A drunken evening with Nigella Lawson and Ina Garten

It was madcap of me to buy tickets for a cooking conversation in Brooklyn considering I live in Louisiana. But, life is short. Plus, the last time we saw New York, the twin towers still stood. 

So, off we went to see Nigella Lawson and Ina Garten sit on a stage together near the childhood home of Bernie Sanders. We also managed to walk the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time, admire the stuffed bear who became Winnie the Pooh, visit the cathedral that hosted Babe Ruth's funeral, give our regards to Broadway, cruise through Herald Square so quickly that it will be hard for it to remember us and tour a bookstore that boasts miles of books. There's no shortage of interesting things to see in New York.

But back to Nigella and Ina. I've been a fan for years. I love that they're women who enjoy cooking but aren't trained enough to call themselves chefs - and they've made millions at it. How fabulous is that?

It was a fun evening full of humor, Jeffrey fandom and just a little bit of snark. 

Some surprises from the show: 

- Nigella strutted onto stage as an all-in-pink Johnny Cash.

- Ina is tiny and absolutely charming. Now I envy her cooking skills and her ability to guide a conversation.

- Nigella - who is private about her personal life - looked startled when Ina casually mentioned where her daughter lives (I won't reveal the location). Also, Nigella's favorite child depends on what day it is. 

- A poor fellow fan got so excited and so drunk that he fell to the floor of the theater and had to be escorted into a taxi while staff assured him they'd seen much worse. I hope he made it home OK.

The biggest surprise of all? Nigella has a BIG personality (I guess you'd have to in order to carry off pink from head to toe). Ina is more subdued. 

The conversation was part of a U.S. book tour launched by Nigella to promote her new cookbook. Ina agreed to join her for the Brooklyn stop, probably because it's close to home and because she has her own new cookbook out. 

The event organizers sent emails urging ticket holders to arrive an hour-and-a-half ahead of the conversation kickoff time. Fortunately, we ignored that advice. We could have arrived 30 minutes past the show's start and not missed a thing. The ladies took their time coming onto the stage, giving us time to admire the theater (and at least one person to get very drunk). 

King's Theatre is one of those lush vaudeville palaces that puts today's cineplex to shame, even with the reclining seats and concession call buttons. It's awash in gilt and velvet with soaring staircases and thick carpets. 

There were comment cards for fans to jot down questions for Ina and Nigella. I pondered what would rise to the top of the stack and submitted a few questions. We bought drinks and a bag of popcorn. Glenn wandered off, and I spent 20 minutes locating him in the crowded lobby. 

Finally, we were allowed inside the auditorium, where more waiting awaited us. The cavernous first floor of the auditorium slowly filled with people, some carrying a thick stack of cookbooks purchased in the lobby (Nigella had one cookbook for sale; a more savvy Ina offered her whole library of cookbooks). We were told the ladies would be onstage soon. We waited some more. An underling trotted onto the stage to set down two stacks of comment cards. A few minutes later, he was back to neaten the stacks. Glenn made and cancelled dinner reservations. Eventually, the ladies arrived.

Very quickly, their personalities emerged. Nigella was the star of the show, dominating the conversation, which I found to be slightly annoying (no offense to Nigella; I just wanted a more even distribution). Ina was funny and delightful sitting so properly in her chair. 

Some of my favorite moments:

Pro tip from Ina: Don't use a mandolin to cut a radish while enjoying a glass of wine. She has the cut to show why that's a bad idea.

Two things Nigella hates: Sieving and peeling garlic. Now, she has a rolly thing to help with peeling garlic.

Neither likes to be scripted when filming a cooking show.

Nigella: I wouldn't be scripted so the director would say 'Action,' and I had to fill the silence.

Ina: I wouldn't be scripted either. I would take something out of the oven, and I would hear myself say 'Jeffrey's going to love this.' (CHEERS from the crowd at Jeffrey's name; he's quite the rock star).

Nigella: Do you not talk to yourself in real life?

Ina: No!

Nigella on the timing of her cooking shows: I always do a cookbook first because I need to know what my character is. 

