This is a photo journalistic type blog about my trip to the PACT Ball, which means it's about nothing and has no point. It's not that I don't have any ideas. I have several kicking around, including another one about rules. But it's what I wanted to blog about and, let's face it; a blog is the ultimate in self absorption. If they could type, all toddlers would blog.
And by the way, the PACT Ball benefits Parents and Children Together, a 33 year old child abuse prevention agency.
This is me before I left for the ball with Cheryl's wrap. She lent it to me. I would not go in her house and steal her goods—or if I did, I wouldn't publish pictures of myself using them on the World Wide Web. Or maybe I would. Someone who is stupid enough to steal from a former federal prosecutor is likely to do anything.
The Guy before we left home. I do love a man in a tux. He refuses to wear those shiny patent leather formal shoes. He says he has his own tux, he'll have his own shoes and they won't be glossy. I love him for that.
Cutest Girl In the World, Me, and Precious. It may look like CGITW and I love each other more than we love Precious but it's not true. Cutie Pie and I were just having a moment. Aren't they pretty? They let me hang with them because I will make them cheese grits.
See, we love her.Not sure what I had on my mind or what I was looking at. From the looks of things, nothing good.
These are my new friends. I haven't named them yet. Maybe I should hold a contest to name them. Mr. and Mrs. CGITW found them. They are fun. I love fun. Oh! That's it. Fun Girl and Fun Guy.
Mr. and Mrs. Precious. Except for The Guy, I've known Mr. Precious longer than anyone else at the table—about 30 years, give or take. I love him. What I love most about him is he brought me Precious.
Mr. and Mrs. Cutest Girl in the World. Note that Mr. Cutie Pie is wearing hounds-tooth tie and vest. With the exception of Cheryl's wrap, we were an all Bama Fan table.
Me and the Guy. Isn't he cute? His hair is a little messy, which I blame on his hard fought trip to the cash bar—that and he had to walk across the parking lot of the Country Club after he dropped me in front. And it was raining. As you may remember from a previous blog, The Guy will not use an umbrella because the thinks they aren't manly. But I like some messy blond hair. He does not let me hang with him because I will make him cheese grits. He will not eat grits unless I lie to him and tell him it's polenta. I have no excuse for my messy hair, unless it was that I had worn myself out annoying people.
The floral arrangement on our table. It was a short one. Half the tables had tall, half short.
This is a tall one. Year before last, we sat at a table with a tall one--except it was worse. It was taller and there were mirrors involved. I became convinced it was going to topple over and kill Mr. Classy and me. I've been talking about it ever since. Maybe that's why Mr. and Mrs. Classy didn't come to the ball this year. They say it was because they just didn't want to but I think I've made them fear the floral arrangements.
And as an aside. I love the girl at this table. Love her. Hi, sweetheart. I know you are reading this. I'm so glad that towering, tottering bouquet did not kill you.
Mr. and Mrs. Classy, for your viewing pleasure and since I mentioned them. They were home, safe from fauna and flora. I like how he is looking at her like he can't quite believe his luck.
Main course. Note the meat. The men wouldn't go without it. They put three on their plates. The Guy ate all of his and one of mine. He would not eat the Gouda grits. Everyone agreed my grits are better than these. I suspect Chef doesn't deal in Velveeta. I forgot to take a picture of dessert. Probably, I was talking.
The Guy and Precious. And that's all. After that, I forgot I had a camera.
Cheese Grits
This is how I make cheese grits. First off, forget that nonsense about having to use old fashioned, stone ground long cooking grits. About a decade ago, when grits became all tony, some southern chefs came out and said that no self respecting southerner would use quick grits. Well. I am southern and I have plenty of self respect, as did my mother. Quick grits is the way to go. (Not to be confused with instant grits. Don't do that.) Trust me on this. I tried the long cooking ones but there was no difference except in the cooking time, which was about nine times as long as I had patience.
Turn the heat to medium low, cover, and cook seven minutes. Stir it every once in a while. Remove from heat. Put in some butter. For our four cup example, I'd say about half a stick. Next, (Oh, this is so bad. I don't do it for everyday grits—only beach grits and bereavement grits.) thin it out with a little heavy cream. Not much. You don't want it soupy. For the four cups, about ¼ cup.
Okay, this is the part where you are just going to have to use your judgment because I don’t know how much cheese I use. I just add it and taste it until it's right. Start with some cubed Velveeta. Add some grated cheddar. That's the basics, but I like to also use some smoked cheese—mozzarella, Gouda, cheddar, whatever you have. A little Parmesan won't hurt it and, depending on your audience, some pepper jack and a spot hot sauce is not amiss.
