And I find myself strangely excited to try a new way of doing mashed potatoes. Instead of just red potatoes, butter, and milk, we're going to add parsnip, rutabaga, onion, garlic, and chicken stock to the mix, with Kerry butter on top. Doesn't that sound absolutely divine? Some call it "tatties and neeps?" I think? We'll spread it all out in a casserole dish and bake it after mixing it all up. Here's the recipe.
A "swede," in case you're wondering, is a rutabaga.
As I'm reminded in the comments (and I DO appreciate that!), my "tatties and neeps" will be served in a small, reasonable portion, surrounded by steamed veggies without sauces and butter. It needs to be said and I need to always keep an eye to that.
Why "tatties and neeps?" Well, while I wouldn't call myself an "anglophile" by any means, I do have a hearty appreciation for things from that area, and an especial love for Wales and Scotland. I've never been, but I do still dream of someday standing at the base of Dolwyddelan and soaking up that amazing history. Until then, I've got the whole east coast of the United States to keep me occupied.
Today's a busy day. A LOT of housecleaning to be done (seems when hubby's off from work, I just stop cleaning), some shopping, and, hopefully, a drive. Maybe along the George Washington Parkway, see the sees.
Still gaining weight. I can actually feel it. I feel bigger. Overinflated. I have got to stop.
Told our boy the story of how the band Foreigner was forever ruined for me. I'll maybe get to that later here. It's an awful tale, involving forced voyeurism, hypothermia, 8-Track tapes, and underage sex. Goodness.
Ran our boy through a string of bands last night, just music from my misspent youth. He was on the fence about Billy Squier until I threw some Air Supply at him. Amazing how 30 seconds of "All Out of Love" can really enhance the quality and overall rockitude of "Everybody Wants You." After Billy Squier, we wandered through Billy Idol, Bad Company, Styx (including the devastating leap from "Renegade" to "Mr. Roboto"), Journey, AC/DC, Sabbath, Ozzie, the Stones, and, finally, some Springsteen. By the time we got to the Boss, it was almost 3 am. Time to hang it up for the night. I love that he loves music so much.
A "swede," in case you're wondering, is a rutabaga.
As I'm reminded in the comments (and I DO appreciate that!), my "tatties and neeps" will be served in a small, reasonable portion, surrounded by steamed veggies without sauces and butter. It needs to be said and I need to always keep an eye to that.
Why "tatties and neeps?" Well, while I wouldn't call myself an "anglophile" by any means, I do have a hearty appreciation for things from that area, and an especial love for Wales and Scotland. I've never been, but I do still dream of someday standing at the base of Dolwyddelan and soaking up that amazing history. Until then, I've got the whole east coast of the United States to keep me occupied.
Today's a busy day. A LOT of housecleaning to be done (seems when hubby's off from work, I just stop cleaning), some shopping, and, hopefully, a drive. Maybe along the George Washington Parkway, see the sees.
Still gaining weight. I can actually feel it. I feel bigger. Overinflated. I have got to stop.
Told our boy the story of how the band Foreigner was forever ruined for me. I'll maybe get to that later here. It's an awful tale, involving forced voyeurism, hypothermia, 8-Track tapes, and underage sex. Goodness.
Ran our boy through a string of bands last night, just music from my misspent youth. He was on the fence about Billy Squier until I threw some Air Supply at him. Amazing how 30 seconds of "All Out of Love" can really enhance the quality and overall rockitude of "Everybody Wants You." After Billy Squier, we wandered through Billy Idol, Bad Company, Styx (including the devastating leap from "Renegade" to "Mr. Roboto"), Journey, AC/DC, Sabbath, Ozzie, the Stones, and, finally, some Springsteen. By the time we got to the Boss, it was almost 3 am. Time to hang it up for the night. I love that he loves music so much.
