Bury My Cabbage at Wounded Knee

by binko on July 21, 2011

I love having guest posts and Binko has done another one!  Enjoy!  ~PWSux

My ex-husband turned 55 this week.  He’s no Marlboro Man.  The closest he’s been to a horse is the ticket counter at the Sunland Race Park in El Paso, unless you count the horse-faced girl of nineteen who I caught, well, nevermind.  It’s all slop under the trough, twelve years post-divorce, and in the best interests of our two sons, I keep it kind.  So, I decided to make him a birthday surprise: Edna Mae’s Escalloped Cabbage, a recipe straight from the horse’s… oops, I mean The Pioneer Woman’s keyboard.

I read the recipe with some trepidation.  The ingredient list mostly consists of processed goodies – Cheez Whiz and Cream of Whatever soup – along with a head of cabbage and a little paprika for color.

“I recommend it without reservation!”  Pioneer Woman enthusiastically chirps under a photograph of a rectangular Pyrex pan filled with rows of artfully placed cabbage lumps.

I headed off to the local grocers to purchase the necessary components of concoction.

Now, this wasn’t in the recipe, but I figured it would give me the gumption to call the ex and invite him over for dinner:

Wine not?

I set the wine in my basket and headed around the store, marking one item, then another, from my shopping list.  A man stood in front of Wal-Mart’s “Great Value” branded milk, both arms balancing an overstuffed hand basket filled with Twinkies, Sara Lee pound cake, two Hungry Man dinners – Salisbury Steak and Chicken Cacciatore, a clear plastic box filled with fake butter croissants.  I looked at my own push basket.  The wine, two hefty cabbages, a dozen free-range eggs, six lemons, two bunches of cilantro, a pound of seeded grapes, a box of pressed soy, broccoli, a carton of organic low fat milk, one large can of Cream of Chicken Soup, one glass jar of Cheez Whiz.

“Heh. You must be one of those healthy people.”

He leered at my basket, as if it sprouted cantaloupe breasts.  He held his goods close, but his girth prevented his nose from inhaling the imprinted cardboard housing his treats.

“I just try to eat low on the food chain. I have kids.  I have to teach them how to eat.  Except for the Cheez Whiz and goopy soup, but I can tell ya, that’s an aberration.”

A woman to my left turned around, stared at my sparse goods, then moved her purse, her torso, so I couldn’t measure her motherhood.  Her toddler shifted in the grocery cart seat, tried to lurch and grab a small bottle of chocolate milk.  She screamed when her mom slapped her wrist, her yellow-ribboned ponytail cracking like thunder.  I tried not to wince at my self-righteous words.  I wished I kept quiet, just laughed at the man with the heart attack horn of plenty instead of handing him a shopping list of the ways I think I’m better.

“What the hell is a person like you doing here?”

The man laughed as he spoke.  His groceries rose and fell with the shake of his belly.  I knew what he meant, knew the Wal-Mart stocked tofu for the short list of people like me, people who lived in this cattle-fed quadrant of the west despite, well, things like Cheez Whiz and Cream of Roadkill.

“I like it here. Where else should I live?”

He laughed.  He liked my answer, and his cheeks echoed red like a school girl, as if somehow I told him those secret dirty thoughts I only dared uncork late at night when my boys slept under heavy blankets.

“I teach astronomy at the university.  I wasn’t planning on shopping, but I can’t stop thinking about what’s out there. I mean Out There.  You know?  Some of my colleagues think there may be as many as sixty-five Earth-like planets for every basic star we’ve found.  If this ratio holds, we’re talking sixty-seven billion habitable planets in our galaxy. One galaxy.  One galaxy in a sea of countless.”

I imagined it as his groceries jiggled.  A tide of intelligence, as if every calorie in his basket was a planet, he was a sun, he was his own galaxy, a black hole at the center, a black hole munching Twinkies, gulping statistics, swallowing us whole, us whole.

And then it happened.  The woman shifted her cart, and her toddler lurched for my Cheez Whiz as they headed toward toilet paper and other disposable necessities.  The little girl knocked her head against my arm.  I didn’t expect it. I fell into the dairy case’s cart guard, a slim metal slice that rose from ground to knee level.  And knee level it was!  It caught my left leg, torn the knee from one side to the other.  A geyser of blood squired from gaping hole to a pile of swiss cheese blocks, spotting them like expensive koi.

