I’m at the grocery store awhile ago and a man is staring at a pathetic package of cleaned corn, bitterly complaining that the store has no corn in a husk. That’s because corn doesn’t come into season until summer. Your sorry corn, sir, may be coming from Argentina. But it’s not in season here. And the carbon footprint it took to get the corn into your impatient little hands is gigantic.

Granted, sometimes it’s hard to know what’s in season since the modern produce section of a grocery store has no seasons. Tomatoes in December? Of course! Brussels sprouts in August? Absolutely! But they’re all coming from somewhere else far, far away. I have strayed occasionally and bought Brussels sprouts in August but I am ashamed while I’m doing it.

My late father-in-law, bless his soul, never ate watermelon before the Fourth of July. I think his mother told him it was poison, but the real reason is that it’s not in season in the South until then. Down here, we wait for tomato season like a dog staring at a meaty bone just out of reach. I think the only people who buy tomatoes in a Southern supermarket are Yankees because the rest of us know better.

So, back to asparagus. You can roast them in the oven, but grilling them is so much faster. All you do is this: Trim the ends of the asparagus and put them on a rimmed cookie sheet. Sprinkle them liberally with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. Fire up the grill to medium hot and lay the asparagus on the grill perpendicular to the grate. Turn them occasionally and grill until they’re beginning to char.

If you want a nice citrus touch, sprinkle them with lemon juice. Yes, I know lemons are not in season here. They’re never in season here. So I’m a hypocrite.

A few years ago, King Daddy and I were going to sell the house we’ve lived in for 20 years. We have a very odd house. It has four full bathrooms, but a kitchen the size of a postage stamp. It has odd rooms that serve no discernible purpose. I think King Daddy and I had a few too many cocktails before we put in an offer, which was quickly accepted. But the house has one thing going for it that no other home in our fairly densely populated suburb has – a completely private deck surrounded by woods. After the house had been on the market a couple of months, it occurred to me one day as I was grilling out on the deck that it was quite possible – even highly likely – that our new place would not be so private. That we might not like listening to our new neighbors…or their screaming children. I would lose my private grilling space. We took the house off the market.

But I digress. So I’m going to tell you how to grill the perfect steak in one paragraph. That’s how easy it is.

Start by heating the grill to medium high. Let’s just use a 1-inch-thick filet mignon as an example as that is my favorite steak. Let it come to room temperature and then apply a liberal coating of Montreal Steak Seasoning (available at every supermarket in America). Spray the hot grates with oil and slap the steak down. Spray the top of the steak with oil. Now, let it go for 3 minutes. Turn it a quarter turn to get those grill marks and let it go another 3 minutes. Flip and repeat. Now touch it. Does it feel like a soft tennis ball? Then you’re done. Take the steak off the grill and let it rest, covered with foil, for 10 minutes.

This is what you get:

Perfectly grilled filet mignon topped with herb butter

The important thing here is the touch test. You can use a digital thermometer and take the steak to 135 degrees internal temperature. But if you learn the touch test, you’ll just look like such a Grill Goddess. Here’s a guide.

There are certain rules about funeral food, some of which I prepared this weekend for the family of my friend and P.E.O. sister, Julie Peacock, may she rest in peace.

If you are preparing food for a reception, then naturally you will want to use your silver platters. You do have silver platters, don’t you? Really, there is no substitute. However, if you somehow missed receiving silver platters as wedding gifts (and if you didn’t I would rethink the guest list) you may substitute glass platters. Clear glass platters. No tinted glass, please.

If, however, you are taking food to the family, the opposite applies. Plastic and/or aluminum foil is preferable. You do not want the family to have to think for even a second about whose platter belongs to who and about having to wash it before returning it. As you can see from the photo, I delivered my corn dip to the family in an aluminum foil pot pie dish. That would be extremely tacky at a funeral reception, but appreciated in a home setting.

The progression of funeral food is also important. If the family has been in mourning for several days and has already had more cheese straws and chicken salad sandwiches than they can stomach, think a little outside the box. But think comforting. So, in this case, I thought corn dip.

Corn dip is a Southern thing. If corn is in season, use it fresh off the cob. If it’s not, canned shoe peg corn is acceptable. Basically, as in all Southern recipes, we take something healthy and turn it into something that is decidedly not. That is our way. Serve this with Frito’s Scoops so you get a precious plenty of dip to every chip.

Sriracha is another thing entirely. It has a nice gentle heat that lingers on the back of the tongue. It’s made from chili peppers, vinegar, garlic, sugar and salt and it’s half as hot as a jalapeno pepper. So not blow-your-head-off hot. It’s country of origin is Thailand, where I believe King Daddy and I will move after retirement just so we can get a good Bánh mì sandwich.

