I’m something of a potato chip junkie. I try not to buy chips because I will legit empty a bag almost as fast as I bring it into the house. A bag doesn’t even make it to the pantry. It sits on the counter, waiting for me.

As with other foods, I’m picky when it comes to chips. Unless it’s an emergency, I won’t eat baked chips, which are usually packaged in matte bags. As the joke goes, the shinier the bag, the better the chips taste. On an unrelated note, I once accidentally sampled a lime chip. I do not recommend lime chips.

Although I like barbeque Lay’s chips, I prefer plain Lay’s or original Snyder chips. By the way, at the Goff Estate, we call Lay’s “glazed” chips because that’s how my youngest niece referred to them when she was a wee lass. I use the term Lay’s to comprise the national as well as the store brand. I will eat either, but I have found the store brand to be greasier.

Also, once upon a time, I couldn’t remember the name of the Snyder brand and called them the German chips. After all, it has Snyder of Berlin stamped right there on the bag. My mom was the only person in the family who knew what I was talking about. I later learned that the Berlin in question is in Pennsylvania and not Europe.

When it comes to Doritos, I will only eat the nacho cheese flavored tortilla chips aka the ones in the red bag. No blue bag Doritos for me. My only fault with Doritos is the dust they leave on my hands.

Now that we have those important details squared away, you might not be surprised to learn that I only eat original Pringles or as we call them at the Estate “stand-up chips.” Dozens of years ago, whilst suffering from an excruciating migraine, I heard my late great father come home from a trip to the store and tell my mom that, in addition to the items on her list, he had bought some stand-up chips. In spite of the stabbing pain in my head, I laughed. It made sense. The chips, I mean potato snacks, do come in a tubular container that stands up.

Anyway, recently whilst grabbing some stand-up chips, I noticed the slogan “bursting with flavor” printed on the side of the container.

I love plain Pringles. I could win a plain Pringles-eating contest. Those tubular containers do not last long around me. I’m sure the slogan is printed on the sides of the brand’s dozens of flavors. But believe me when I say it’s not needed to describe the original “flavor.”

Indeed, that’s one of the reasons I’m such a fan.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

As another birthday approaches, I think it’s time for me to once again share some of the life-changing wisdom I’ve accumulated with age.

• For the most part, I prefer generic brands. (This does not include cleaning supplies and trash bags. Parenthetical advice: It’s best to spend that extra money when it comes to trash bags. Trust me and the mess I had to clean up.) But I buy generic oatmeal, condiments, pasta, etc. When it comes to other foodstuff, such as my beloved Boyardee, I insist on buying brands. This brand-name splurging includes toaster pastries aka Pop-Tarts. Much as with the trash bags, I learned this lesson the hard way. A few years ago, I bought a box of store brand toaster pastries. I popped one of the cherry pastries into the toaster oven, allowed it to brown, took one bite, and recoiled in horror. Cardboard tastes better. And I should know. I feasted on cardboard as a child.
• On the subject of food … Always check your order whilst you’re still in the drive-thru. Once whilst a passenger in a car, I told the driver of my intention to go through the bag to ensure our order was accurate and complete. Said driver legit yelled at me, “Do you expect me to sit here in line while you look through the bag?” Well, yeah. Trust me, dear readers, I know from where I speak. On the few occasions when I haven’t followed my own advice, I’ve arrived home to find that my chicken sammich did not also contain bacon or that my bag did not even contain a chicken sammich. These experiences gave me the sads.
• On the subject of restaurants … If you’re ordering a drink at a place that offers free refills, always go with the smallest size. That way, you can keep filling up that cup on the restaurant’s dime. Just the other day, my heart filled with happiness as a young man stood at the other drink machine and sipped and filled and sipped and filled. Just as did I. And people say these younglings have no gumption.
• On the subject of drinks … Back in the day, I usually ordered water at restaurants. After all, water is almost always free and I’m cheap. But I’ve accidentally developed a debilitating addiction to fountain drinks in my advanced age. Don’t be like me. Don’t accidentally develop a debilitating addition to foundation drinks. Stick to free water. But if you’re in the area and you enjoy Dr Pepper, which my adorable great-niece and great-nephew shorten to Pepper, I recommend ordering Taco Bell’s Dr Pepper. Be forewarned: It will change your life.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

It’s safe to say I’m not a foodie. If you’re unaware of the term, our friends at Wikipedia define a foodie, in part, as “a person who has an ardent or refined interest in food.”

