by Shirley Bahlmann
I never would have dreamed it up myself. When I went to speak at a dinner the other night, we were served a nice, toasty brown square that smelled like, well, chicken. When I bit into it, it was chicken, with a creamy soft topping inside a melty tender croissant dough. Yeah, it was worthy of seconds.
One of the ladies at the table said it was chicken something-that-started-with-a-"p." I tried Chicken Panini, Chicken Parmesan (but there was no Parmesan flavor. It still sounded exotic.) Chicken Patchouli.
Then the mystery was solved when a lady came out with seconds. "What are these called?" I asked.
"Chicken Pillows," she answered.
I nearly choked on my parsley sprig. Chicken Pillows? At first I imagined a coop full of chickens hunting everywhere for their little pillows so they could go to sleep. Then I realized the chickens were IN the pillows. Hm. I suppose Heavenly eternal rest works, too.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
I used to sing a crazy mixed up song from the 60's titled, "What's It All About, Alfie?" I think I deserve sparkly-name-on-the-marquee recognition for the fact that I know all the words. I deserve a new car and a Caribbean cruise for knowing the melody, which is even more random. (Did you ever learn to beat time to music? This tune is so random, you'd bettah forgetaboutit.)
So, what is it all about? Bob has asked me for a long time why I spend time blogging. It's because I've been told to by higher uppers in the publishing business. What I want to know is who reads these anyway? Sometimes a friend or two will comment on my posts, but I'm not even nice enough to write back on their blogs. Who has the time? If I want to write books, I can't be on the computer all day.
In case you were wondering, the picture, here, is of one son feeding another son a hot dog on the end of a sword. The feedee did not appreciate the offer of food, however, because he was afraid he might get his tongue sliced off.
Hm... less back talk... but, no, I don't recommend it. Go get yourself some plastic forks.
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