I generally do not like (fill in the name brand) cookbooks. They are always written to sell whatever the brand might be. But I have to say The Sriracha Cookbook that KD gave me for Christmas has turned out to be a pretty nifty find.

Here I am at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Franklin, TN., where “The Creative Spirit: The Music, Poetry and Art of St. Paul’s” is well underway. Donna Stokes-Rogers, the ridiculously talented music minister here, put the whole thing together and asked members of the parish who are artists to display their work after a concert. Why I am here I do not know.  But my talent is blogging and I offered to blog live during the event. I hoped everyone would pull out their iPhones and just follow along with me. By the way, if you want to hear how our fabulous choir sounds today, click here.

So I’m just going to take a few photos of the other artists represented, who actually make pretty and useful things. Actually, first I’m going to take a photo of the dark-chocolate salted caramels that Donna has on the refreshment table because I’m terribly excited about those. I’m waiting for the concert to be over and the cheese tray is calling to me. It is considered extremely bad form to lift the corner of the plastic wrap and snitch a piece of cheese before the concert is over.

…Well, this is not going at all as planned. Or at least as I planned. I assumed after the concert was over, they would come back to Founder’s Hall and admire the pottery, the paintings, the jewelry and, well, me. Sitting here blogging away. And not only that, but I already put the dang concert on Facebook and Twitter. Look at me! Look at me! But they are not. They do not appear to have iPhones. They are all at the refreshment table. Hang on. I’ll go snap a photo of it if I can break through the crowd.

So, at this point, a little wine is in order. It’s not a good Episcopal reception without wine. If I weren’t in church I’d probably have a cigarette, too. And….

…and then I got booted off the Internet. Look at me! Look at me! Now I’m not blogging at all! I’m just sitting at my computer with a paper coffee cup full of Chardonnay. And, bless her heart (and I mean that in the nicest possible way), Sarah Webster comes over. “Are you on your blog?” she asks, sweetly. I start to answer and then she adds, “I don’t read blogs. I’m not on Facebook, either. I have too many other things to do.” She doesn’t know, I think. 

I smile. Why, yes, Sarah. I’m on my blog. Right this very minute. Communicating with the entire worldwide web.

So right now, I want to say to Donna Stokes-Rogers that it was a beautiful concert and a lovely reception. I will remind her that live blogging was my idea. I assumed that people would be dazzled with my technological brilliance. But I am fairly certain that they were more dazzled with the salted caramels. That’s okay. I was, too.

For those of you who do not attend St. Paul’s, I apologize for this brief and, ultimately, meaningless interlude. Tomorrow, I will post a brilliant recipe for Sriracha-marinated flank steak. By the way, obviously, I finished this from home where the wine cup got a lot bigger and there is a smoking section in the garage.

King Daddy and I were marveling today as we wolfed down a plate of chicken and chorizo at our favorite Mexican restaurant how far we’ve come since we were kids. In my hometown, there was one – yes – ONE Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t even a restaurant; take-out only. There was one Italian restaurant. No Greek, no Mediterranean, no Thai and no Japanese. Indian food? I wouldn’t discover it for another 30 years. Even when we moved to Tennessee in 1993, the popular restaurant of choice was Red Lobster.

N0w, we can get a decent bowl of the delicious Vietnamese soup, Pho, not 10 minutes from the house. There’s stewed goat to be had at the Indian buffet nearby. And there’s sushi in every supermarket. Good times. We are living in very good times.

When we moved here there was no access to ethnic ingredients. Making a recipe like the fabulous braised eggs with lamb, tahini and sumac would have been impossible. Now, it’s a short hunt for the ingredients. Makes me feel like I’m wearing my grown-up pants. The recipe comes from a fabulous cookbook, Jerusalem, which introduces some of us to new flavors. If you are from the Middle East, it’s probably the equivalent of cooking from the Fannie Farmer Cookbook. But to this Tennessee girl, exploring ingredients such as sumac, tahini and harissa is thrilling.

So here’s my primer for the uninitiated about some of the more unusual ingredients and where to get them (at least in Nashville).

Ground lamb: It is usually available in supermarkets. You just have to hunt for it in the meat section. Or, if you’re lucky enough to have my beloved Publix in your hometown and they don’t have ground lamb, just ask the meat guy and he’ll grind some for you.

Sumac: This is a spice that has a tart flavor, sort of like little pellets of lemon juice. I sprinkle it on salads, use it in stews and it’s a must for this recipe. I get sumac at the International Market at the Nashville Farmer’s Market.

Harissa: Harissa is a hot red pepper paste used in North African cooking. I had to hunt for it hard at the Whole Foods, but I found a jar of it nestled near the hot sauces and salsa.

Tahini: This is more common than you think. Tahini is a paste made from sesame seeds and it’s what makes hummus taste so good. You can find jars or cans of it in the International aisle of most supermarkets.