Ina on writing a cookbook: If the book is due in December, I start writing it on Nov. 15. I'm the most undisciplined person you know.

Nigella shading Elon Musk: I'm quite good at Twitter ... or I was. Who knows.

Nigella is a rebel.

Nigella: I was always told the importance of eating breakfast. I'm 142. I don't have to have breakfast if I don't want to.

Is that your recipe or mine?

Ina: I love your chicken and orzo with saffron.

Nigella: The saffron is yours.

Ina: It's mine?

Nigella: Mine was lemon and orzo. We've merged!

And, finally, the comment card part of the night. Will they read one of my questions? I had my doubts. It was a crowded theater, and those comment card stacks were pretty tall.

Some revelations:

Nigella's favorite pudding? Lemon meringue pie (didn't see that one coming although I have noticed some inconsistency in her feelings toward chocolate).

Texas towns are tricky to pronounce. Nigella (reading the hometown on a comment card): Is it Plano or Piano?

Nigella's TV suggestion: If you like the Crown, try the Empress. The costumes are fabulous.

Nigella's recommendations for the Thanksgiving menu: It's not my place to talk about Thanksgiving. One of things you're giving thanks for is getting rid of us.

Ina's favorite New York restaurant: Laser Wolf. 

Nigella's favorite London restaurant: River Cafe although it's terribly expensive. 

Then, Ina shuffled through the comment cards in her hand and asked my question of Nigella: What baffles you about American cooking?

Nigella's answer was a bit baffling in itself. She seemed stumped for a moment, saying nothing really baffled her since the two country's cooking techniques are so similar. She tossed out that portion sizes in America are a bit surprising before landing on an answer.

Bacon. More specifically, bacon as a side is what baffles Nigella about American cooking. Admittedly, she has a point. We are a bacon obsessed country. 

The next night, Glenn and I went to dinner and laughed at one of the appetizer choices: Grilled bacon. 

Grandfather Rex

Granddaddy Rex - the early years

If you asked my grandfather about his childhood in Scurry County, Texas, the story you got was often stark.

He was born during the Great Depression on a farm that struggled to support its inhabitants in the best of economic times. He was only a few months old when his grandfather shot himself in the barn. In search of a better life, his parents drove a Model T to California, where Granddaddy discovered sidewalks perfect for rollerskating, but his farm-raised father couldn't handle reporting to work in a factory parking lot packed with cars so it was back to the tumbleweeds and struggle of the family farm. They got up early and worked long days for little financial return. The cattle got sick and required tending that usually didn't save them.

Granddaddy with his cousin Dorothy. They were only six months apart and remained close their entire lives. Both were only children. This probably was taken in Comanche, where their grandparents lived. Their mothers were sisters and came from a family of 10 surviving girls. 

My grandfather left that farm at 17 vowing to become anything but a farmer. Always practical, he still stuck with what he knew and studied agronomy. Always an achiever, he excelled. He became an internationally recognized research scientist. Nearly 20 years after his retirement, you can still find articles about his work on the internet: https://agresearchmag.ars.usda.gov/1999/may/smut/ Knowing him, he thought this article was funny.

Granddaddy always tried to prepare us for life's disappointments - perhaps because he encountered so much disappointment in his own life. Knowing how much I love my animals, he warned me that they probably don't go to heaven (I disagree with him there). Knowing how much work means to me, he warned me that it ultimately leads to a box of things that you gather upon retirement. A week ago, he stood in the doorway of his sunroom and told me that he wasn't doing well. I should've known then that he was trying to prepare me for a disappointment.

My grandparents on their wedding day: Oct. 1, 1952 in Snyder, Texas. They would've been married 68 years this October. 

A few weeks ago, he was diagnosed with lymphoma. The prognosis wasn't good and the cancer was brutal. He was terribly thin and couldn't sleep because of constant itching. He welcomed his first infusion for the possible relief it might offer. It didn't help at all.

We were so consumed with the lymphoma that we forgot about the other ticking time bomb. He had an abdominal aneurysm that was monitored twice a year. It chose to burst during a Zoom call we were having for his 89th birthday. It should've killed him immediately. Because Granddaddy was so strong, it didn't. He made it to the hospital, where he died hours later. Because of coronavirus, he died among strangers. If he was aware, he probably was terrified. He hated hospitals because he always worried about not leaving alive.

