I'm still in the preparations for tomorrow's brunch, but I took a minute for a big glass of iced tea and a look-in on some of my blogging friends.
Chris went for the last of the groceries this morning, and came home with Little Smokies and Sociables and Nova salmon and a big platter of cheese, none of which were on the list, as well as the produce I'd sent him for at the last possible moment. The broccoli just came out of the steamer, into an ice-bath and a baggie in the fridge with a couple of paper towels; the grapes are washed and bagged, as are the cherry tomatoes, the cucumber, the celery (cut into crispy flaunts for garnishing the Marys tomorrow), the water is coming to a boil for the snow peas I just strung, and the pineapple and cantaloupe await cutting into neat golden cubes, to mingle chill and sweet in the big trifle bowl tomorrow with the grapes and lots of whole strawberries. One of those simply Southern cream-cheese-and-marshmallow cream dips awaits.
All the etouffee ingredients have simmered with their bay leaf and Chachere's and L&P into a lovely fragrance, and will chill overnight before being brought back to a boil before adding the three pounds of shrimp to pinken in the glow beneath the lid.
The quiche batter, save for the broccoli and grape tomato slices, is chilling, the artichoke dip ditto, in a twin Tupper, and the jalapeno rolls are snugged into a long flat one, to be cut into eighths tomorrow and garnished with shiny fat peppers on a green tray.
But what we won't be serving, I suppose, because that's just a meat overload, are ribs. Chris came hopefully home with three small racks of babybacks, all Frenched within an inch of a chef's knife. They look like something done by a Michel or an Henri, for a five-star dinner, rather than by a Hoosier manning the counter at Sam's. We'll try some of the ribs one night next week.
I never. I JUST NEVER. Frenched pork ribs. Don't that just Post your Toasties?