Fifty Shades of Tepid

I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.  I resisted for weeks.  Fought impulses, held internal debates with myself. 

It wasn’t pleasant.  But here I am.  I can’t contain myself any longer.

I have to say a few things about that insipid trilogy , Fifty Shades of Grey.  I’m sorry. 



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Hot Headed

I’ve been a little busy not gettin’ busy.

I’ve moved upward and onward into a sparkly new house … and , sadly, have not had a lot of time make my oven hot (not a euphemism).

I have been spending a lot of time in my own head for the last few weeks (months) – and, well, I know that there are those of you who would really like to spend some time in my, uh, head too, so, come, on. Take my hand.


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Red Hot

I assume we have an understanding. You all know that  I have what could be described as a tomato fetish.  I don’t like to go more than a couple of days – and I mean only two – without ingesting something tomato-y.  So, Summertime in the South means absolute breathless anticipation of those juicy, sun-warmed ripe, ugly beasts that actually taste like a tomato, instead of those strange, flavorless,  uniform globes in  the grocery store the other 9 months of the year.

The perfect tomato is lumpy, imperfect, warm, eaten just sliced.   Sometimes I will enjoy a purist tomato-sandwich, but I prefer my Summer, vine-ripened homely beauties warm, sliced, and, if not plain on their own, coupled with some basil and aged-balsamic.  That is perfection for me.   I do not want my tomatoes jazzed up.  Keep it simple.

So, imagine my delight and sheer giddiness when I learned of a dinner with tomatoes at every course.  What other heaven is there?


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In Heat

It’s officially Summer.   It’s officially hot, and that’s just the way I like it.


Sweltering temperatures and soaring humidity bring many things.  Like its sweeter cousin, Spring, Summer has its own set of gifts it brings.

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