I’ve been reading this book called “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. I’ve been reading the parts I understand anyway. It’s a bestseller and I trust that. The author Mireille Guiliano (pronounce that if you think you’re so smart) claims leeks are magical.
If you’re anything like me, perhaps this will help.
They’re hidden on the produce shelf.
They’re a vegetable.
The skinny French woman has a soup called “Magical Leek Soup”. You are supposed to drink leek broth for 48 hours. Straight.
Leek Broth, doesn’t that sound yummy?
If you get hungry, you eat the leeks with a little olive oil drizzled, until the 2nd day’s supper, then you have a little fish or meat with some veggies. I’m thinking fried taters and gravy qualifies after 48 hours of leek broth.
And that my friends is why I’m reading this book.
This 48 hour cleansing is the jump start to a great lifestyle change. Kinda sounds a little like starvation if you ask me, but who am I to question the French?
Yet, there is something about magical leeks that appeal to me.
I like magic.
Birthday candle blowing magic, shooting star wishing magic, genie bottle rubbing magic.
I could use a little magic around here.
For starters, I’d like to:
Magically-have-Ed-McMahan-ring-my-doorbell. Wait. Is he dead?
There’s just no limit what these leeks might do for me.
I called the grocery store to make sure they carried them before I ventured out. They did, they were hidden but they were there. I was curious to how fresh they were. I pondered how often people buy these things.
I had to watch a video on how to prepare them.
I couldn’t help but wonder where they’ve been all my life.
But truthfully, I didn’t wonder too hard.
I really didn’t think I could handle the Leek Broth. I know my limitations. Thankfully, the skinny french woman has a recipe on her website http://www.fwdgf.com/ for Leek Mozarella with a lovely picture, so I decided why not get a jumpstart on my new year’s resolution and prepare a healthy vegetable.
Evidently the leek is from the onion family. You only use the white part of the vegetable.
Which means all this goes in the trash. Doesn’t that seem like such a waste? I was half-way raised by my Grannie, who was half-way raised during the Depression. She would have never thrown these out. The skinny French woman says they can be saved and made into stock. But okay, we’re talking about me here. So into the trash they went.
Then you boil the white parts, after you rinse well, because there’s a lot of dirt in there. That’s because they’re a vegetable, and vegetables grow in dirt.
Kinda looks like a cross between onions and celery, with a severe case of hypothyroidism.
Here’s the recipe, if’n you’re interested.
2 pounds leeks, white parts only
1 cup fresh basil leaves (I didn’t have this of course. We’re talking about me here.)
8 ounces mozzarella
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon wine or sherry vinegar
Salt (preferably freshly ground—fleur de sel works magic) and freshly ground peppe
Yield: 4 Servings
Preheat the broiler.
Clean the leeks thoroughly, and boil in salted water 6 to 10 minutes, until cooked but still firm, then drain.
Put the leeks in a baking dish, and cover with a layer of basil leaves. Cut the mozzarella into 1/4-inch slices, and place atop the basil layer. Put the dish under the preheated broiler, and watch carefully. In 3 to 5 minutes the cheese should start to melt and brown; at this point, remove the dish.
Mix the oil and vinegar and drizzle over the mozzarella. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Serve immediately with a slice of country bread.
So far, I’ve eaten them twice. They aren’t terrible. They ain’t taters and gravy either.
I’m still waiting for the magic.
So far, I’ve gotten better results from birthday candle blowing and shooting star wishing.
But Wait. Somebody’s at the door.
It is Tuesday, isn’t it?
The last couple of days a sickness with the ferociousness of the Egyptian plagues came through this household. It hit Jason about 7 minutes and 34 seconds before it hit me. I have never been more thankful for a home with two toilets. I spent the night hugging the commode and praying for Rapture.
Speaking of Heaven, I had the most delicious taste enter my mouth over the holidays. Well, maybe not the most delicious, but pretty darn close. Along with the celestial taste came one of those time machine moments and I was transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen, fresh cookies baking, and the Tennessee Waltz playing on the radio. My amygdala, that little part of my brain that stores memories and emotions, was on fire trying to place the taste of this fine little cookie. I think that’s the amygadala, if not, just pretend I’m as smart as I pretend to be.
These cookies are Caramel Wafers. They came from The Netherlands, their website on their cute little box says http://www.daelmansbanket.com/ but I can’t for the life of me find how to get more of this divine little boogers.
Not on an entirely different note than boogers, my big dog Drew has dribbled, piddled, vomited, and chewed up a curly headed doll in the last hour. Jason says he can’t handle prosperity. Afterall, we do have 2 toilets.
I got a fancy schmancy camera for Christmas.
It’s got a lot of initials and numbers on it.
