I did ask Bub for his recipe for his “corn.” He said, “I put in a little onion and bell pepper and some banana pepper that I had.” I asked, “Didn’t it have some Rotel tomatoes?” To which he replied, “Oh, yeah, some of that, too.” On to the pasta…
Me: So, Bub, what did you put in the sauce for your pasta?” Bub: “Mostly what I put in the corn, but with olive oil.” Usually, I don’t give the recipes referred to in my blog, unless someone requests them, but I couldn’t resist sharing these.
I feel honored when my friends allow me to cook in their kitchens. I’ve always really felt that the kitchen is the heart of the home, and that it isn’t just men’s hearts that have an access point through their stomachs. Many a mother and maw-maw has changed a child’s life while changing the child’s diet and diapers.
I told Kathleen that I think my need to cook wherever I go is my way of “scenting” territory. Many people have trusted me with their pots, their pans and their progeny. I have a huge bag that I’ve taken to carrying around with me. It has leopard spots with bright red trim; I call it my “bagitude.” If I could only fly in on an umbrella, I think I’d closely resemble a rather wild and woolly version of Mary Poppins.
Gayle says that she recently saw a man on a motorcycle with a skillet and spatula hanging off his bedroll, and she thought of me. I’m scared of motorcycles and heights, so I’ll probably have to keep transporting myself and my ice chest full of exotic ingredients in my trusty red van. I don’t need to carry kitchen equipment; I don’t stay with people who don’t have well-equipped kitchens.
A friend told me that her idea of heaven is to be able to eat her most favorite foods whenever and however often she wanted without suffering health consequences. For her, it was made-in-New Orleans version of Cheetos called Chee-Wees and her mother’s pecan pie. She further illucidated this heavenly vision that Jesus will be at the head of the buffet tabIe, and we (all the women, I presume) will all be a size two.
I chose Bavarian cream as what I’d want to wallow in. I may also want a lot of the glazed version of lemon-flavored Hubig’s pies, New Orleans answer to fried pies. I lived on Chee-Wees and Hubig’s pies while I was in high school, but that only because there was no Bavarian cream in our cafeteria. I’ll have to get my friend’s recipe for her mother’s pecan pie.
Gayle’s super hero son is visiting, so I’m going to take him some chicken and andouille sausage gumbo to help him keep his super powers. I’ve just finished making a huge pot of it in Elaine and Bub’s fabulous kitchen, as I looked out on the waters of Lake Pontchartrain flowing past their back door. This is my idea of heaven.