Sometimes I'm a lazy blogger. Which is why I was so delighted to read my friend Joshilyn Jackson's recent blog entry about her dream featuring me, she, an irate audience, inappropriate event attire, pantslessness, and red shoes. Joshilyn's entry is so entertaining, I figured, why not just link to it here and call it a day?
While you're at it, order Joshilyn's new book Backseat Saints. You won't be sorry.
While you're at it, order Joshilyn's new book Backseat Saints. You won't be sorry.
There's this great website called The Sister Project that I've been crushing on for a long time, and today they winked back at me!! Or in other words, they posted a great review of Soft Place. Thanks so much! Read all about it right here: http://thesisterproject.com/readin
Here's what I could do without come the summer season: mosquitoes and flattening heat. But here's what I love about June, July and August: the produce. Corn, tomatoes, blackberries, peaches, watermelon...these are the things I dream about all year around.
This morning I went to the Peachtree Road Farmers' Market for the first time, in swanky Buckhead. (Not to sound perjorative--I grew up in swanky B'head.) Usually I go to the Morningside Market--in swank but not quite as swanky Morningside--but my friend Frederick told me I had to try Peachtree Road. In addition to the usual suspects of produce--the aforementioned corn, tomatoes, blackberries, peaches, watermelon--Frederick said that Pine Street market (a local charcuterie) had a stand, as well as Holeman & Finch bakery. So. I made the schlep to the land of my youth.
So many vendors. So much good stuff. I got big ol' field tomatoes from Riverview. I almost bought okra but realized who was I kidding? I wasn't going to be heating up oil in this hot, hot weather, and if you don't fry okra, well...you're missing out. I got a spicy salami from the good folk at Pine Street market. (Side note: When I returned home I put the spicy salami on my kitchen counter. An hour later I was ready to snack from it and couldn't find it anywhere. I looked and looked and finally thought to question the dog. And there, on her bed, was the wrapping from the salami that was no more.)
Wowsers trousers was it good.
Supper was even simpler. All prepped on the big wooden cutting board. (What would I do without that cutting board and my serrated tomato knife--thank you Ilan Greenberg who gave us the knife for our wedding, cuz what says a lifetime of togetherness like a tomato knife?) But I digress. Supper was simply a chopped tomato salad with basil cut into strips, a few balls of fresh mozzarella, a piece of white bread toasted and cut into little squares, the whole thing baptized with olive oil, salt and pepper. That was it. See photos below. I just love how quickly this little summer supper came together, how it's as good as anything else you can eat, but all it takes to prep is 5 minutes top.
The raw ingredients:
Prep = a bunch of chopping, plus salt, pepper and olive oil
Close up of the prepared salad with chopped tomato, fresh mozerella, toasted homemade white bread and basil
Add a beer and Bob's your uncle.
Okay, about that expression "and Bob's your uncle..." Has anyone ever heard that before? My friend Todd Johnson uses it, meaning something like, "and that was that", but he says I don't use it correctly even though I'm trying desperately to incorporate it into my vocabulary.
This morning I went to the Peachtree Road Farmers' Market for the first time, in swanky Buckhead. (Not to sound perjorative--I grew up in swanky B'head.) Usually I go to the Morningside Market--in swank but not quite as swanky Morningside--but my friend Frederick told me I had to try Peachtree Road. In addition to the usual suspects of produce--the aforementioned corn, tomatoes, blackberries, peaches, watermelon--Frederick said that Pine Street market (a local charcuterie) had a stand, as well as Holeman & Finch bakery. So. I made the schlep to the land of my youth.
So many vendors. So much good stuff. I got big ol' field tomatoes from Riverview. I almost bought okra but realized who was I kidding? I wasn't going to be heating up oil in this hot, hot weather, and if you don't fry okra, well...you're missing out. I got a spicy salami from the good folk at Pine Street market. (Side note: When I returned home I put the spicy salami on my kitchen counter. An hour later I was ready to snack from it and couldn't find it anywhere. I looked and looked and finally thought to question the dog. And there, on her bed, was the wrapping from the salami that was no more.)
all that was left of my salami
salami thief. I think she's learned to live with the guilt.