We found this letter after his death. Seventy eight years ago, my great-grandmother was very concerned about his boots. 

It wasn't the ending we wanted. But it was probably the ending that was best for him. He didn't have to suffer any longer battling lymphoma. He didn't have to worry about how long the lymphoma would take to kill him and what he would endure before it did.

I can't emphasize enough how little Granddaddy liked hospitals. A few years ago, he had to spend the night in the hospital for some minor procedure. He fought with the doctor over the hospital stay and wasn't as nice about it as he could've been. Driving to the hospital in Raceland to visit him, I spotted a McDonald's and swung through the drive through to get a few treats to pacify him. Carrying the ice cream sundae and apple pie into the hospital, I felt like I was visiting a small child and wondered if he would think it was silly that I'd brought him McDonald's. Then I walked into his room.

My grandparents as a young married couple.

He was happier to see me than he'd ever been in his life - and it wasn't because of the sweets (although he was plenty happy about those). He was alone in a hospital room for the first time, and he was scared to be there. He was human. As strong as he was and as strong in his faith as he was, he wasn't enthusiastic about leaving.

Granddaddy was such a good man. He made my grandmother breakfast every morning, bought her flowers on special occasions, turned Saturday into Chick-fil-a day and played love songs for her through Alexa.

Granddaddy with my dad and Aunt Brenna in front of the house he and my grandmother built in Mulberry subdivision in Houma. This is a great house. 

He worked hard and valued his money. He didn't drive cars for 100,000 miles. He drove them for 200,000 miles ... or more. He loved shopping at Sam's. Everything came from there: clothes, medicine and giant plastic tubs of mayonnaise. I'm still confused about the mayonnaise. Sure, it was cheap, but did he ever actually finish a tub before it went bad? Knowing him, he crunched the numbers and accounted for the estimated waste before he put it in his shopping cart.

Granddaddy loved babies. 

He wasn't afraid to cry, whether it was over his dad, our beloved Ed, dying or my grandmother getting diagnosed with cancer. He would put on music and dance with my Uncle Scotty, who was born profoundly disabled. He loved to laugh. Boy, did he love to laugh. He used to tell us about 1930s baby food just to laugh at our reaction (his granny would chew up food in her mouth, spit it out and feed it to him).

Most of all, he loved. He loved the Lord and he loved his family. He treated his grandchildren like they were his own children both emotionally and financially. He was at the hospital for every birth unless it happened too far away to make the drive. He packed grandchildren into the minivan for family reunions. He made up silly names for us. My sister was Linda Bird. Our cousin was Aimee Baby Cousin. Later, when the great grandchildren, arrived he was so proud. I stopped by the house one day when a neighbor was visiting. "I'm so glad you're here," he told me. "Do you have pictures on your phone of Elise (the oldest great grandchild) that you can show Rhonda?"

He just enjoyed life - not in a grand way, but in his own way. He wasn't one for restaurant dining. He talked about visiting Ireland but never did and probably didn't regret it. He was happy to putter around the house, tending to a wife fragile from cancer and heart issues. Any reading he did was financial or religious. He didn't believe in wasting time on fiction. He fiddled with investments, fed the cat and made tuna fish sandwiches (got to use that giant tub of mayo). And he was just fine with that. I never called before visiting. They were always home.

So, I think God gave him a gift in letting him die the way he did. It was unexpected and quick. He kept his routine until the end. He didn't have to spend the night in a hospital bed and die days later. And if anyone deserved a gift from God, it was Granddaddy.

The saga of the lost bread pudding

Commander's gives you bread pudding and a hat on your birthday!

A few years ago, we splurged and went to Commander's Palace for Mr. G.'s birthday. They sat us in the garden room (which I always call the jungle room) overlooking ancient oak trees and they fed us bread pudding.

That bread pudding sparked a memory and created confusion all at once.