WARNING GROSS IMAGE: My injury (click to see!)

I tore the scarf from my ponytail and wrapped it around my knee and stood in line at the checkout.  Blood seeped through the thin gauzy material.  I should have visited Customer Service, should have asked for antiseptic and bandage.  But I had a Pioneer Woman cabbage dinner to make!  I paid for my goodies and drove like the wind to the local urgent care:

WARNING GROSS IMAGE: Knee is cleaned and prepped for stitches, click to see

Back at home, leg locked straight for two days, I began my preparations.  I poured a generous glass of cabernet and set to work:

Get yer cabbage and hold ’em up to your boobies.  You know the drill, girls:

Hey baby, nice cabbages!

Place cabbage on your state-of-the-art cutting board – no, no, no, NOT Williams and Sonoma, a piece of counter top that ya purchased from the Salvation Army:

Cut the cabbage into sections:

Not a lot of color in a cabbage

Now, the recipe invites the cook to parboil the cabbage, then to arrange the sections elegant symmetrical rows within the confines of a glass pan.  Kind of like lines of cocaine, I figure.  I lost my Pyrex (and my mind, obviously) during a middle school pot luck at the end-of-school mixer, so I made an executive decision.  I would cook the mess in my crock pot.  No parboiling!  No artful arrangement!  Just a pile o’ cabbage and processed food glop, and I could enjoy my vino in peace.

Place cabbage in crock pot:

What a crock!


Next step: Add a can of Cream ‘o Chicken soup.  I was going to wax rapsodic on the whole chemical-canned-barf but honestly, these photos speak for themselves:

Cream of Chix


Should cold soup glisten like this?!


Plop that soup on your cabbage!

It was at this point the cabernet took effect.  I grabbed my cell phone and called the ex.  My hands shook.  I think I first met him ten million years ago, when I roamed feral trees as a split-winged dinosaur.  I have flash memory of it, of a place lush and tired, waiting for sky-fallen disaster, a connection of eye against leathered skin.   We will slow time to nothing, stop time.  I read his letter – we met by way of classified ad – and remembered days in childhood when minutes spread into hours, expected my visit to be fun and uninhibited, maybe even timeless in some way.

I met him at a gate, a security frame, a place where people purged from an airborne tin can.  I saw him lean against a sign, his arms folded over his chest, brown t-shirt against cold metal.  He saw me, too, my red dress, cowboy hat, and he rushed beyond the buzzer, pressed his lips against mine, met my tongue.  He made his hello second, almost last, although we hadn’t yet met, not in the physical, in these bodies, only on paper.

“Hey, you.” He smiled, caught his breath, grabbed my bag, my arm, dragged me wanting through a terminal, an exit.  We climbed in a bus empty and sad, but we filled it, made it real and heavy and fast with my pink suitcase and his lips and the way we recognized each other from some past eon when footprints covered wet sand.  “Hey, you,” I answered, kept my mouth against his, ran fingers through his hair.  I remembered it, it wasn’t new, was a million million years old, my fingers knew the twist and black of his curls.

I can’t tell you the next part.  It’s sacred, a hidden ancient scroll, two days of sweat-burned hymn spent in one room, a second act, a bridge, all the days you wished for Christmas and birthday and death rolled into forty-eight hours of athletic sacrifice.  We talked, too. I remember every word of it, though the recall of fingerprint against thigh meets my mind first.

That was a long time ago, Binko. Keep it together. The phone rang. And rang. I left a message.

“Hey, Happy Birthday!  I have a big surprise for you!  Want to come over for dinner tonight?  I’m making you a big ol’ pot of escalloped cabbages.”

Years later, the divorce still hurts as much as my stitched knee.

The time finally arrived for the strangest item of the recipe to be added: Cheez Whiz, or as the Urban Dictionary calls it, “one chemical away from Saran Wrap.”  Kraft’s website for its orange sludge wonder is one of the most sorry sites I’ve ever seen.  I tried to click on “Comments” – ’cause who doesn’t want to leave a few choice words about their love for fake cheese – but got a 404, baby!

Cheez with a Z


Add cheez to pot - can you tell the difference between the soup and the cheez? I can't!

Bzzzzzzzz!  Got a text from the ex:

Have a date tonight. Thanks for the offer tho. C U.