So unrefined is my interest in food that, as a reminder, I didn’t learn egg rolls are egg free until earlier this year. No, except for goat cheese and pairings, I don’t have refined tastes in food. As a friend has noted, my food preferences haven’t evolved since childhood. One could make the argument that goat cheese and parings is a grown-up version of a childhood snack.

Indeed, as a wee lass growing up on the Goff Estate, I made meals out of cheese and crackers, potted meat and crackers, Vienna sausages and crackers, milk and crackers, and, my favorite, balls of bread. I haven’t enjoyed potted meat and Vie-ennie, which is how we pronounce it at the Estate, in dozens of decades, but there’s one canned food of my childhood to which I have returned – Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs.

I actually hadn’t had Boyardee in dozens of decades, either, until I developed a hankering for it a few years ago. My renewed interest in Boyardee disgusted my sisters. (They have no room to judge. You should see some of the “food” they eat.) They’re not the only ones. When a coworker saw me stuffing my face with the sketti and meatballs, she informed me it wasn’t food. It was Styrofoam.

Then it’s delicious Styrofoam.

Admittedly, I have to watch my intake of Boyardee. For starters, tomato-based products do not agree with me. Besides, when it comes to Boyardee, I have learned you can have too much of a good thing.

With the exception of roast beef, tacos, and an occasional burger from a certain fast food franchise, I’m not a fan of beef. But the meatballs in Boyardee are scrumptious. The friend/coworker who broke the news to me that egg rolls do not contain eggs is one of the few Boyardee fans in my circle. She, however, said she has concerns about eating meat that sits on the shelf of a grocery store for years.

Maybe that’s why I like it. Maybe I would like more beef dishes if they sat on the shelf of a grocery store for years.

If memory serves, there were but four meatballs in a can of Boyardee sketti when I was a wee lass. Now there are six. Just as when I was a kid, I save those yummy meatballs so I can savor them.

As a child, I also ate and enjoyed Boyardee ravioli. It’s still being produced. I’ve seen it on the shelves, but I haven’t bought a can.

Yet.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

I tried an egg roll.

As you might remember, a few weeks ago I broke the news that I had never eaten an egg roll. Indeed, I had avoided egg rolls because I thought they contained scrambled eggs. And who would want to eat a scrambled egg wrapped in deep-fried flour?

Anyway, I had the hankering for fried rice and sweet and sour chicken (sans sauce), the only Chinese fare of which I partake (with one notable exception – keep reading), so I swung by a Chinese place that offers takeout from the buffet. When I spied the egg rolls, I said to myself, “Self, why the expletive not?” And I added one egg roll to my takeout box.

I had concerns that the egg roll would taste horribly, so I decided to get it out of the way first. I also had concerns it would contain an onion aka my nemesis. Luckily, I did not detect onions. In fact, I enjoyed the first bite, so I took another one. I tasted either chicken or pork and vegetables. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t the best food I’d ever eaten, either, but not everything can be as good as soup beans.

Then I took the third bite. That’s when I tasted the cabbage. That’s when my association with the egg roll came to an end.

When I shared this saga with my sisters, they opened their mouths to protest after I arrived at this part of the story. After all, they’ve seen me feast on cooked cabbage. But that’s different. I don’t eat any other form of cabbage or food that features cabbage. No cabbage rolls. No coleslaw. No sauerkraut.

Stop rolling your eyes. I have told you people repeatedly that I’m a picky eater.

By the way, I have another food update. I also recently shared the breaking news that doughnuts make me high. No, I have not tried a chocolate glazed doughnut to see if that phenomenon continues to hold true, but my lunch at the Chinese buffet reminded me that I can eat Chinese doughnuts. You know, the kind that seem like canned biscuits that are deep fried and rolled in sugar.

Now, I’m not saying that’s how they’re made in the restaurants. Hence, the word “seem.” I’m just saying that’s how they taste. They’re light and almost like air. If air tasted sweet and was full of dozens and dozens of carbs.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

Monday, April 25, 2022, will go down in history as the day I learned egg rolls do not contain eggs.