Granny Hebert (my mom's mom) used to make bread pudding. I can remember her kitchen down to the brown side-by-side refrigerator, the zillion cans of soup in the pantry (she grew up in the Depression) and the salt and pepper shaker collection. But I cannot remember how she made that bread pudding.

I don't think the woman ever wrote down a recipe in her life. And I don't remember any cookbooks among the romance books she favored. So she probably kept the recipe in her head.

Granny Hebert made the best bread pudding. 

Since Granny's death, I've looked at bread pudding recipes in puzzlement. None of them sparked even a vague memory. They just didn't seem right.

Then I tasted Commander's bread pudding, and a bell rang.

Commander's recipe is widely available on the internet. It's a complicated dish involving tons of eggs. I can't imagine Granny would've used a dozen eggs in a single recipe. She was a widow living on a very fixed income, and she didn't raise chickens.

So I asked the family for help.

My mother correctly pointed out that my Nanny (Granny's oldest daughter) would know the recipe. Sadly, Nanny is no longer with us.

My aunt said she didn't know the recipe.

They're a lot of help.

Finally, my cousin - who was Nanny's youngest daughter - offered the most helpful tips. She remembered some of the ingredients and that it had a meringue.

That's what was different about Granny's bread pudding. A lot of times, the bread pudding you get in a restaurant is a gooey dish of bread, fruit and milk. Granny's bread pudding - like Commander's - had a meringue on top. And it never had raisins.

I found this recipe on the internet, and it feels right. This is the poor Cajun's bread pudding (no offense to Commander's). No French bread. Certainly, no dozen eggs.

Give it a whirl:

Ingredients

• 4 slices of white bread
• 4 tbsp sugar
• 3 1/2 cup milk
• 4 eggs, separated
• 1 tbsp vanilla extract
• pinch of salt
• 1/2 stick butter
• raisins, optional

Directions

Break bread into an oven-safe dish. Soften the bread with small amounts of milk.

Beat the sugar and egg yolks together in a separate bowl. Add the remaining milk and stir well.

Then add vanilla and salt and pour the milk mixture over the bread. Add the raisins. Cut the stick of butter into chunks and mix in.

Place the dish in a pan of water inside of the oven and bake at 300 degrees for 40-50 minutes or until a toothpick or knife comes out clean.

For a meringue topping, add 2 level tablespoons of sugar a pinch of cream of tartar to each egg white and beat. Spread on top and bake at 350 degrees until the meringue is golden brown. Serve warm.

Get ye to York

York is seriously beautiful with river views, pubs, a cathedral and a coffee shop set inside the ancient city walls. 

It's been a few years since we visited England, and I never finished blogging about it. Lately, I've been watching the BBC series "North and South," which is set in the fictional Milton but makes me think of York.

Ah, York. Lovely, beautiful York. London is great, but York is something else.

For a newspaper reporter and a former newspaper reporter, this was an exciting sight. Alas, it no longer houses a newspaper. But how cool is this building? It overlooks the river in York. 

We walked this city (city centre at least), crossing the river multiple times across the many bridges, climbed the city walls, explored the area's chocolate history, found a favorite coffee shop, got lost in Marks and Spencer, took a ghost tour, waved at William and Kate, sampled the worst pie ever, wandered crooked streets centuries old and crashed a wedding. We also found time to venture by bus into the countryside where we rumbled past the ruins of Richard III's castle and squeezed through a wall in a bus packed with Japanese tourists to gape at the stateliest of homes.

So get ye to York if you have the time. And buy me a house there.

Harry Potter is alive and well in York. Seriously, there are wanted posters for him along the crooked streets that supposedly inspired Diagon Alley.

York is dripping in history.

For the Romans, York was Eboracum. The Romans turned York/Eboracum from a sleepy meadow into a city. We met some of the people who populated Eboracum at the Yorkshire Museum. They included this guy:

Constantius was York's forgotten emperor. You probably are more familiar with his son: Constantine the Great.

Near the museum are the ruins of an abbey.  As someone once wrote: "Here we must leave the venerable pile in the evening of its glory."

The ruins are pretty glorious. This was one of the wealthiest monasteries in England. It started tumbling down in the 1530s, when Henry VIII decided to get a divorce and started dismantling the Catholic Church's wealth and influence.