I poured another glass of wine.

Now, I use a cell phone camera, and a cheesy (pardon the pun) one at that, not a multilens wonder like The Pioneer Woman.  You can see my alcohol progression in the photos.  The bokeh in the next two photos wasn’t intentional, but more of a “crap I can’t hold the phone still” thing.

I forgot to buy jalapenos at WalMartz.  Rats.  So I added the next best thing, or perhaps the best thing if you hail from ’round these ranchin’ parts: New Mexican green chile!

Hot, hot, hot, baby!


Sprinkle away!


Vino Bokeh


My two teenagers sauntered into the kitchen to find me adding milk to the cabbage/cheez/soup/chile.  I used skim milk to counteract the copious amounts of hydrolized fat in the dish.

Beige on beige on beige on beige

“Um. Mom?  Can we go over José’s house for supper tonight?”  My oldest son eyed the Crockpot with what can only be described as… fear.

The sun hovering through the kitchen window caught the highlights in his dark hair, made him seem even taller than a moment ago, made him shine retro, handsome, like some old 40’s photograph and I tried to grab it, grab the sun, his hair, his height, his lopsided smile like mine, tried to frame it forever in some sturdy neural pathway.

Well, shit.  With no one but myself around to eat a full family-sized Crockpot of escalloped cabbage a la Pioneer Woman, I had to think.  Fast!

I’ll call Miguel!

Every couple of weeks or so I buy two chocolate croissants and two Mexican mochas with extra whipped cream at a local bakery and carry them across the parking lot to the 76 gas station garage.  I give a pastry and coffee to the mechanic, Miguel, and we sit on oil-stained metal folding chairs and talk.  He always eats too quickly and jumps up to finish rotating tires or replacing timing belts or changing oil. I take longer to eat, and sip my mocha and watch him work while he tells me his theories of the universe.

Miguel emigrated from Mexico City twelve years ago.  He snuck over the border by way of the Imperial sand dunes.  Three members of his alien group died of heat and dehydration. The Border Patrol found the rest, gave them water and food and sunscreen, and trucked them back to Tijuana in a green van with tinted windows like they always do, but not Miguel.  He rested under the sands with the sidewinder rattlesnakes, knowing his destiny was United States or death.  It didn’t matter which one.

I’m not sure how he ended up a mechanic.  Maybe he learned his trade in Mexico.  I asked him one day and he told me again of his night in the sands when an angel appeared and told him to burrow and hide and keep his ears covered with sand, pressed into the dunes, so that he could hear when it was safe to leave.

“Wow. No way! What kind of an angel,” I asked him, “Can you describe her?”

And Miguel laughed and told me I didn’t understand.  “Binko, not one of your Catholic angels.  A desert angel.  They don’t have wings.”  He shrugged his shoulders and the buttons down his shirt pulled uncomfortably apart. ” And man, you gotta stop bringing me this stuff.  I gotta go on a diet.”  He picked up a wrench and bent into the hood of a silver Thunderbird, and I heard the echo of metal against metal against his smooth low voice. “I’m too fat to hide in those dunes now.  For the young, that is.  For the young.”  He laughed again.

Miguel isn’t an ordinary mechanic.  At least I don’t think other mechanics drive to the desolate areas in the spring and take time-lapse photographs of ocotillo and sage and write longhand letters to physicist Stephen Hawking and speak to angels and demons on days when the garage sits empty and the desert dust devils roll in and around the piles of broken greasy parts.

I met him when I brought my minivan to his shop for an oil change.  I watched him feel the hood with lovers’ hands, saw his eyes roll skyward under his wild black hair as he listened, heard him match the engine drums with a human hum.  I must have stared too hard because he raised one side of his mouth and gestured toward the ceiling.  He spoke like a priest, slow and clear with soft rounded vowels.

“The spirits tell me what to do.  Your car is okay but you drive too fast and she doesn’t like it.”

The other day we sat and talked about time.  Miguel told me that I felt the hands of the clock because culture and church and convention played tricks on my mind.  The universe is one point, he said, one point of existence where time and space collide.

“It’s like this.  Time is space, and there is no time.  It’s like it all already happened one moment and now we just live little bites of that moment.  Get it?  Just a bite at a time but it’s one big donut.  You gotta small mouth.  You can only eat one bite at a time.”  Miguel wiped a fly off his forehead, leaving a timeless splotch of black oil in a line above his eyebrows.