Preserved lemon: I struck out on this one. There’s a recipe in the book, but you have to make it in advance and I needed some braised eggs with lamb, tahini and sumac immediately so I just left it out.

Don’t get me wrong. King Daddy still loves his country fried steak. But I got the ultimate complement for this dish: “I could have that again.” And you will, King Daddy. You will.

Yippee! Grilling season is here. Actually, any season is grilling season but it’s so much more fun when you don’t have to carve a path to the grill through the snow.

This is going to be a slight commercial, but it’s my blog and I never do this. I also blog for Char-Broil and I have two of their TRU-Infrared grills on the deck at the moment. I just love these things. I also have a Big Green Egg, which will be buried with me because I love it so, but on a typical weeknight when time is at a premium, I always head towards the Char-Broil TRU-Infrared. It heats up more quickly than a conventional gas grill, locks in the juices of whatever you’re grilling, uses less propane and it practically cleans itself.

The nice people of Char-Broil have offered a 25 percent off discount to any of my blog readers who are in need of a nifty new affordable TRU-Infrared Grill. To go get you one, click here and browse around to find the grill you like that’s available directly from the Char-Broil site.  Then use this discount code when you’re checking out: C13CM25.

I have two 2-burners right now because King Daddy and I are essentially empty nesters. But there’s a 4-burner available, too.

The Southwestern grilled chicken is a slightly spicy recipe that’s great straight off the grill or almost even better the next day, sliced cold and set atop a beautiful salad. Whether you’re using a brandy new TRU-Infrared or your granddaddy’s old clunker, this is a great recipe for easy grilling all summer long.

Southwestern grilled chicken

For the spice mix:

¼ cup chipotle chili powder

1/8 cup ground cumin

1 tablespoon ground coriander

Toast the spices in a hot pan for one minute. Reserve.

For the chicken:

2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts

2 tablespoons chopped garlic

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup lemon juice

¼ cup spice mix

Combine the garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and spice mix in a large container. Add the chicken and marinate it at least one hour, preferably overnight.

Preheat your grill to medium high. Add the chicken pieces and cook about seven minutes on one side. Flip and insert a digital thermometer in the thickest part of the breast. Continue to grill until the internal temperature reaches 160. Let the chicken rest for 10 -15 minutes before serving.

Margaret Brown with a look of forced frivolity on her face.

“I think we should get the white wine out of the refrigerator before we go to the 11 0′clock,” Margaret said feverishly as she rushed plates of chicken salad sandwiches, benne wafers and raspberry bars to the linen-covered tables in Otey Hall.

“Margaret,” I said. “This service is going to take forever. We are practically reading through the entire Book of Common Prayer with 16 confirmations and four baptisms. If we put the wine out now it will achieve room temperature before we ever get back.”

The Right Reverend John C. Bauerschmidt visits each church in the parish once a year. And Margaret, as head of the Hospitality Committee, only has one chance to show him our stuff. The Women of St. Paul’s awesome stuff. The chocolate-covered strawberries the size of cabbages. The homemade pimento cheese sandwiches cut into perfect, crustless triangles. The boiled shrimp with cocktail sauce, for God’s sake (I believe God is completely on board with shrimp cocktail).

And the wine. Why wouldn’t you celebrate the Bishop’s visit with a wee glass of wine at 12:30 in the afternoon? I am completely astounded at the churches that have not embraced this concept. No wonder attendance at some places of worship is down. At St. Paul’s Episcopal Church you can barely get through the doors when the Bishop comes, what with the promise of a nice glass of Chardonnay after the service.

I have to tell you the work of putting on the reception is back breaking. We start at 9 in the morning and we are not done until clean-up is finished at 3 in the afternoon. It’s not just putting out the food. It’s constantly patrolling to detect

Hold high the Cross.

almost empty platters that must be replenished. It’s precisely cutting the giant Cross-shaped cake with both lemon and chocolate layers that are required to be equally distributed on the cake plates.

Here’s the sad fact. I have been on the work crew of Bishop’s receptions for the last, oh, 10 years. And I have never seen the Bishop get even remotely close to the tables bursting with the culinary contributions of good Christian women much less the wine table, which I was going to call the bar but that sounds just a touch too crass.

So this year, emboldened by a half a glass of Pinot Grigio, I approached Bishop Bauerschmidt and requested that he hold a cheese straw as proof that our spiritual leader actually eats something at the reception. And he did it. He was a good egg. He ate the cheese straw, which he pronounced “good.” And then he ate another. I feel as though we’ve had a breakthrough here.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was Cheese Straws.

