Having been stricken with the flu for two days and a night, my hunger grew ravenous. My body had lost six pounds, and I needed sustenance to replace the loss. With my head bowed in the tebow position, I pondered. Then, as if touched by the gods, I recalled a most wondrous review of an Italian establishment in Grand Forks, North Dakota.
Why yes! I must. I must hurry to the Tuscan farmhouse for a late lunch. But where? Where might I find a location outside of Grand Forks? Conferring with The Google I located one near a shopping mall in Winston-Salem, NC. And so my family packed up and made way.
The Super Bowl is usually synonymous with pizza and 
My wife came home with four pounds of turnips the other night. “Yeahhhh, what is that?” I asked. She responded with, “A lady from work dropped them off. Says you cook them just like potatoes.” A light bulb went off and I immediately thought, “Potatoes make French fries. I will make turnip fries!” Trumpet sounds.
Growing up, I looked forward to Thanksgiving every year for one reason alone, turkey croquettes. After my Brady Bunch of a family had our fill of turkey, my mother would take the leftovers and turn it into pure unadulterated awesomeness. This year I decided that I would take the leftovers from my own Thanksgiving and continue the delectable tradition.
I planted my tomatoes late this year. When the frost hit I was left with a number of small green tomatoes and a forest of basil. As I decided the fate of my crops I remembered a 