Time is space, and there is no time.  I started repeating this to myself, hoping the mantra would chip tiny cracks in my rigid thought, leaving a crevice into which enlightenment can seep.  The message is clear: everything happens at once, not only in the garage, but also in my busted knee, my heart, in my mind, in the whole, huge, entire expanding universe.

I just didn’t get it.  I’m in my mid forties.  But this moment today is the same moment I lost my first tooth, it’s the same moment I began menstruating, it’s the moment I lost my virginity, and the moment I married.  It’s the moment I became a mother, the moment I divorced.  It’s the same moment I met Miguel, and the moment I eventually die.  It all happened at once, in the same first breath as the universe was spun and the same last breath as it decays.  Time is as simple and profound and as enigmatic as birth.

I closed my eyes and listened to Miguel grab a rusty nut with pliers, heard him grunt and pull, the sound of oil splattering into a plastic tub underneath the car.

“So Miguel. Is this what you wrote to Stephen Hawking?  All this stuff about time?”  Maybe new theories about the nature of reality would arise from my mechanic’s interaction with one of the greatest scientific minds in all history, I wondered.

“Nah. I told him he was wrong about black holes.  You can see what’s happening with those black holes if you just look at the pictures.  Doesn’t he look at the pictures?  Who’s an expert anyway?”  He tapped a new filter into place, and for a second, as Miguel squeezed hard to tighten the seal, out of the corner of my eye, I felt him breathe, felt Steven Hawking breathe, as if our mouths were connected to one starburst lung spilling mocha oil into the center of the galaxy.

Miguel answered my call.  Yes, he said. I will eat cabbage with you. Yes.

Next step: Add a dash of paprika!  The mixture didn’t look as gross with the violent splash of green and red!

Finally a touch of color!


I fell asleep on the couch. Not sure how long I drifted, but it was at least several hours.  I awoke to Miguel’s hand on the doorbell.

I opened the door in a fog. Miguel leaned toward the adobe wall of my home, sniffing.  He sniffed to the right, then the left.  He even sniffed toward the sky.  A lock of black hair fell over one eye and I wondered what he would be like as a lover.

“What the hell are you doing, boy?”  I laughed.

“Binko, you have a dead animal somewhere out here.  Maybe it’s in your garage.  Rat, maybe.  Smells bigger than a mouse.”  His eyes squinted as he sniffed toward the setting sun.

I walked outside and began to sniff. Didn’t smell different to me, I thought. Just smells like… then it hit me.  The damn cabbage!

“Miguel, that isn’t a dead animal.  It’s our dinner.”

We had to wait a couple more hours, so Miguel and I labored over a game of Scrabble.  I tossed back one shot of tequila, then two. Miguel added three tiles to a fourth on the board. Click, click, click.  They slid like square UFOs over a faded, scratched cornfield, a fractal crop circle of archaic words their message, the word “omen.”  I thought about the astronomer at WalMart, the man who counted potential future real estate plots among the the expanse of the galaxy.


I looked at the tiles resting on the wooden tray in front of me. J, Q, X, L, L, V, P.

“Yes, Binko?”

Miguel watched me concentrate, watched me add a J and a L to spell “jail” along the upper right quadrant of the board.  I lifted my eyes from the game and stared between his bushy eyebrows.  His prominent nose almost twitched, almost gave away the secrets of the Mexican universe along with the contents of his Scrabble hand.

“Do you believe in UFOs?”

I grabbed two tiles from the pile and smiled.  A, O.  Good.  I had a chance.

“Binko.  Why do you always label and sort things?  UFO means unidentified flying object. There are many such things unidentified.  Many military vehicles.  Sometimes a big bird can look like a missile.  But I think you mean alien. From another planet. I accept that we aren’t alone. You always need to know things, you need to know where you stand.  I tell you this, Binko. We stand among all those in the heavens.”

Miguel hesitated.  I thought he meant to add something else, perhaps a lecture on galactic peace or the old anti-missile defense initiative.  He can be a political and wordy guy.  But he slid all his tiles into empty spaces on the board to form the only word that made sense.