Remains of the Day: St. Mary's in York.

The Tudor influence still is felt in York. 

From history, we moved to chocolate. Yum! York easily could be home to Willy Wonka. 

There's a lot to do in York. We couldn't do it all. So I rattled off a list of options to Glenn. He picked the chocolate museum. This was one of our favorite things in York.

The Quakers brought chocolate to York. They thought it was better for them than alcohol. The River Ouse also helped since it provided a convenient means of transporting chocolate to the rest of the world. York brought you KitKat bars and those chocolate oranges you open with a whack at Christmas.

We learned all of this at the chocolate museum. And we got to make chocolate lollies (lollipops).

Our chocolate lollipops!

After our chocolate lesson, we wandered through York and got turned around. We looked up and found ourselves at the bottom of a steep hill topped by a castle tower. Somehow, we'd stumbled across Clifford's Tower. I imagine many a Yorkshire school child has rolled down that hill.

This tower was built by Henry III. The king and queen were supposed to stay here when they visited York. However, they rarely ventured that far north so the tower became a place to store valuables. 

As you can imagine, the view from atop this tower is spectacular.

The view from Clifford's Tower. 

From Clifford's Tower, we decided to walk the city walls. York City Centre is encased by ancient walls. In fact, the city boasts more intact walls than any other city in England.






Fun fact: the gateways in the walls are called bars. These are where the good people of York used to put the severed heads of traitors on pikes. You know, as a warning.


Glenn found a Yorkshire tap room near one of the bars. A bar near a bar.





We devoted nearly an entire day of our trip to York to a side trip to Castle Howard. I read about Castle Howard eons ago and always wanted to visit it. Turns out, you can hop on a city bus from York and eventually end up at Castle Howard.

The hotel desk clerk warned us it would be a boring ride through the country. As if! I was fascinated by a glimpse at life outside the City Centre: Stops at a massive strip mall where we collected passengers who got on with their shopping bags and departed at little villages.

Then we rolled past this:



This, my friends, was built when King Stephen was on the throne. Guess who slept here? Richard III. It was long thought that Richard's only legitimate son was buried in Sheriff Hutton, where this castle is located. That's been disproven.

Yep. Nothing interesting to see on that bus ride!

Finally, we arrived at Castle Howard, famous as the setting for "Brideshead Revisited." It's a house that makes you think of governesses and the moors and "Downton Abbey." We really wanted to move in. Bailey would have so much room to roam!

Castle Howard

There's recently been a dustup within the Howard family. The brother who'd been running the estate for decades was evicted in favor of an elder brother who previously chose not to take on the white elephant.

I didn't hear any family gossip on the tour. Instead, I encountered a lovely tour guide who once lived in Florida and attended exercise class with Burt Reynolds' blonde girlfriend. So much for butlers and governesses.

Velveeta sucks. My granny's cheese sauce doesn't

The other day, I bought a block of Velveeta.  I don't know what I was thinking either.

Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what I was thinking.

My husband loves mac and cheese. While pushing my cart through the grocery store, I spotted the Velveeta and - in that haze of dubious recipe shortcuts that always seizes me at the grocery store - I picked up a box. The grocery gods convinced me it would melt beautifully and create glorious mac and cheese with ease.

Sanity quickly prevailed, and that heavy box of Velveeta stared at me every time I opened the fridge until I finally decided enough was enough. I opened the cardboard box, tore into the wrapper and looked at my block of cheese. It was the color of a traffic cone and very rubbery in texture. Could it actually be a traffic cone fashioned into a rectangle?

I was further dismayed when I read the instructions. I only needed a chunk of the stuff. That meant I had - oh, I don't know - 50 more chunks until it was gone.

Then I melted the Velveeta and discovered it really should only be used with Rotel to make dip. It does not make very good mac and cheese. There were complaints from the peanut gallery.

I kept the remainder of that huge block in the fridge for weeks. At various times, I contemplated Googling for Velveeta recipes or offering it to a neighbor with many kids (because kids will eat anything). Finally, reluctantly, I threw it in the garbage. It hurt. I hate waste. But I couldn't force the stuff on Mr. G. Milk products don't agree with me so it's not like I could even take one for the team on this one. Into the bin it went.