I can hear the guffaws from the smart expletives who were apparently born knowing this. To you know-it-alls, I ask, “What was I supposed to think? Egg is in the name!” After all, chocolate chip cookies contain chocolate chips. Orange juice contains oranges that have been squeezed into juice. Bean dip contains beans that, along with other ingredients, have been turned into a delicious dip.

But apparently, egg rolls have been getting by with false advertising all these years.

I learned this historic truth from a friend/coworker who shared the ingredients of a hillbilly egg roll she had during Hillbilly Days. When I inquired about the whereabouts of the egg, she gently explained, well, you know what she explained.

Obviously, I have never eaten an egg roll. Honestly, the thought of eating one repulsed me. I like deviled eggs and sometimes I’ll eat hardboiled eggs. Otherwise, I’m not much of an eater of eggs. So, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of eating a scrambled egg that had been deep-fried in flour.

Yep. That’s what I imagined an egg roll to be.

I repeat, “What was I supposed to think? Egg is in the name!”

Speaking of eggs … my sister and I almost came to blows whilst making cookies last Christmas when she claimed fried eggs and scrambled eggs taste the same. Granted, I have never eaten a fried egg and have rarely eaten scrambled eggs, so maybe she’s right. Still, I maintained that if they taste the same, then why are diners given the option of scrambled or fried?

Anyway, after learning the historic truth about egg rolls, I wondered why a foodstuff that does not contain eggs has the word egg in its name. Thus, I consulted our friends at Wikipedia. Here’s what they have to say on the matter … “it is unclear how the word ‘egg’ appeared in the name, since the predominant flavor in American egg rolls is cabbage, not eggs. A 1979 article in The Washington Post speculated two possible theories: 1) that the Chinese word for ‘egg’ sounds very similar to the Chinese word for ‘spring,’ and 2) that Chinese chefs in the South relied on using actual eggs when trying to make the thin noodle skin from flour and water.”

In other words, who knows?

So, now that I know the truth, do I plan to sample an egg roll? As picky as I am, I’ll take that on an egg roll by egg roll basis.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

For years I have shared my struggles in this here space. My struggles, that is, with prepping potatoes for mashing, baking, and/or cooking.

As you might recall, I cannot peel potatoes – or anything for that matter – with a knife. Please don’t tell me I could if I practiced. I’ve, in the words of my late father, peeled away too many potatoes in my day practicing.

Anyway, years ago, I purchased a Rotato, a potato-peeling gadget that changed my life. It was a messy gadget, though, and hard to clean. Thankfully, I ran across a vegetable peeler in a store.

Ahh. Talk about a life changer.

I now have four peelers. Why do I have four? Well, you never know when you’ll get the urge to peel something and the other three peelers might be dirty.

Although the peelers solved one problem, they didn’t solve another one. That is, when preparing mashed potatoes, I still need to dice said potatoes.

Here’s the biggest issue for me when it comes to dicing potatoes: I would really prefer if the diced particles of potato were uniform in size.

As you might imagine, that preference means it takes me dozens of minutes to prep potatoes for mashing.

Thankfully, somehow I came into possession of a gadget that legit chops and dices vegetables.

Unfortunately, it was not a life changer. Sure, the diced particles of potato appeared, more or less, to be uniform. But it took just as long to dice them via the gadget as it did with a knife. What’s more, the gadget was messy and hard to clean.

Thus, I resumed dicing potatoes with a knife.

Woe was me.

Then, one day a few weeks ago, I wasn’t feeling my best. So, of course, I turned to my comfort food – mashed potatoes. I didn’t feel up to dicing or even peeling. I had purchased smallish potatoes, so I dumped them into the pan, peelings and all, and poured water on them. (I am not a fan of potato peelings or, as my late father referred to them, potato jackets, either. But like I said, I wasn’t feeling well.)

You know what? The potatoes cooked up, as we say at the Goff Estate, and they were a breeze to mash. What a learning experience. From then on, I haven’t bothered with dicing. After peeling potatoes, I’ve cut them into pieces about the size of the aforementioned smallish potatoes, dumped them into the pan, and poured water over them.

The potatoes have continued to cook up and I have continued to add butter and heavy cream (a tip I learned from my bestie) to create scrumptious mashed potatoes.

There have been no lumps. No issues. No drama. No struggles.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.