“Binko,” he said, as he swept his hand over the board.  “I win.”  He downed another shot of tequila, his fifth, as I shook the tiles from the game board into the old cardboard box.  Three tiles fell to the floor.  I picked them up, held them in my hand. I. F. O.

“Hey Miguel! IFO! Ha ha ha ha!”  I exploded in laughter, pictured weather balloons, swamp gas, all things NASA sanctioned, all things non-alien.  Miguel snorted.

“Binko.  Even alien spacecraft are identified if you know what they are.”

By that time the cabbage was done:

Mmmmmmm Mmmmmmm Mmmmmm...

And wait…. I lidded the pot, set the dial to “High” and let the food ebb and flow while I cleaned the house (sorta) for Miguel’s visit.

I opened the Crockpot lid and ladled the warm, soupy mess into Dollar Tree bowls.  The odor nearly knocked me to my knees.  Miguel made the sign of the cross.

Would YOU eat this?!

This photo isn’t ‘shopped.  The casserole was, literally, the color of acid rain, or dog-sprinkled snow.  We carried our bowls and the bottle of tequila outside, into the warm desert evening, and sat in rusting lawn chairs.  Miguel pointed up to the sky.

“She’s old, Binko. Old.”  Miguel’s hair caught the wind as he scratched the perpetual eczema rimming his right eye.  “It took two-and-a-half million years for her light to reach us tonight.  She might have been sucked into a wandering black hole yesterday, but we wouldn’t know for two-and-a-half million more years.”

Miguel whispered this under the ancient pitch of cloudless night.  I looked at the sky, at that tiny speck of gas and fury, of 300 billion daisy-chained stars that threw an endless curve ball, missed Jupiter, asteroid and comet, Mars, sprayed photon against my cornea in some kind of long-winded hello.  My left leg stretched out straight.  By now my knee was twice its normal size.

I took a spoonful of the cabbage casserole and held it aloft. Miguel followed my lead, grabbed a generous bite.  We tapped spoons together, some kind of toast to friendship, to the unknown, to the gustatory terror that sometimes lies in wait.

The moment that spoon passed my lips I knew I couldn’t chew the mess.  I held my nose and swallowed the thick slice of cabbage whole.  It was saltier than anything I have ever eaten in my life.  It tasted like the smell of a dumpster.  And I’m being kind when I say these things, when I tell you that the cheez sauce clung to the back of my throat like your worst post-vomit hangover memories.

What the hell would it have been like without the tequila?!  I didn’t want to find out!

Miguel watched my expression, his full spoon still hovering near his mouth.

“Binko. I’m not going to even attempt this.  You’re a stronger man than I.”

Miguel’s voice sounded distant, as if Andromeda cut the air between us with her fragile light.  “We’re all half something.  I’m half-divorced right now.  You’re always on the periphery, half here, half in some other world.  None of us quite belong to this world.  These lands seems half inside, half outside.  We kind of walk the path between paths, you know?”

He paused.  I downed one last shot of firewater.  It didn’t quite kill the taste.  The air grew cool around us.  I shook my head and pointed at my bowl.

“But even walking the path between paths doesn’t mean we have to eat shit like this.”

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{ 99 comments… read them below or add one }

Mary Beth July 22, 2011 at 2:34 pm


Please channel Paul Harvey at your earliest convenience. I am eagerly awaiting “the rest of the story” about the grumpasaurus, Mr. Romero, and what finally happened to the cabbage.


binko July 22, 2011 at 5:44 pm

Mary Beth, I am working on it now… but I need to wait until tomorrow to finish it. You will see why then, hee hee.


HeeHaw July 22, 2011 at 4:03 pm

I made several PW “recipes” back when I was full of PW adoration. Maybe 10? Not a single one of them turned out. I don’t mean I failed at them either. I’m no Julia Child but I did spend 3 years in a culinary arts program so I know my way around the kitchen. These dishes either tasted like total shit or there was no way in hell her finished product came from the recipe she posted. It was so bad that Mr. HeeHaw forbid me from ever making a PW recipe again. I hate that you took one for the team here but I’m thrilled she’s being outed as a fraud. Her cooking is disgusting.


badpopeep July 22, 2011 at 4:10 pm

My ex-husband is a chef–has been since the 1980s. According to him, a lot of her recipes are written in such a way that if you do everything as written, the recipe will fail.