Things like ISO sensitivity,
and Active D-Lighting,
These initials I savvy.
I hate to be a braggart and all, but despite my lack of understanding of this photography lingo and/or settings, I can do some pretty amazing things with it.
I think this one belongs in a gallery or something.
If only I could attain a cooperative model, I’ll be pro in no time.
This has been a good Christmas season. I think I’m taking a liking to it. I’ve been a Grinch, a Scrooge, and a Humbug most of my adult life. That started happening after I quit getting so many presents because these little despicable things called “grandchildren” entered the family and stole my thunder and my “baby of the family” status. But I’m not one bit bitter about it.
We have a white Christmas this year. Before you have quintessential visions, stop right there. It’s not a bit pretty. There isn’t anything pretty about snow blowing 50 mph.
We had a beautiful communion service last night at church and that is the beautiful part of it all. Amid all the wrapping paper on the floor, the turkey carcassess, the pine needles stuck in sock feet, pause for a moment (or more) and ponder the miracle and beauty of Christmas. With all the complicated things in life, this is truly the most simple.
A baby boy.
A hope for a lost world.
I am absolutely loving the new Docker’s Campaign, Wear the Pants. Click on over to Docker’s to read this “man-ifesto” to get an idea of all this.
And to think they’re catching a little flak from all this. People are saying this ad is sexist. Good grief. I love America, but sometimes I just don’t get it. Mostly these allegations are coming from women, naturally. Like these comments:
If people think children are misbehaving and cities are crumbling all because of our “genderless” society, they are sorely mistaken. Sure, we’d love to see men “man up,” but and if they think that great changes will occur when guys put on khakis, well, fine then, try them on and let’s see what happens. As for men being the ones to “wear the pants,” well, we’re sorry to break it to you, but ladies have been wearing pants, voting, working, running homes, and sipping lattes for a long time now. And we like it.
“The intent of the campaign is to put forth a new definition of masculinity, one that embraces strength and sensitivity and appeals to men who can change a tire AND a diaper,” says Jennifer Sey, Global VP of Marketing for Dockers. “We’re not trying to shame men. We want to make them laugh at themselves and at the state of manhood. And, at the same time, encourage them to dress up, man-up and embody today’s new definition of masculinity.”
Here’s a slideshow I found called “An Emasculating Manhood”
Here’s another link if you’d like to read this person’s opinion.
Docker’s is just trying to sell khakis. Personally, I wish men would step up and be the men of yesteryear. I’m interested in your opinion. What are your thoughts?
There are very few people who have caught my fancy in this life: River Phoenix, Brad Pitt, Dr. Oz, and Pioneer Woman in that order. Oh, and maybe Jason. I guess I should throw him in the mix since I’ve chosen him for the rest of my days.
Since my First Attempt had been a colossal failure, I made a fast trip to OKC to meet one of these obsessions of mine. River is dead, Brad and Mehmet are waaaaayyy famous, so by process of elimination that could only leave PW. Yes, I got to see her, meet her, talk to her, and give her Chex Mix, because I’m a dork that’s why!
I met up with my lovely Aunt Jeanne and we drove over to Barnes and Noble to wait in line. The line wasn’t bad at all, it just went halfway around the store. We sat and drank coffee and had a good visit. It took us one hour to get through, once it started moving.
Seven years bad luck.
And then I thought, Seriously Angel, get a grip. You know that is all bull hockey.
And I do.
I really think Friday the 13th is bogus. I’m not a bit afraid of that day. I’ve successfully survived too many for it to concern me any longer. Then there is the black cat crossing the path thingie. I’m always tempted to turn around. It always crosses my mind to change course. I always look for a speck of white on its tail or ear. But I normally continue on my path. Unless I’m feeling unusually skittish that day.
Do I really believe that all superstitions are bull hockey?
Then why do I throw a pinch of salt over my left shoulder when I spill it? Or never walk under a ladder? Did I inherit this from my dad who is a superstitious guy, or my Grannie Silcott? She said it was bad luck to change a calendar before it was time, or open an umbrella in the house, my brother won’t eat cherry pie on a drilling rig, and I’ll only pick up a penny if it’s on heads. I heard one time of someone who, if found on tails, would turn a penny over to heads so someone else could have good luck. That’s nice. I doubt it works, but it is a nice gesture.
I guess I’m more superstitious than I thought. But mostly I’m upset about the mirror, the sentimentality of it all. That some things are irreplaceable. That people are irreplaceable. That time is so valuable and yet we squandor it.
My dad sent me a forwarded email with a note that he thought I’d like the last line. It read “Enjoy every moment of every day.”
And so is my prayer for you.
Treasure the moments.
Cherish the people.
Forget about the possessions.
Take time to tell others they mean the world to you.
To you: You Mean The World To Me.