Back to the market: I was planning on just buying the salami but they were sampling their applewood smoked bacon and it was so good I bought a package. Bought a loaf of homemade white bread from the Holeman and Finch bread people, too. By this point I was thinking about one thing and one thing only: BLT's. Or rather, BBT;s (bacon, basil and tomato.) Actually, BBBT's (buttered bread, bacon, basil and tomato.) Did I buy anything else at the market? If so, I can't recall. I came home and fried up 6 pieces of that bacon, toasted 4 pieces of bread with a little butter (BBBT), pulled some basil from the garden and sliced some tomatoes. All that was left to do was assemble the suckers, sealing the deal with a little Duke's mayo. Alan and I practically ate the things standing up. They were super, the tomato juice mixing with the mayo, the bacon so salty and smoky, the basil adding a piquant freshness, the homemade white bread way more structural than Wonder. Way more backbone and bite.
salami thief. I think she's learned to live with the guilt.
Back to the market: I was planning on just buying the salami but they were sampling their applewood smoked bacon and it was so good I bought a package. Bought a loaf of homemade white bread from the Holeman and Finch bread people, too. By this point I was thinking about one thing and one thing only: BLT's. Or rather, BBT;s (bacon, basil and tomato.) Actually, BBBT's (buttered bread, bacon, basil and tomato.) Did I buy anything else at the market? If so, I can't recall. I came home and fried up 6 pieces of that bacon, toasted 4 pieces of bread with a little butter (BBBT), pulled some basil from the garden and sliced some tomatoes. All that was left to do was assemble the suckers, sealing the deal with a little Duke's mayo. Alan and I practically ate the things standing up. They were super, the tomato juice mixing with the mayo, the bacon so salty and smoky, the basil adding a piquant freshness, the homemade white bread way more structural than Wonder. Way more backbone and bite.
Wowsers trousers was it good.
Supper was even simpler. All prepped on the big wooden cutting board. (What would I do without that cutting board and my serrated tomato knife--thank you Ilan Greenberg who gave us the knife for our wedding, cuz what says a lifetime of togetherness like a tomato knife?) But I digress. Supper was simply a chopped tomato salad with basil cut into strips, a few balls of fresh mozzarella, a piece of white bread toasted and cut into little squares, the whole thing baptized with olive oil, salt and pepper. That was it. See photos below. I just love how quickly this little summer supper came together, how it's as good as anything else you can eat, but all it takes to prep is 5 minutes top.
The raw ingredients:
Prep = a bunch of chopping, plus salt, pepper and olive oil
Close up of the prepared salad with chopped tomato, fresh mozerella, toasted homemade white bread and basil
Add a beer and Bob's your uncle.
Okay, about that expression "and Bob's your uncle..." Has anyone ever heard that before? My friend Todd Johnson uses it, meaning something like, "and that was that", but he says I don't use it correctly even though I'm trying desperately to incorporate it into my vocabulary.
Just returned from a writing retreat in Greenwood, MS with friends Todd Johnson and Kathryn Stockett. We were in Greenwood for such a cool reason--that's where they are filming the movie The Help. Not that I have anything to do with the movie, but it was cool to see the location and meet some of the cast and crew. Mostly Todd and I just wrote. And drank bourbon. It was weird; bourbon is usually way, way too strong for me. But somehow when it's 10 million degrees outside, and you are in Faulkner's home state, you just have to reach for the brown stuff.
You also reach for the fried stuff, and the hot glazed stuff (in the form of donuts) and the barbequed stuff. And Todd and I stopped at the farmer's market and got MS field tomatoes, so sweet you could eat them for dessert. We wanted to make tomato sandwiches (white bread, tomato, salt, pepper, mayo) but had no mayonniase. It was my bright idea to go through the DRIVE -THRU liquor store and see if they happened to sell Duke's. The woman looked right pissed off when I asked, but she begrudingly got me a small bottle of some off brand of mayo. We went home and made tomato sandwiches. Now I'm not sure if it was simply the fact that the mayo used wasn't Duke's, or if mayo that has been sitting around a liquor store is perhaps not the world's freshest, but that sandwich was nasty. I only ate half. Todd and I went to the supermarket, got our lazy butts out of the car and went inside to refrigerated air where we bought a big ol' bottle of Duke's. An hour later, and I was fixing pimento cheese for everyone. But listen, I also did some writing. I swear.
Todd rocks a GRAVY baseball hat along with his YALE shirt.
