Ginger Unplugged

On Christmas morning, my grandma likes us to go to her house for breakfast. She makes the Li'l Smokies and we make our own eggs. I'm sure Grandma does more, but I only remember the Li'l Smokies--mainly because I make it a point the rest of the year to never eat anything with the words "Li'l" or "Smokies" in it. That taste stays with you for weeks. But anyway, there I was making Husband and a kid or two some eggs. Scrambled. With a little bit of milk and garlic salt. Enter someone who shall go nameless that said, "You're putting milk in your eggs?" "Um, yes." I don't know what exact words followed but the general idea was that putting milk in scrambled eggs is pretty much the nightmare of cooking faux pas. I do remember someone else saying, "Sure glad I don't have to eat those eggs." I won't even get into specifics about the garlic salt. And what were they doing in that 1950's kitchen anyway...

Okay, we all know that it's been alleged that I can't cook. I refuse to believe it and my family plays along because they'd rather not starve (Crash is right now reading over my shoulder and vehemently protesting my lack of skills). Anyway, Husband usually makes fudge for the neighborhood for Christmas but I found this "much easier" recipe in a magazine I accidentally lifted from the Instacare (but that's another blog). It's called Festive Fudge . I thought Husband (by the way, Crash is also vehemently protesting "Husband's" blog nickname. He would like to change it to The Baldinator). Anyway, I thought HUSBAND was going to take this article and do the fudge. He apparently thought I was taking over the fudge making. Consequently it was a fudge madhouse around here the weekend before Christmas. Mistake number one is probably stealing the magazine in the first place. Don't do that. Heaven will not be on your side. No matter how many ti...