Little Debbie Move Over

My sister Courtney and I had a childhood filled with ritual. One particularly happy one, but one that still plagues my calorie intake to this day, was the after school snack.

We would come home, grab a snack and then settle in for a rerun of Little House on the Prairie. Every school day for years. No lie. (Note: This means you cannot stump me in Little House trivia. I've seen most episodes twice, can describe even now in detail Half-Pint's grown up dress, and know that Albert was addicted to morphine.)

The snack could be a variety of things, but more often than not was a cinnamon sugar pop tart, or Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls or Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. Now before you send my Mamma hate mail, understand that she canned all our veggies, didn't allow soda except for special occasions, and really, really tried to get me to like white beans. 

But back to the "Little Debbies." A few years ago, I was hungry-grocery shopping (yes, it's a real term) and the box of 1.29 creme pies was on an end cap. Nostalgia kicked in, and they went into my cart. The devastation set in, of course, when I realized that through no fault of my own, the packaged pies looked generally squished, and the creme tasted more like shortening than I ever wanted to taste again. Sigh.

But about a month ago, I had the opportunity to be a part of the 1st annual Charleston Food Truck Festival. It was a sunny 70 degrees, and I was loving life.

  

The cutest snoball airstream ever

But then, as fate would have it, this woman set up beside me:

https://www.facebook.com/CarlaBakesCharleston

I mean really? A baked goods booth next to me? But Carla of Carla Bakes was very personable and had some brisk business, and there was lots of oohs and aahs over bacon chocolate chip cookies. I had my eye on another prize, though. A homemade oatmeal creme pie.

It came home to the little kitchen to savor later, yes, possibly over a Little House rerun. While that didn't happen, the delectable cream with a touch of salt, along with an amazing, brown-edged cookie replaced Little Debbie in my heart forever. It was so good, Mr. Edwards could have played a jig ... 

Stand By for Fresh Ice

If you're interested in reading my latest "away from the blog writing," an article on the Art of Mixology in Charleston, you'll have to get a print copy of the latest issue of The Local Palate. It was a fun research assignment, getting behind the bar to see the infusions, concoctions, mixtures and in general, obsessions of some of Charleston's masters.

However, there is an excerpt online, which is about The Gin Joint and Joe Raya's focus on ice. That's right. He says it is the most important, yet most overlooked, part of a beverage.

I am into ice. In the little kitchen, I ditched those dollar-store cube trays a while ago and started buying a bag every now and again to keep in the freezer. No ice maker, you say? Well, you obviously haven't seen my fridge or you wouldn't say that.

I use my ice cube tray for pesto now -- like this, but it's a red tray

But we know that ice makes a difference. Like those little pellets of ice that come with your diner fountain soda. Or the shaved ice that comes from the most perfect snoball stand on Magazine Street in New Orleans. Or the ice I shot through my straw across an elementary school cafeteria table that started an epic food fight and got me cleaning gum under the tables and scared of lunch lady/MY bus driver Mrs. Williams until I started junior high ...

But the best ice of all is marinated ice. Next time, ask your bartender for that when you order your next drink. But don't ask Joe Raya -- he probably won't like it.