Todd eats a biscuit, I drink bourbon and prepare for a photo I thought was happening later than it did, and Kitty mugs for the camera.
You also reach for the fried stuff, and the hot glazed stuff (in the form of donuts) and the barbequed stuff. And Todd and I stopped at the farmer's market and got MS field tomatoes, so sweet you could eat them for dessert. We wanted to make tomato sandwiches (white bread, tomato, salt, pepper, mayo) but had no mayonniase. It was my bright idea to go through the DRIVE -THRU liquor store and see if they happened to sell Duke's. The woman looked right pissed off when I asked, but she begrudingly got me a small bottle of some off brand of mayo. We went home and made tomato sandwiches. Now I'm not sure if it was simply the fact that the mayo used wasn't Duke's, or if mayo that has been sitting around a liquor store is perhaps not the world's freshest, but that sandwich was nasty. I only ate half. Todd and I went to the supermarket, got our lazy butts out of the car and went inside to refrigerated air where we bought a big ol' bottle of Duke's. An hour later, and I was fixing pimento cheese for everyone. But listen, I also did some writing. I swear.
Todd rocks a GRAVY baseball hat along with his YALE shirt.
Todd eats a biscuit, I drink bourbon and prepare for a photo I thought was happening later than it did, and Kitty mugs for the camera.
When I was little my mom taught me to eavesdrop. "You just pretend you're reading, or deep in thought, but really you're listening to everyone around you." She would take me to the Magnolia room at Rich's where we would eat chicken salad and try to pick up on others' conversations. Or to Gyro Wrap on Peachtree for a chicken gyro with a side of strangers' juicy details.
Mom said that part of the fun of eavesdropping was you could make up stories about the people you overheard. That woman eating fruit salad next to you might be telling her friend she was "through with men," but that wasn't the real story. What people said often did not reflect the real circumstances of their lives, but you could garner clues by watching them. That woman who was "through with men"...was she blinking back tears? Tearing a Kleenex into little pieces? Or spinning her neck in self-righteous indignation? These little physical details told as much about their lives as their words.
The other night I went to hear the fantabulous Joshilyn Jackson speak about her new book, Backseat Saints (which you should go buy if you haven't yet done so--it's a wonder.) Joshilyn confessed that if you were ever sitting next to her at a restaurant, and it looked as if she was just reading a book, enjoying a little solitude, she most assuredly was not. She was, instead, eavesdropping on you, and then making up a story around something you said. Me too, me too, me too! I wanted to shout, but I controlled myself and stayed quiet in my seat. But how validating to learn that other writers do it, too.
Today I ate lunch by myself at Watershed restaurant in Decatur, GA. Watershed is one of my all time favorites, with its indigenous southern menu that always includes a vegetable plate. I ordered a great little crunchy salad topped with poached chicken and homemade mayonnaise. I nibbled away while listening to the charming conversation of the uber southern ladies next to me. My favorite overheard line? "Well he and I became dear, dear friends after he caught me stealing his gardenias."
Just watch. I'll use that in a book one day.
Mom said that part of the fun of eavesdropping was you could make up stories about the people you overheard. That woman eating fruit salad next to you might be telling her friend she was "through with men," but that wasn't the real story. What people said often did not reflect the real circumstances of their lives, but you could garner clues by watching them. That woman who was "through with men"...was she blinking back tears? Tearing a Kleenex into little pieces? Or spinning her neck in self-righteous indignation? These little physical details told as much about their lives as their words.
The other night I went to hear the fantabulous Joshilyn Jackson speak about her new book, Backseat Saints (which you should go buy if you haven't yet done so--it's a wonder.) Joshilyn confessed that if you were ever sitting next to her at a restaurant, and it looked as if she was just reading a book, enjoying a little solitude, she most assuredly was not. She was, instead, eavesdropping on you, and then making up a story around something you said. Me too, me too, me too! I wanted to shout, but I controlled myself and stayed quiet in my seat. But how validating to learn that other writers do it, too.
Today I ate lunch by myself at Watershed restaurant in Decatur, GA. Watershed is one of my all time favorites, with its indigenous southern menu that always includes a vegetable plate. I ordered a great little crunchy salad topped with poached chicken and homemade mayonnaise. I nibbled away while listening to the charming conversation of the uber southern ladies next to me. My favorite overheard line? "Well he and I became dear, dear friends after he caught me stealing his gardenias."
