The odd and slightly unsettling convergance of my late Grandmother, pimento cheese, and my secret, imaginary love life.

Dear friends,


The strangest thing happened Saturday morning and it all started with pimento cheese for breakfast.

Why I was I eating such an odd thing for breakfast?

Because Trisha Yearwood was too and she was in my living room. Granted, she was on television. And she was making lunch, not breakfast. But I was watching her show in the morning and I suddenly got a hankering for the wonderfully creamy, cheesy spread that I first ate in my Grandmother’s kitchen as a young child.

By the way, I love Trisha. I’m not a fan of her music (or her genre), but she lives not far from my hometown and she seems like a cool gal and I enjoy her show. Most of the time I think her recipes aren’t that great (a few too many shortcuts and prepared ingredients for my taste) but I sure do relate to her love of food, family and southern traditions.

Anyway, Trisha says there’s only three ingredients in pimento cheese — shredded cheese, pimentos, and mayo. I beg to differ.

I started by grating an entire (1-lb) block of cheddar cheese. (Trisha recommends sharp cheddar and I do, too, but I only had mild on hand.) To that, I added:

  • A jar (4-oz) of diced pimentos
  • A sprinkling of salt (1/4 to 1/2 tsp?)
  • A sprinkling of sugar (1/2 tsp?)
  • Two pinches of paprika (where pinch literally equals the amount I can pinch between my thumb and forefinger)
  • One pinch of cayenne pepper
  • Mayo to taste, which for me was probably close to a cup

I stirred it all up real good, then spread it thick on soft Italian bread. It was the best breakfast I’ve had in a long time and I’ve got enough leftover for lunch tomorrow. Plus, I was pretty darn excited that at the exact moment I was inspired to make pimento cheese, I just happened to have all the ingredients to do so. Let this be a lesson to you to never underestimate the blessings that can come your way as a result of a well-stocked pantry.

Anyway . . . I posted a photo of my breakfast on Facebook because, you know, that’s what I live for other than this blog, and next thing you know my friend Elizabeth pointed out that she likes Trisha, too, but loves Jamie Deen even more.

And suddenly my sweet and nostalgic memories of my Grandmother’s loving care collided with my secret desire to be swept off my feet by Jamie Deen. I responded to Elizabeth saying that I’d like Jamie to cook for me in his gorgeous kitchen while I sip wine, appear irresistibly beautiful and charming, and otherwise help him recover from the tragic and untimely death of his wife.

And that could happen.

Just like Bill Clinton could fall in love with me and John Cusack could run away with me as they do in my slumber.

Actually, I dreamed about Bill a long time ago. He’s getting a little old for my taste at this point. (I’m ageless you know.) And John — well, once I started following him on Twitter, he’s not so sexy anymore. I always joke I’m about as far left as Noam Chomsky, but John’s pretty out there at this point even for me. And, you know, he’s getting old too.

But Jamie — he’s just right. And I’m certain Mr. Mom wouldn’t mind because in my secret, imaginary love life, there are never complications or broken hearts.

Just gorgeous men, pimento cheese, and sweet dreams.

With gratitude {for tasty sandwiches and Saturday morning diversions},

Joan, who encourages you to never fall for the pre-made pimento cheese available in your grocery store because it’s too easy to make the really good stuff at home


We’re all going to hell. Unless Parker saves us.

Dear Friends,

Like every child I know, my daughter Kate developed her own vocabulary as a toddler.  Her name for our cat “Rudy” was “Heidi.” Her word for “swimsuit” was “suitcase.” And her word for “ice cream” was “hamma.” (I know, not even close.) It was a little odd, but we quickly adapted to her dialect and played along.

The one word she never had difficulty with, interestingly, was Wal-Mart. She uttered her first sentence shortly after turning two. We were driving by Wal-Mart and she excitedly exclaimed: “Wal-Mart. Go in. Pay for. Have it!” (By the way, I tried to get Sam Walton’s marketing folks to buy the phrase as their new tagline, but they didn’t love the spare beauty of it nearly as much as I did.)

And since that day more than 16 years ago, Kate has been an intrepid shopper, accompanying me on nearly every trip I’ve ever made to a retail establishment. When she started driving, I gave her an American Express card with her name on it. I did it mostly out of convenience. I didn’t want to scramble for cash every time she needed gas or school supplies. But what I immediately discovered was that it allowed me to send her to the grocery store on a whim.  Need a gallon of milk? Send Kate. Out of bread? Send Kate. Have a grocery list of 32 items from allspice to yams? Hey, grocery girl! Hit the road, stat!

She is such an enthusiastic grocery shopper that Mr. Mom and I rarely go any more. Of course, the Devil’s Bargain (and there’s always a Devil’s Bargain with your children) is that Kate buys whatever else she wants, parents be damned.

After all those years that Mr. Mom and I fed our kids bean sprouts and whole-grain bread and played Scrooge about soda pop and junk food, our pantry now overflows with every snack food known to the commercial food industry. We’ve stopped asking in an accusatory tone, “Hey! Who bought all these potato chips?!” Instead, we’ve been known to exclaim, “Cool! Fruit Gushers!”

Take a peek at our pantry:

I know. It’s a teenager’s dream. Which probably explains why so many other teenagers hang out at our house. (It could be the ping-pong table, the X-Box Live, the dirt bikes and/or the dirt bike trail out back, but I’m guessing the pantry and the spare refrigerator in the garage stocked with soda pop are the biggest lures.)

And I’m sad to report that Mr. Mom and I have become hearty consumers of Kate’s shopping largesse. I saw him walking around last week carrying a box of donut holes as if he feared setting it down might mean sharing. Last night, he ate the very last Pita Chip not 48 hours after the bag entered our house, and I hadn’t yet tasted a single Parmesan-y flavored morsel. As I type this, I am eating Pringles Dill Pickle Extreme chips.

(They are totally addictive. Do not try them! Unless you’ve just consumed a bag of Fruit Gushers and need a salt chaser. Then totally try them!)

I do feel kinda bad about what this says about us. I mean, Mr. Mom and I both read Fast Food Nation more than a decade ago and became converts. We read Sugar Busters almost 20 years ago and bought our own grain mill so we could bake whole grain bread. We went to the movie theater to see Super Size Me and made Kate go along and endure a lesson on the evil that is McDonald’s. I was Macrobiotic for a year and vegetarian for several long stretches. And we own, yes we own, a copy of the documentary Food, Inc.

(Haven’t heard of it? Good lord, click here. Then prepare to lose your appetite.)

We have been walking-talking nutrition proselytizers, now shamed by the seduction of an accommodating teenager and the lure of packaged food.

The only upside is that Kate goes to college in a few months and we’ll be back to fending for ourselves, grocery wise.  I can only pray we lose a few pounds and save a few dollars. (Note to self: revoke American Express card before she leaves town.)

By the way, I have no fear that Parker will pick up where Kate leaves off. His ability to side-step anything resembling effort is legendary. He wouldn’t walk across the room to hand us a donut, much less drive to the store to buy us one.

With gratitude {for my son’s tough love in the face of so much temptation},

Joan, who once convinced her small children to eat tofu by calling it “cheese” but now hides the Cheese-Its under her bed as an act of conservation