Now I'm back to making Granny's cheese sauce when Mr. G. wants mac and cheese.

For the record, I don't recall Granny ever making cheese sauce. I remember her spaghetti with the canned mushrooms in the sauce, her burnt meatloaf (it was delicious) and her bread pudding. But my mother insists the family cheese sauce recipe came from Granny.

To make it, you melt butter and add flour. Then you stir in milk (and dry mustard for some reason) and stir until the sauce thickens. Cheese comes next. It's gloopy, oopy and decidedly not Velveeta. Maybe I could package it and sell it as Cheese Sauce That Doesn't Suck.

For Mr. G., it's a Very Brady Christmas

Tonight, I tried to get Mr. G. to watch a show about Shreveport restaurants with me. He refused. The reason: "A Very Brady Christmas" was on in the back.

Don't worry too much about him. He got caught up in the nostalgia of seeing the Brady family once again. He later emerged from the bedroom with the sad news that the Brady Christmas movie was really lame.

I could have told him that as I feel that I've watched every Christmas movie ever made. I LOVE CHRISTMAS MOVIES! I watched a really sad one recently starring Jason Robards. I had to watch a few cheery movies to make up for it.

It got me to thinking, though, about the silly things we watch every year. Part of the fun of Christmas is just sitting on the couch watching Christmas favorites. I love the ones from my childhood. All my life, I'll remember watching "A Christmas Story" with my mom, dad and sister and reveling in the humor of it. 

Here are a few of my favorites. Make up your own mind about "A Very Brady Christmas" (but don't say we didn't warn you):

BELLS OF ST. MARY'S

Hands down, this is my favorite Christmas movie. It even edges out "It's A Wonderful Life." Everything about this movie is great, but I really love the Christmas pageant in which the kids make up their own script.

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

I'm pretty fond of Jimmy Stewart so - of course - I watch this every year. Some years, we're lucky enough to catch it on the big screen. It makes me want to buy an old house and fix it up. Did you know, by the way, that Richard Nixon built the White House press room over a swimming pool? The joke later became that they needed to add a trap door for troublesome reporters. That story reminds me of a famous scene in this movie.

HOW THE GRINCH STOLE CHRISTMAS

I love Ron Howard. I have no love for Jim Carrey. I'm able to stomach him as the Grinch because of the makeup. Plus, I like immersing myself in a Hollywood-extravaganza Whoville. And I kind of love it that the little girl can't sing.

FROSTY THE SNOWMAN

This transports me back to childhood. Skip the sequel. It's awful.

RUDOLPH

To this day, I don't understand what's so bad about wanting to be a dentist. That weak plot point aside, how can you not love the Island of Misfit Toys? I think that scene resonated with me. Recently, I was at Dirt Cheap, where I bought a little Thanksgiving owl who was missing a leg. I proudly put him on my mantle and gave him a back story. He lost the leg in the war. No Island of Misfit Toys for him!

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

The mice in this movie live in the walls, but they wear clothes and sleep in really comfy beds. It's kind of like "The Borrowers." The entire town has to work together when a Scrooge in the bunch publishes a letter in the newspaper questioning Santa's existence. Watch it and I defy you to get the clock song out of your head.

A CHRISTMAS STORY

If I don't watch this every year, I feel like it wouldn't be Christmas. Glenn sat down and watched it with me this year. You should have heard his laughter. This is such a well written movie with sly narration. It's a classic even if - like me - you secretly worry about children shooting their eyes out.

ELF

Will Ferrell in tights. Enough said. Oh, and SANTA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE HOLIDAY

Every Thanksgiving, I give thanks for Nancy Meyers. OK, not really, but I should. The great thing about Nancy Meyers' films is that you get an interesting plot and a fabulous house. This movie, has two fabulous houses - one of which is a cozy cottage in the snowy, English countryside.

LOVE ACTUALLY

I could've done without the porn storyline, especially since I watched this with my mother the first time I saw it. But I break into a smile every time at the recording studio scene that opens the movie. Also, the wedding scene, the first lobster, Hugh Grant dancing, etc., etc., etc.

CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT

Oh, Barbara Stanwyck. How could you make up a husband and kids and a house in Connecticut for a newspaper column? Also, does anyone actually flip pancakes like that?

HOLIDAY AFFAIR

Wait, Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh made a Christmas movie? They did! It's not particularly memorable, but it's cute.

CHRISTMAS CAROL

There are a million versions of this classic. One even stars the horrible Jim Carrey. I love the 1951 version. It's the only one for me, with one notable exception.

A MUPPET CHRISTMAS CAROL

I can't explain it. I love everything about this movie, even the meeses. How can you not love Michael Caine singing through the streets of London? Or muppets in Dickens-era costumes?

A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS

I don't watch this one every year. It depresses me a bit for some reason. However, Linus' speech is killer.

REMEMBER THE NIGHT

I discovered this last year while trying to find something new. It stars Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. Barbara is a criminal. Fred is an attorney. Fred takes pity on Barbara and takes her home to his mother and aunt for Christmas. It's really quite good.

BACHELOR MOTHER

I watch this every New Year's Day, but it's set at Christmastime. Ginger Rogers plays a shopgirl who gets mistaken for the mother of an abandoned baby. She politely insists the baby isn't hers. The store - which plans to lay her off after the holidays - surprises her with a Christmas present that turns out to be the baby she had to give up because of her uncertain employment. Trust me: It's funny. Haha.

A tale of Thanksgiving

Every year at Thanksgiving, I head to the grocery store for oysters and chicken livers. This isn't a combo I'd normally put in my cart, but it's necessary to assemble my Granny's oyster dressing.

Don't get me wrong. I must have cornbread dressing, turkey, a roll and cranberry sauce once a year or I sink into a deep depression. But I also must have oyster dressing. It must be that bit of Cajun in me.

I'm the first to admit that oyster dressing isn't for everyone. It has a strong taste, but I love it. I tote it to every Thanksgiving gathering and brace myself for no one but me spooning a portion onto a plate. My mother only makes it when I come home for the holidays, because we're the only two in the family who eat it. What is everyone's problem? We need more converts!

I don't actually recall my grandmother ever making this dressing. What I recall is my mother making it because it was her mother's recipe. Regardless of whose recipe it is, it's become my holiday tradition.

Rice is also an integral part of the recipe. Here's a fun fact about me: I make terrible rice. My rice is always mushy. Even a rice cooker doesn't seem to help matters. Don't you want to sample my rice dressing?

This year, I thought about skipping the oyster dressing. I got sick - as I've mentioned a million times - and I thought about skipping Thanksgiving entirely. That thought depressed me, especially since I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. Who knows how many more Thanksgivings we'll have together? 20? 30? (Thanks, Sophia).

So I dragged myself to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving. The parking lot looked like Walmart as the clock ticks down to Black Friday. Insanity. After crying a little about the price of oysters and having a long thought in the produce section about where Granny procured her oysters, I went in search of chicken livers and came up empty.

Finally - after scouring the meat section for the 10th time and directing the umpteenth person to the turkeys (they were hiding) - I asked the butcher, who sent me to the freezer section. There, amongst the Eggos and the Cool Whip, I found the secret room of the grocery store where they hide the weird animal parts. Included in there were my chicken livers.

Finally, back home, I assembled my mushy rice, oysters, chicken livers, etc. and threw them into the fridge for the next day. Mr. G. came into the kitchen and immediately fled to the living room. He hates my oyster dressing.

At Thanksgiving, I set my dressing next to a similar looking dressing. See! It's not just me. Other people make rice dressing. Then I sat near the table and directed everyone to my dressing. Just kidding!

As always, there was plenty of leftover oyster dressing to take home. No worries. More for me!

Then Mr. G. surprised me.

Mr. G.: "Hey, make sure to get some of that dressing to take home."

Me: "You mean my oyster dressing?"

Mr. G.: "Uh, no. That other dressing. That was really good. It had hamburger meat in it like rice dressing is supposed to be made."

Sigh.