another of Kara’s finds, and I’m headed out to look for some today. It’s a fair trade wine from Argentina. On the web site, the importer (Evaki Imports) said this means fair working conditions for the winery’s workers, sustainable farming practices and a fair price for the product. For the consumer, he said, it means, “a $20-$25 bottle of wine that you can buy for less than $8 a bottle.” For every bottle they sell, the importer is buying a brick for a new community hospital in Argentina. It’s a win-win wine!
I saw a story on the news the other day about the Texas State Fair. Well, I used to live in Texas, and the natives love the saying, “Everything’s bigger in Texas!” I will agree with this. After hearing about an annual contest at their state fair, I’m thinking that it will soon apply to the general population’s girth as well.
Everyone’s state fair fare (I love that!) includes SOME items that are deep fried: Corn dogs, French fries, funnel cakes … but Texas’ contest brings in some doozies.
The fried peanut butter/jelly/banana sandwich sounds OK, although personally, I’d have a texture issue with a wad of gooey banana oozing out. At least it has some protein and potassium enveloped in the fat.
The winner was chicken fried bacon. Another contender was deep fried butter. That’s not “batter,” that’s “butter.” No kidding. You take a frozen ball of butter, the size of a GOLF ball, cover it with dough and fry it, then, when you bite it, the butter oozes out. Can’t seem to get away from that oozing issue. Whenever a food is described as oozy, I think of an oozing wound.
Deep fried butter? Really, folks, this sounds like they’re going to find a lot of slumping bodies when the Tilt-A-Whirl stops. Plug those last arteries, then get the heart to pumping as hard as it can – POOF! Life insurance payout.
Actually, the contest rules don’t mandate that the foods must be fried, yet EVERY single finalist was, in fact, tossed into a blistering basin of fat before being dusted with powdered sugar (to absorb the clinging puddles, no doubt) and served to the judges.
Personally, I only like fried foods for the sauces. Take fried green tomatoes or fried pickles, for instance. Give me the remoulade sauce and I’ll skip the innards. Tomatoes and pickles are fine on their own, but get ‘em hot inside the batter and they’re slippery, limp, and hard to cut through with your teeth. Then the innards flop out whole and slap onto your chin, throwing some residual grease onto your shirt and making you look dirty and pitiful. Bad date food.
Because I am watching my cholesterol, I tried to think of an entry for people like me. I know this would be a big seller, because approximately 30 percent of national TV advertising now is for cholesterol-controlling drugs (it would be higher but the plague of erectile dysfunction seems to be spreading faster, or is more enticing to remedy.) Anyway, here is my idea: deep fried fish oil pills. I think if I got just the right sauce, it’d be a go.
I might be averse to fried foods because my mother used to make fried chicken in a big, black iron skillet that must have weighed forty pounds. She’d stand there, cussing, as the grease popped out of that pan and left her swatting at burn after burn all over her arms. She looked like she’d been tortured with cigarette butts by mealtime and the kitchen was covered in that sheen that never seems to go away.
I know about Fry Daddies, too. We actually had one when we lived in Dallas. The first day I used it, as a young newlywed, we had our friend Greg over for dinner. My hubbie made hamburgers and I was in charge of the French fries. Literally an hour after the hamburgers were ready, the fries were still wallowing in the bucket of fat, refusing to get done. After they had absorbed all the grease they could, I believe I still tried to serve them to our guest. (When I was twenty-three, I was able to cry on command, so he had to eat them. I didn’t.)
Anyway, we retired the Fry Daddy to the hall closet and found it when we moved, about four years later. We’d never emptied out the used grease and … well, you can imagine. Our coats still smell like McDonald’s.
Speaking of being a crappy housekeeper, I better go clean. While I was drying my hair this morning, I thought the cat had a live mouse trapped under the armoire. Armed with a broom and a box to catch the little critter in, I looked underneath … only to see a very large dustbunny, stuck in an even larger cobweb, being propelled back and forth by the air conditioning vent.
N-i-c-e. Oh, well, happy weekend!