Slow Food

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This time of year, I crave slow food  — it’s one of my favorite things about wintertime.  Food that cooks for hours in the oven, in a crock pot or on a stove top and fills the whole house with a wonderful aroma.  Food made from a recipe hand written on a tattered index card or in a black and white essay book, a recipe with pencilled additions made in the margins of a cookbook sold by a small town Home Ec class or civic organization.  Food made from a recipe handed down for generations —  from someone’s mother, someone’s aunt, someone’s grandfather.  Food that might be referred to as a casserole — or if you live in the upper Midwest, a hot dish.  Food with ingredients that take time to chop, mince or dice. Food of any ethnic origin, as long as it comes with gravy or a sauce and is designed to be sopped up with a piece of homemade, crusty bread.  Food that doesn’t appear quickly. Food that doesn’t come in a little cardboard box or in a paper wrapper. Just like the song says, I need slow food to feed my soul.



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