Just watch. I'll use that in a book one day.
On the philosophical front: A wise writer friend of mine says that none of the reviews, good or bad, are any of our--the writers'--business at all. That our business is to write the books we are supposed to write and that is that. I'm trying to internalize her wisdom.
On the movies front: Saw PLEASE GIVE tonight at the cin-e-ma. Liked it a lot. It didn't rip my heart out, but I was very interested in what was happening on screen the whole time, and was especially delighted to catch the Sarah Vowell cameo! Especially neat because Catherine Keener's character was reading a Sarah Vowell book in one of the early scenes.
On the book front: Friday night I met author Aliya S. King whose novel, PLATINUM debuts a week from this Tuesday. Turns out PLATINUM, about the wives of hip hot artists, is published by my house, Touchstone. Anyway, read Aliya's book this weekend and was totally engrossed. The story is juicy and fun and sexy and raw, but also heartbreaking and emotionally resonant. Way to go, Aliya!
Food front: The SFA (Southern Foodways Alliance) was in town this weekend on a field trip exploring the immigrant restaurants/shops of Buford Highway. My husband Alan attended the field trip and ate his body weight in fried corn tortillas, braised meat and plantains. Neat to think how indigenous southern foods of the white and black community affect the foods of east asia and latin america, and vice versa. Fried chicken taco, anyone?
Okay, this is the world's quickest blog to say that I am online IN THE AIR. This, my friends, blows my mind. To be blogging while on a plane. But I have to be very careful putting anything in print while flying, because this old girl has to take a xanax and drink a beer before flying, which looooosens me up. So I'll say adios before getting myself in trouble.
See you on the ground!!
See you on the ground!!
Though nothing beats a warm tomato just plucked off the vine, I'll eat canned tomatoes all year round, and frozen berries and peaches. But I really only eat asparagus in season, when it's fresh and tender, not woody and tough. There's a great new restaurant in ATL, Miller Union, that is doing this amazing little spring appetizer of grilled bread, a brie like "double cream" cheese, country ham and grilled asparagus. It's all of the comfort of a grilled cheese sandwich, but with many, many more layers of flavor: smokiness from the ham and the grilled bread and grilled asparagus, creamy goo from the warmed cheese.
I was at Miller Union last night after attending the Vox Bee, a spelling bee fundraiser for Vox newspaper. Though I'd had two glasses of wine at the Bee--I wasn't driving--I couldn't resist ordering a Miller Thyme cocktail (get it?) at the restaurant. The Miller Thyme is made with gin, and thyme infused simple syrup, and "citrus fruits" as our server somewhat mysteriously told us. I'm assuming the fruits are lemons, but who knows. Maybe there's some magical, mystical citrus tree growing in Chef's backyard, because those Miller Thymes are pretty hard to resist...Even when you should.
I also had a fried softshell crab that tasted like butter, salt, and air. I felt so sad eating that crab, thinking about the contaminated waters from the BP oil spill. God knows if the ripple effect from that will ever end, and I'm aware of my complicity in the whole mess every time I fill up my car. It's not enough to try and support my local economy and buy foods in season and try not to drive as much--but it's something. A teeny, tiny pushing back.
Alan bought a whole bunch of produce at the farmer's market in our neighborhood last Saturday, and we've been eating salads all week. I've got this salad bowl that my mom gave me 15 years ago. It was carved by some dude in Vermont out of a single piece of wood. Gorgeous, gorgeous, and it's only grown more so with age. Years ago I dated a guy who worked with wood, and he went crazy over that bowl. Told me I needed to oil it, which I started to do, and now its developed a rich patina. (Oh my God, did I actually get to use patina in a sentence? And did I use it correctly?)
Salad tastes especially good from that bowl, even if it's super simple like the one Alan made tonight: bitter greens, carrots cut into coins, green onions, tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a great bloomy goat cheese from North Carolina. Just water to drink, in deference to my overloaded liver from the night before. We used to have these fantastic salad tongs that are shaped like hands and called "Edward Saladhands" but one of them got dropped (note the passive voice here) and broke. So now we have only one Edward Saladhand. Edward Saladhands and Miller Thymes. Puns abound in our lovely, broken universe.
