Showing posts with label Sundays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sundays. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Remembering Posh Nosh
Saturday's post mentioning Withnail and I and Richard E. Grant was lingering in my head this morning. I'm having dad over for dinner so we can watch the Grammys (Dad will HATE the bloody Grammys nearly as much as I will, save the Radiohead performance).
I decided I'm cooking pork tenderloin with carmelized apples and onions. I had to give some pork recipes the Googler and found it easier to watch a few YouTube videos of preparation rather than reading recipes. Then I thought of that tongue-in-cheek cooking show of Richard E. Grant's, Posh Nosh. This is the result of my morning.
Then I remember these two dolls...
I have two questions. One, Two Fat Ladies and Posh Nosh are no longer aired on any PBS stations. Why?
Two, who says the British can't cook?
I decided I'm cooking pork tenderloin with carmelized apples and onions. I had to give some pork recipes the Googler and found it easier to watch a few YouTube videos of preparation rather than reading recipes. Then I thought of that tongue-in-cheek cooking show of Richard E. Grant's, Posh Nosh. This is the result of my morning.
Then I remember these two dolls...
I have two questions. One, Two Fat Ladies and Posh Nosh are no longer aired on any PBS stations. Why?
Two, who says the British can't cook?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
And the fog crept in and crept back out again
Oh the flippin fog. Ah ha! But not if you live juuuuuust above 11th and Lonsdale Avenue. I'm on 20th Street and the sun's been gloriously shining in here all morning. Trust me, after 5 days of greyness, the angels are singing.
We've (Bud and I) got Bach billowing through the Altec Lansings and it's gorgeous. And I don't have to schlepp downtown tomorrow to an office full of zombies. How lucky is that?
Also, I'm getting caught up with Lisa Kogan from O Magazine. Not in the flesh or even via personal email unfortunately. You see, I don't know her yet - she doesn't know me - yet. But trust me - we are going to be buddies one of these days. Here's an excerpt from a recent column entitled "Top Reasons to Get Out of Bed Every Day". Why I adore her, is quite clear,
Ordinarily, I would not include houseguests on my list of bright spots, but Mabel, the dog I am currently babysitting, is causing me to rethink my position. Mabel suffers from a chronic greeting disorder that manifests itself as follows: I leave the room for 10, maybe 12 seconds. Upon reentry, Mabel welcomes me with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for soldiers returning from three years in a POW camp—a one-dog mariachi band of pure, unmitigated joy. Unless my boyfriend and our daughter sense that I'm carrying a pizza, my return from nine or 10 hours at the office rarely merits more than a mumbled "They never came to fix the dishwasher." There's something to be said for a bit of good old-fashioned, uncomplicated affection, even when it comes from a shedding, slightly incontinent 14-year-old beagle.
Also, I'm getting caught up with Lisa Kogan from O Magazine. Not in the flesh or even via personal email unfortunately. You see, I don't know her yet - she doesn't know me - yet. But trust me - we are going to be buddies one of these days. Here's an excerpt from a recent column entitled "Top Reasons to Get Out of Bed Every Day". Why I adore her, is quite clear,
Ordinarily, I would not include houseguests on my list of bright spots, but Mabel, the dog I am currently babysitting, is causing me to rethink my position. Mabel suffers from a chronic greeting disorder that manifests itself as follows: I leave the room for 10, maybe 12 seconds. Upon reentry, Mabel welcomes me with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for soldiers returning from three years in a POW camp—a one-dog mariachi band of pure, unmitigated joy. Unless my boyfriend and our daughter sense that I'm carrying a pizza, my return from nine or 10 hours at the office rarely merits more than a mumbled "They never came to fix the dishwasher." There's something to be said for a bit of good old-fashioned, uncomplicated affection, even when it comes from a shedding, slightly incontinent 14-year-old beagle.
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