Random Thursday: Random Edibles*

It’s Random!  It’s Thursday!  It’s Random Thursday!

This is a bit shorter than usual, because I still haven’t caught up on the sleep I gladly lost Tuesday night (and a bit of Wednesday morning) doing this

The general theme is probably due to the glucose tolerance test I had yesterday, which ensured that I didn’t eat anything before I visited the doctor’s office (because I had to fast) or for a eight hours afterwards (because the taste of flat orange Fresca mixed with corn syrup is less tolerable to my tastebuds than the actual glucose is to my system—bluuuuurgh). ‘Cause when I skip a meal or two, my focus narrows.

And yes, I already had a HobNob tag.  Why is this a question?


Reason #683 why my friend Dee is Awesome

When she arrives at the weirdly cool restaurant she suggested for dinner before the amazing concert she made arrangements for us to see, she brings me these:


Hey, Dee:


Twenty-Nine Seconds of Cake

 Is this awesome . . . or am I just projecting?




 You know what makes this even better?

It was created by a place called Tattooed Bakers.

Tattooed Bakers Logo

Go check out their gallery, which ranges from elegant and whimsical to . . . um.


Dancing Cookie Cake

 Julia M. Usher, whose website gives Martha Stewart a run for her money,
created this for the 2013 Oklahoma State Sugar Art Show,
which is now on my list of Dangerous Places I Must Visit.


*Get your head out of the gutter, Kevin; this ain’t that kind of show.  Anda  limerick about HobNobs is too easy for you.  Do one on barszcz and we’ll talk.



This is not true.

I would no sooner sully an Oreo with cow juice than pile dill pickles on a HobNob.*

But I do like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, as long as the peanut butter is creamy and the pickles are crisp and kosher—not that I care much about the religious preferences of the vegetable kingdom, but I firmly believe that garlic is essential for pickles** in the same way sugar really, really isn’t.

I also like cheddar cheese slices between Pringles.  And dried pineapple in salted popcorn.  And coconut M&Ms with dry roasted peanuts. And herbed croutons in my Mac & Cheese.

And fresh, crisp apples.  Spinach, cooked or baby. Snappy jicama and mellow kohlrabi, both of which are all Mom’s fault—not that I like them, but that I’m so picky about quality and prep.

Most fresh fruit—hold the durian.  All possible hummus—hummuses? hummae?—barring the ones with black olives, as I’m mildly allergic.

Pico de gallo trumps salsa, though not by much.  It’s probably the onion.

The worst tortilla chips I ever had weren’t that much worse than the best tortilla chips I ever had.  Saltier, though.

My MIL’s chili is perfection.  So are steak fries with real melted cheese on them—not sauce. And cheddar cheeseburgers with burnt bacon, red onion, and tomato on them.  Green salads with cold veggies, warm grilled chicken, a little cheese, and croutons.

Veggie burgers yes, notdogs NO.

I will admit to poking vanilla ice cream with the handle end of a mixing spoon and pouring in that waxy-chocolate Magic Shell® stuff, so it runs into the holes and goes solid.  Down to the bottom of the container.

I love crab, but I don’t like lobster.  I’m weird about pork products, unless they’re bacon or pepperoni.

Beer-battered fish is amazing, tartar sauce is an abomination—mayonnaise is for cooked recipes, not sandwiches, and don’t get me started on the crying disappointment that is garlic aioli.

Oysters or clams are the rubber boogers of the sea. Artichokes and grapefruit are meant  to be enjoyed by other people. Caramel does not belong in coffee.

Gefilte fish is a marriage of food preservation and cultural pride gone tragically wrong.  Matzoh is the exact opposite.

And I hold Very Strict Opinions about tuna salad, which is my exception to the mayo rule, but NOT the kosher pickle rule.


What are your food quirks/rules/habits/inexplicable cravings?



*That sounds a bit dirtier than I meant it to, though I’m now imagining Jim Carter flicking slices at Maggie Smith, which is ridiculous, as it’s far more likely to be the other way around.

**And many, many other things.  When my MIL and I see a recipe that calls for a single clove or teaspoon of the granulated, we laugh.

Random Thursday: Random Rubbish and Regencies

I had half a post assembled before the virus hit.*  This is it, sorry:


Better than a slap in the la-las with an antique mangle:

Is it not?


HobNobs—especially the milk chocolate ones—are, in my experienced opinion, the best cookie/biscuit ever.

They’re like oat-based granola that has been crushed up fine, rolled out thin, baked, and then dipped gently in chocolate.  There’s nothing like them.

To be more specific, there’s nothing like them here.**  Not without one heck of a drive and/or hellacious shipping fees.  So I get to renew my glowing opinion about them only once every few years at best***

Until I can get to the UK—or Canda, does Canada have these?—I suppose I’ll have to make do with my MIL’s homemade Snickerdoodles.

It’s a rough life I lead . . .


Through a set of circumstances I can’t explain, I discovered and became a huge fan of Joyce Grenfell, who does, or did, one woman comedy pieces that are just wonderful, mostly because the characters seem so familiar:

Her “Eng Lit” sketch, about a writer of a certain age, was the first one I saw and I can recommend her “Nursery School” series to anyone who has ever taught, been owned by, or encountered small children in a group.

But this one had me wiping away tears and stifling giggles. It’s a bit long and the quality isn’t the best, but it’s completely worth it:


* The clinic said it wasn’t pneumonia, just a nasty attack that should clear up soon with some OTC and REST.  They were worried about my blood pressure, though—it was absolutely normal, but it took three nurses six cumulative tries to find evidence of it, beyond the current medical theory that I was alive and so must have one somewhere.   It didn’t occur to any of us until the fifth try that they were all using the same stethoscope . . . 

**My husband found these Nature Valley Squares things that might seem close.  But they aren’t.  They’re square.  And too thick.  And the chocolate isn’t right.  I’ll eat them, but I won’t do the Happy HobNob dance while I do.

***My lovely friend Downith sent me some as a surprise about a year ago (I think).  They were wonderful—I made them last two weeks—but I don’t even want to think of the postage.

HobNobbing with the Duchess

I dragged myself home today after work, schlepped  a cello, an A-minus diorama, and a damp bag full of swimming stuff into the kitchen . . . and saw a package on the kitchen table.  For me.

The moment I saw the Royal Mail sticker, I knew. One might say I went completely kookoopants:

HobNobs, for those of you who haven’t experienced them yet, are insanely good English biscuits that aren’t available in my neck of the woods, unless I want to take a verrrry long drive to the nearest import grocery.  I’m mentioned this once or twice—or perhaps at every possible opportunity—and Her Grace Downith sent me some completely out of the blue, accompanied by an absolutely perfect poem by John Betjeman:

She, such a very ordinary little woman;
He, such a thumping crook;
But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels
In the teashop’s ingle-nook.

The HobNobs are exactly as good as I remember—sweet and slightly nutty and crumbly and milk-chocolately and ummm . . .

But receiving a surprise from a friend is even better.

Thanks, Downith!