Elegiac sentences aside, here are some salad pics. (And please know I am not unaware of the very unsexy nature of salad pics. Lord, what would my 17 year old self say? But also please note the dark brown of the bowl's interior. It used to be about 10 shades lighter. Perhaps these pictures would be sexier if we all say patina as slowly as we possibly can?)
(Edward saladhand, missing his mate.)
peaches, also from the farmer's market, ripening in a brown paper bag. One of my favorite sights of summer.
I was at Miller Union last night after attending the Vox Bee, a spelling bee fundraiser for Vox newspaper. Though I'd had two glasses of wine at the Bee--I wasn't driving--I couldn't resist ordering a Miller Thyme cocktail (get it?) at the restaurant. The Miller Thyme is made with gin, and thyme infused simple syrup, and "citrus fruits" as our server somewhat mysteriously told us. I'm assuming the fruits are lemons, but who knows. Maybe there's some magical, mystical citrus tree growing in Chef's backyard, because those Miller Thymes are pretty hard to resist...Even when you should.
I also had a fried softshell crab that tasted like butter, salt, and air. I felt so sad eating that crab, thinking about the contaminated waters from the BP oil spill. God knows if the ripple effect from that will ever end, and I'm aware of my complicity in the whole mess every time I fill up my car. It's not enough to try and support my local economy and buy foods in season and try not to drive as much--but it's something. A teeny, tiny pushing back.
Alan bought a whole bunch of produce at the farmer's market in our neighborhood last Saturday, and we've been eating salads all week. I've got this salad bowl that my mom gave me 15 years ago. It was carved by some dude in Vermont out of a single piece of wood. Gorgeous, gorgeous, and it's only grown more so with age. Years ago I dated a guy who worked with wood, and he went crazy over that bowl. Told me I needed to oil it, which I started to do, and now its developed a rich patina. (Oh my God, did I actually get to use patina in a sentence? And did I use it correctly?)
Salad tastes especially good from that bowl, even if it's super simple like the one Alan made tonight: bitter greens, carrots cut into coins, green onions, tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a great bloomy goat cheese from North Carolina. Just water to drink, in deference to my overloaded liver from the night before. We used to have these fantastic salad tongs that are shaped like hands and called "Edward Saladhands" but one of them got dropped (note the passive voice here) and broke. So now we have only one Edward Saladhand. Edward Saladhands and Miller Thymes. Puns abound in our lovely, broken universe.
Elegiac sentences aside, here are some salad pics. (And please know I am not unaware of the very unsexy nature of salad pics. Lord, what would my 17 year old self say? But also please note the dark brown of the bowl's interior. It used to be about 10 shades lighter. Perhaps these pictures would be sexier if we all say patina as slowly as we possibly can?)
(Edward saladhand, missing his mate.)
peaches, also from the farmer's market, ripening in a brown paper bag. One of my favorite sights of summer.
One of my favorite parts of A Soft Place to Land is the description of the game that Ruthie and Julia played as girls--and that in real life my sisters and I played as girls--Biscuit and Egg. It's a nonsensical game, one of the silly things that sisters come up with to keep themselves amused. Here's the description from the book:
"Egg and Biscuit was a game that Julia created, and because she created it, she got to make up all of the rules, the primary one being that Julia was always the Egg, Ruthie was always the Biscuit. Julia would stand on the far side of the room, looking forlorn, casting her eyes about but never resting them on anyone or anything until they rested on Ruthie, who stood across the room, her back to Julia.
"B-B-Biscuit?" Julia would ask, disbelieving.
Ruthie would turn, would look at Julia, would squint her eyes. "E-E-Egg?"
"Biscuit?" Julia would ask again, hope creeping into her voice.
"Egg!?" Ruthie would ask.
"Biscuit!"
"Egg!"
Finally the two girls would run towards each other, screaming, "Biscuit! Egg! Biscuit! Egg!" They would meet in the middle of the room, Julia lifting Ruthie off the floor and twirling her around in a hug while each of them cried, "Oh, my yummy Egg! Oh, my fluffy Biscuit!"
My editor also really liked this scene, so much so that we considered naming the whole book Biscuit and Egg but were scared people might think it was a cookbook. I've heard from a lot of readers about this scene, and how it reminds them of the games they used to play with their sisters, the games they haven't thought of in a million years. And just yesterday I got a wonderful email from Kristien, a woman from Belgium who said that she and her (grown) sister have started calling each affectionate food nicknames since reading the book, just for fun. Only they have started calling each other "Nutella and Pancake!"
