How could Tuesday be any Fatter?

It’s Fat Tuesday, and I’m lamenting the lack of any parade or other celebration in the area outside of dive bars- which pretty much disqualifies me from Mardi Gras this year. In light of that, if there are no suggestions otherwise, I might come home after the gym tonight and make my very own King Cake.

Speaking of over-indulgence, I’m glad nobody sells these near where I live -

unless somebody’s interested in starting to carry them, in which case what are you waiting for?! My grandmother just shipped up some boxes of goodies I bundled up for mailing last time I was in Mississippi, and a couple of bags of these chips were in there. (Along with some strawberry figs and my photo scanner. Grandma decided to repack my boxes to save shipping costs. That’s another story.) Anyway, I was home at lunchtime today and opened a  bag to nibble. Before I knew it, half the bag was gone. (No, not the size in the picture above. Geez.)

These chips aren’t just any chips. These chips are the most comprehensive potato experience one might ever have in a lifetime. There just aren’t words to explain their potatoey goodness. It mystifies and confuddles the imagination. It touches the taste buds in ways they have never been touched before. It leaves you feeling very satisfied and still craving at the same time. It is… well, it is something.

To those of you I might have shared this bag of potato chips with… Please accept my apology, because the rest of the bag will be long-gone by then. You can always buy your own bag if you really want the experience. If you order direct from the site, yours might even come in a little less crumbly than mine did.

Cuppa Pie

When I was a girl growing up all over the country (13 states by my count), my parents used to lament the lack of Southern foodstuffs in the less God-fearing states (like Indiana and Washington). Pre-Amazon-revolution, grits weren’t available in most places outside of the South, and if they were, they were likely to be imposter (instant) grits. One thing that my mom carried with her everywhere we went was the Cuppa Pie (cuppa this, cuppa that) that her mother made- which she in turn learned from her mother before her, and so on. It’s really nothing like a pie at all, unless you make your pie crusts differently than most folks do. This is something akin to a cobber.

This is the complexity that is my great-grandmother’s Cuppa Pie:

• 1 cup of self-rising flour *(Which was also difficult to come by prepackaged in some locations in those days, though it’s always possible to sift your own);
• 1 cup of sugar (I used pure cane sugar in mine, thinking of the stalks of sugar cane growing at Great-Grandma and Pop’s), or more to taste;
• 1 cup of milk;
• 1 stick of butter;
• The fruit or berry of your  choice (Peaches and frozen berries both work great).

That’s it. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and melt the butter in the baking dish of your choice (8×8? 10×13″?  Take your pick). Stir in the other ingredients to suit your taste. Cuppa Pies thrive on imprecision. Slice up a couple of peaches, or pour in a (drained) can; add a bag (or two) of frozen berries, or a couple of pints of fresh. Stir it up and bake “not too long” (my mother’s timing instructions). My 8×8″ creation became a finished product about an hour after I put it in; because the amount of your fruit, the measurements of your baking dish, and the altitude at which you bake may vary, I won’t try to venture a guess as to how long yours will take, either. When it looks done, it’s done.

Easy, peasy- rich, simple dessert, ready to top with a dollop of ice cream.