Cobbler is a great way to use very ripe fruits, and it is a faster way to produce a really tasty dessert than pie. After all, most of the time and effort in homemade pie is the crust,
and you don’t have to do that here. This particular recipe is for peach cobbler, but you can cobble (do I get to use that word that way? I think so :D) just about any fruit. Just tweak spices and amounts of additional liquid to suit the fruit you’re using.
| There’s a strange little scene from my childhood that still plays in my head sometimes, over and over, like a missed prophecy: I was somewhere between twelve and fifteen, I think, and my whole family was home sick from work or school, so we were actually having a sit-down lunch together–a real rarity for us. Of course, everyone was completely exhausted, and tasks were being distributed on the customary who’s-the-most-tired-I-win-you-do-it basis . . . |  |
No, I have not suddenly gone crazy and decided that road kill is vegetarian … this is just the name I’ve always known this dish by. I think the original idea is that the rice pokes out of
the ball shape a little bit when they cook, so they look a bit like little scared porcupines. I’ve never really seen it myself (who ever saw a red porcupine, anyway? Even Sonic was blue…and supposed to be a hedgehog!), but the name certainly catches the attention. Also, I can’t think of anything better that doesn’t make them sound gross, which they aren’t.
| When I think of these pretzels, I think of my friend Ginny. I don’t think I’ve mentioned her on this blog before, which is a shame, because she’s a great friend with a fascinating story: She’s among the many celiacs who get a false negative on the antibody test, but a positive genetic test. Long story short, when we met her she knew something was wrong with her, but had no idea what–and neither did any of her doctors. (We’ve all been there, haven’t we?) But the better my sister and I got to know Ginny, the more she would mention some of her symptoms, or we would mention some of ours, and we’d all start to get a little wigged out at how much we had in common . . . |  |