So my question to you is: what nicknames did you and your siblings have for each other when growing up? Or you and your best friend? And what were some of the ridiculous, nonsensical, silly games you played? Email me at susanrebeccawhite@yahoo.com. I'll send a free signed book to the writer of my favorite response. And post your nicknames/games on here too, if you'd like!
"Egg and Biscuit was a game that Julia created, and because she created it, she got to make up all of the rules, the primary one being that Julia was always the Egg, Ruthie was always the Biscuit. Julia would stand on the far side of the room, looking forlorn, casting her eyes about but never resting them on anyone or anything until they rested on Ruthie, who stood across the room, her back to Julia.
"B-B-Biscuit?" Julia would ask, disbelieving.
Ruthie would turn, would look at Julia, would squint her eyes. "E-E-Egg?"
"Biscuit?" Julia would ask again, hope creeping into her voice.
"Egg!?" Ruthie would ask.
"Biscuit!"
"Egg!"
Finally the two girls would run towards each other, screaming, "Biscuit! Egg! Biscuit! Egg!" They would meet in the middle of the room, Julia lifting Ruthie off the floor and twirling her around in a hug while each of them cried, "Oh, my yummy Egg! Oh, my fluffy Biscuit!"
My editor also really liked this scene, so much so that we considered naming the whole book Biscuit and Egg but were scared people might think it was a cookbook. I've heard from a lot of readers about this scene, and how it reminds them of the games they used to play with their sisters, the games they haven't thought of in a million years. And just yesterday I got a wonderful email from Kristien, a woman from Belgium who said that she and her (grown) sister have started calling each affectionate food nicknames since reading the book, just for fun. Only they have started calling each other "Nutella and Pancake!"
So my question to you is: what nicknames did you and your siblings have for each other when growing up? Or you and your best friend? And what were some of the ridiculous, nonsensical, silly games you played? Email me at susanrebeccawhite@yahoo.com. I'll send a free signed book to the writer of my favorite response. And post your nicknames/games on here too, if you'd like!
So it's illegal in Atlanta to sell food from carts. Or not illegal, but really hard to obtain permits. Or something like that... otherwise why would there be an Atlanta street food movement? At least we have the King of Pops.
Apparently street food in San Francisco is all the rage. Like, people ride around with pies for sale in their bicycle baskets. God, I would love to run into a bicyclists selling fabulous homemade pies. Assuming the pies were kept far, far away from his or her sweaty biker shorts. But some puckish lady in a gingham skirt selling homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie? Bring it on.
I've had pie on the mind ever since a friend told me about throwing a housewarming party for her new apartment in NY and serving seven different types of pie. I met this woman at the Southern Foodways Alliance symposium in Oxford, MS, so she's certifiably food obsessed--all of us who travel down there each October to celebrate and gorge on southern food are--but still, the bounty of her offering astounded me. Seven different kinds of pies. What fun. What work. What daydreams she has inspired of lemon chess, lemon meringue, chocolate cream, bourbon pecan, Mom's strawberry, key lime, and crack pie. That or sour cherry. Oh please, please, someone invite me to a housewarming with 7 kinds of pie!!
Apparently street food in San Francisco is all the rage. Like, people ride around with pies for sale in their bicycle baskets. God, I would love to run into a bicyclists selling fabulous homemade pies. Assuming the pies were kept far, far away from his or her sweaty biker shorts. But some puckish lady in a gingham skirt selling homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie? Bring it on.
I've had pie on the mind ever since a friend told me about throwing a housewarming party for her new apartment in NY and serving seven different types of pie. I met this woman at the Southern Foodways Alliance symposium in Oxford, MS, so she's certifiably food obsessed--all of us who travel down there each October to celebrate and gorge on southern food are--but still, the bounty of her offering astounded me. Seven different kinds of pies. What fun. What work. What daydreams she has inspired of lemon chess, lemon meringue, chocolate cream, bourbon pecan, Mom's strawberry, key lime, and crack pie. That or sour cherry. Oh please, please, someone invite me to a housewarming with 7 kinds of pie!!
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