At the end of the day, I was exhausted. And poor Margaret. She kept mumbling about passing along the chairmanship of the Hospitality Committee next year. Fat chance, Margaret. But as I sat across the street from Otey Hall, on a concrete bench in front of the youth building (where there were, fortunately, no youth because I was smoking my first cigarette of the afternoon) I marveled at our congregation. Particularly the women. I’ve gotten soppy about this before and will now do so again. These women will break their backs to put on the best show they can. Not because the Bishop will graze endlessly at the tables of food. But just because he might.

You are wondering what this man has to do with sausage and blue potato hash. I’ll get to that.

This is my friend, Christo. When the Char-Broil All Stars first got together in 2012, I had a few reservations. In the South, we are all about hugging someone five minutes after we meet them. I sensed Christo wasn’t a hugger, although I have been proven wrong about that. We were about as different as two people can be. He was born and raised in New Mexico and has been a professional chef in Manhattan for many years. I was not born in the South, but I got here as quick as I could and have stood my ground ever since. Manhattan people are not about frivolous pleasantries. They do not make eye contact with strangers on the sidewalk, smile and say hello. Southern people not only do all those things, we wave at strangers in passing cars. We do not find this out of the ordinary.

But I will tell you when Christo and I made a lasting connection. He probably doesn’t even remember this, but I shared food with him. We were seated next to each other at the closing dinner and he made the mistake of ordering Brunswick Stew. Now, I am proud of him for ordering something so completely Southern, but Brunswick Stew is a giant bore. I felt sorry for him and offered him some of my seared trout with warm potato salad, kale and roasted red pepper sauce.  Sharing food brings a bond and, in this case, one that has grown over the last year.

He sent me Hatch chiles from New Mexico. I sent him country ham and Goo-Goo Clusters. One day, we were talking on Facebook and I asked about the numerous photos he posts using blue potatoes. The ones we get here are tiny nubbins of blandness.  I will not say there are many things in the North that are superior to the South, but blue potatoes are one of them. He gets them about the size of small baking potatoes.

So months pass and last week the All Stars got together in Atlantic Beach. And Christo walks up to me and hands me a heavy black plastic bag. Full of blue potatoes. He had packed them in his luggage. And I wondered when I packed my bag if the TSA people would wonder why I had a bag of blue potatoes in my luggage. No matter. Now you know why I am gifting you with a recipe for sausage and blue potato hash. Obviously, you can make this with Yukon Golds, but the symbolism will be completely lost.

Danielle, Jane, myself, Curt, Scott, Julie, David and Christo with our finished dishes.

I would not call it cheating. I just have to say that from the outset. I would call it creative use of ingredients not on the “approved” list but available to all. If they’d only thought of it. But only I did. That is my badge of honor and I will wear it proudly.

We are, all of us, fast friends. The Char-Broil All Star bloggers started as a group of strangers from all over the country and from different walks of life. But we are now a solid band of culinary nerds on parade. Until the grilling competition. Then we become Bobby Flay versus Morimoto in our own delusional version of Kitchen Stadium.

Char-Broil gets all of its bloggers together every year in some unimaginably luxurious setting. We’re pretty stoked about that. After meetings and demonstrations and what-not we get to the meat of the matter. A Chopped-style grilling competition. Winners get bragging rights for an entire year. This year, in Atlantic Beach, Florida, the focus was on seafood. We got a red snapper fillet, some calamari and head-on shrimp. And four ingredients we had to use: a blood orange, sun-dried tomatoes, collard greens and…ta da!…chocolate. There were additional ingredients: lemons, parsley, olive oil, thyme, and salt and pepper.

I am shocked that anyone noticed I had a giant log of butter at my station. Honestly, doesn’t everyone have better things to do?

So why would you not want to make a lovely blood orange juice and butter sauce to go over your grilled red snapper? What? You have no butter? Why would you not ask Sheila, my new best friend and the bartender, to procure a little butter from the kitchen? If only it had not come in a giant log. If only I had been able to conceal the butter under a napkin. If only, when Mary from Char-Broil asked what the giant log of butter was, I would have said, “My medicine. I can’t be without it, even for a second.”

For the record, Christo Gonzales used white wine. White wine was not on the approved list. Did anyone say a single solitary word to him about it? Did anyone actually notice that he used it since he was drinking heavily at the time and it could have just been his drink? It’s not as hard to conceal a few wee drops of wine as it is an entire foot-long log of butter.

My teammate, Curt McAdams of livefire, was a trooper. He never even questioned my easily-detected deception. And he didn’t even wince when I took the bold step of adding the chocolate to the collards, which turned out to be a triumph.

Curt took the award-winning photo of our dish. Yes, like children at the end of a Little League season, we all won a category. Danielle and Jane won the big prize, though, for a very fetching entry that involved stuffing seafood into shells. Hey, wait a minute. Shells. Were they on the approved list? Curt and I may have to appeal this to the International Char-Broil Court of Unfair and Arbitrary Judging. I’ll look up the address in a minute.

 Livefire Photography, copyright 2013