Trying to convince yourself that chili without chili powder is exactly the sort of dish you’ll want to eat on a blustery autumn evening presents the same sort of challenge that trying to convince yourself that a movie based on a Brian Scott O’Malley’s comic book about a 20-something loser in a band who struggles with closure in relationships is worth seeing repeatedly.
That is, how to dry peppers in humid Mid-Atlantic weather without resorting to a dehydrator or leaving them in the hot sun on the hood of your car.
Picked a whole basketful of peppers yesterday. Let’s see how long they take to dry in the oven.
The Brain: Eggplant. Green beans. Pinky, are you pondering what I’m pondering?
Pinky: I think so, Brain, but if the plural of mouse is mice, wouldn’t the plural of spouse be spice?
Wherein I wax poetic about cowhorn peppers, the reproduction rates of pandas and pickling.
Now I’m not saying that I’m sick of eating (and growing and eating and growing and eating and growing) tomatoes. I’m just saying if I were sick of eating tomatoes, I’d still eat this salsa.
Set down a spell and help yourself to a burger… why, yes, that is the sound of banjos you hear far off in the distance…
If apple pie is made of apples and cherry pie is made of cherries, what exactly is cottage pie made of?
