“NO! COME BACK! LET ME EXPLAIN CORNBREAD!” “WAIT UNTIL YOU TRY GUMBO!” “HAS ANYONE GIVEN THIS MAN PECAN PIE YET?”

#Jazz リー・モーガン 「Cornbread」1965年録音 Lee Morgan：tp Jackie McLean：as Hank Mobley：ts Herbie Hancock：p Larry Ridley：b Billy Higgins：ds フロント3管セクステットの充実セッション ジャズロック、ボサノヴァ、ハードバップ、バラードなど多彩な楽曲が高い完成度で楽しめる名盤

My mother’s chicken and dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, flat seasoned green beans, fresh fried corn off the cob, fried apples, coleslaw, sliced Tennessee tomatoes, stuffed deviled eggs, skillet baked cornbread, and her famous banana pudding with real meringue topping

Pussy, Slow speaking, Country NIGS in Texas jumped a New Yorker. Meanwhile, white boys are whooping and hanging their cornbread fed, PUNK asses in the SOUTH

Cornbread r square, Pi r round.

bought the sweet cornbread mix because i have standards not because it reminds me of sunday mornings at his place

Us Yankees did not have Southern fried chicken growing up.Yes,we had fried chicken..But it was not Southern fried.And we don't do the best at cornbread either😄🤷

Bama Raised & I smash nun but Cornbread Fed !!!!! All thick BBWs are my weakness !!! Follow me for more content !! Dm “telegram “ to join my group 💯

Come on, does he look like a good Ohio boy? He looks nothing like a testosterone filled, cornbread fed, Ohioan. He looks like a chick. I don't want feminine dudes running my state.

why was the cornbread spicy. i’ve only ever had it plain or sweet what a waste of good cornmeal im upset

Get a six and a half inch Lodge skillet. Perfect for cornbread. Holds one box of this stuff perfectly.

Cooked Purple Hull Peas with bits of hamhock and okra. I remembered the coarse ground cornbread this time.

Back when I was a kid, this is what I remember. Summer didn’t just mean swimming holes, lightning bugs, and running barefoot till your feet got tougher than shoe leather. Summer meant the garden was coming in, and when the garden came in, everybody had work to do. Nobody asked if you felt like helping. Feelings were not invited to canning day, which was probably for the best since they’d just get in the way and sweat on the tomatoes. The garden wasn’t there for decoration. It fed us. What we grew in the summer had to help carry us through the winter. I remember baskets of green beans waiting to be snapped. Tomatoes sitting in piles, red and ripe, ready to be peeled and canned. Corn shucked on the porch with silks sticking to your arms. Cucumbers turned into pickles. Apples and peaches put up sweet. Every bit of it mattered. And let me tell you, there weren’t many excuses that got you out of garden work or canning day. A headache didn’t do it. Being tired sure didn’t do it. A bad attitude mostly just got you handed another pan of beans. But there was one thing folks believed back then. If a young girl was on her monthly time, she was usually kept away from the garden work and the canning. Old folks said she could make the food spoil, or keep the jars from sealing right. Now, whether that was truth, superstition, or just one of those old-timey beliefs passed down till nobody questioned it, I can’t say. Humans do love making rules and then handing them down like Moses brought them off the mountain. But I do remember it being taken serious. The women didn’t always say much about it plain. They’d just know. A girl might be told to rest, stay out of the heat, or do something else away from the food. Back then, some things weren’t talked about out loud, but everybody understood what was meant. The kitchen would get hotter than common sense. Big pots boiled on the stove, jars clinked together, and everybody moved around like they knew exactly what needed doing. Somebody was washing jars. Somebody was filling them. Somebody was wiping rims and tightening lids. And then came that sound every family listened for: the little **pop** of a jar sealing. That pop meant winter food. It meant green beans for supper when snow was on the ground. It meant tomatoes for soup, gravy, or poured over fried potatoes. It meant pickles beside beans and cornbread. It meant apple butter on biscuits on a cold morning. By the end of summer, the shelves would be lined with jars, green, red, yellow, and brown, all shining like little promises. To some folks it may have looked like canned food. To us, it looked like security. We didn’t call it “homesteading” or “preserving seasonal produce,” because apparently everything needs a fancy name now so folks can charge money for it. We just called it putting up food. And that’s what I remember most. A hot kitchen. Tired hands. A porch full of vegetables. Old beliefs nobody dared test. Family working together. Winter being made ready, one jar at a time. And somewhere in all that work, without us even knowing it, we were making memories too. The kind that stick with you longer than the jars on the shelf. The kind that come back when you smell tomatoes cooking or hear a jar lid pop. The kind that remind you where you came from, who loved you, and how much was done with plain hands and a willing heart. Those were good memories. And they’ve helped carry me through a lifetime. ~banjo~

Cornbread fed baby 💦💦👀

Cornbread

Celtikkks, Oxtails and Cornbread, and Knickenyahu rings in succession