My grandmother was from New Orleans, which means that every five years or so I decide to act like I’m from New Orleans, too.
I don’t have an electric fryer, nor do I really want one, because – seriously, we don’t need more fried foods around here. Plus, I really like my cast iron skillet.
They didn’t exactly puff up like they’re supposed to. They seemed kind of won-ton-esque.
The kids came home from church – “What are THOSE?” I explained the tenuous ties to our heritage. “Does this mean I’m FRENCH? COOL!!!!” She was also quite enthusiastic about the powdered sugar stage of production.
He’s plotting. Later, he shall sneak into the dining room and help himself to a second breakfast.