A student once taught me how to dress up a deviled egg like a diva. Granted, the deviled eggs her family recipe called for were more likely a light pink. Other versions of this Midwestern favorite hors d’oeuvre call for soaking the whole eggs only long enough to create a pink and white swirl effect.
I say, if you’re going to color the eggs, might as well take the deep dive into fuschia. There’s something unnatural looking about it, but also still alluring. If you’re going to do something different, you need to commit. That’s probably the theme for my life right now.
If I were ever tasked with mainstreaming Filipino food into U.S. culture, there would be two foods on that campaign trail that have never failed to please crowds: chicken adobo and lumpia. Chicken adobo is the equivalent to the pot roast of the Philippines and well-worth knowing how to cook.
I’ve shared my mother’s chicken adobo recipe multiple times with friends at parties and on-air, in an old public access cooking show. That being said, I’ll share it again in this blog, because I recently made it for a last-day-of-the-semester, class potluck party. It got great reviews and just confirmed for me that it really is an easy dish to like. In addition, it is very inexpensive for college students and families. It’s easy to make big batches and also easy to freeze, if needed.
Not sure where or how this cornbread recipe came into my hands, but it is the one that please people who love cornbread and people like me who typically dislike it. Use up heavy cream after the holidays with this recipe if you like.
Hubris. It was the demise of many a Greek subject in mythology and maybe it was ours too when it came to our son eating vegetables.
When Daniel went in for his nine-month check up, we told his pediatrician, “Daniel will eat anything we put in front of him, bolognese, lamb chops, broccoli, eggplant, sweet potato, anything. We even tried broccoli rabe with him, and he ate it!”
Daniel’s doctor promptly replied, “Oh, that’ll change. Just wait until he turns one.”
We rejected the words of this harbinger of doom, our very own Cassandra. We were convinced that our son had inherited our palates. And maybe we took too much pride, too much delight, in the way he ate all of the food we cooked for him.
Like clockwork, and as if our pediatrician had cursed us,