Paula S. July 22, 2011 at 4:18 pm

I just returned from scoping out the comments about PW on Food Network. One of the reebots said if we made her recipes and they didn’t turn out right, it was probably because we couldn’t cook. Too bad we can’t round up these idiots and feed them the cheese whiz cabbage, with the ruined doughnuts for dessert. Better yet, we could let them do the preparation, THEN make them eat it. And for the record, my husband will tell ANYBODY I can cook, unsolicited.


MyReeHurts July 22, 2011 at 9:23 pm

I think Binko is capable of following a recipe. She reads, writes AND teaches. I think it is PW’s followers who have a comprehension problem.


Britt July 23, 2011 at 9:07 am

I’ve made only one of her recipes because the majority of them have no appeal to me or my family. And let’s face it, I don’t need a recipe to make TOAST or a sheet cake. Her retarded brother Mike could make either one of those!

I did make her homemade chicken strips.

But without the buttermilk.

Because, let’s face it, unless I’m of the minority, what normal person has buttermilk in their fridge?

My kids love the chicken strips and I’ve made them a few times with a few of my own changes.


Indy Gal July 23, 2011 at 3:16 pm

I know a number of people who always have buttermilk in their fridge. Most bake a lot and use it in baking, but some like to drink it. I wish it was sold in pints or half pints.

If I need it, I generally just put a tablespoon of vinegar in a cup, and fill the cup with milk. There is a powdered buttermilk that’s pretty good and keeps indefinitely.


Paula S. July 23, 2011 at 3:44 pm

I, too, have often wished that buttermilk were sold in pints. It doesn’t even come in quarts here, just half gallons. I have a can of powder , and do the souring milk thing, but even though they work just fine, the taste of real buttermilk tastes even better. In baked goods, I mean. Just a look a the empty glass after my parents drank it regularly put me off drinking it for good!

Kristina July 24, 2011 at 12:41 pm

I wouldn’t use buttermilk on PW’s chix strips, but if you ever investigate serious southern fried chicken, all my cookbooks swear by it. (Cheryl Jamison, Edna Louis and Miss Mary Mac’s Tea Room all agree). But Fried Chicken, (or chicken Fried steak, for that matter, are really special if done authentically, and are worth the trouble to get a fresh, free range chicken and marinate it in buttermilk. They also have too much fat for everyday, and are a fair amount of work.

Not to be underestimated.

(If you like good tandoori chicken, it’s marinated in yougurt or kefir– a similar idea…)


Binko July 23, 2011 at 1:55 pm

The Dinner Party from Hell:

I need to find a great PW appetizer
Entree: Sour Cream Enchiladas (account coming soon)
Side dish: Escalloped Cabbage
Dessert: Desiccated Donuts


Indy Gal July 23, 2011 at 2:29 pm

Oh, the appetizer is easy. The bacon-wrapped crackers.


Britt July 23, 2011 at 2:44 pm

Good one!!

binko July 24, 2011 at 4:42 am

Ha ha ha ha ha! I forgot about that one. The sodium content of that meal alone would cause you to blow up like a balloon.

cathryn July 25, 2011 at 9:27 am

Oh dear! I’m having post traumatic flashbacks at the mention of those bacon crackers! I actually made those inedible little turds for a party and ended up throwing them away. They were so gross.

Britt July 23, 2011 at 2:43 pm

For an appetizer there’s always “Missy’s Marinated Tomatoes”, or “Spicy Lemon Garlic Shrimp” (Be sure to serve this with a can of beans), or “delicious Cheddar Puffs” that her mother used to make for all her cocktail parties

Then I think the dinner party should be called “The Break-up Dinner” or the “Getting Rid of the In-laws Dinner” or something along those lines….


Indy Gal July 24, 2011 at 4:43 am

What’s the problem with the Spicy Lemon Garlic Shrimp?

binko July 24, 2011 at 4:58 am

How about “The Weight Loss Dinner Party Plan”


You wouldn’t be able to eat for a few weeks after such a party, I’m guessing.

Kristina July 24, 2011 at 12:42 pm

They were okay, I guess– but not a good companion to beans. Bush’s BBQ beans. With which they were featured as the perfect pair.

Indy Gal July 24, 2011 at 4:52 pm

I think the shrimp with the beans was a different recipe than the Spicy Lemon Garlic Shrimp. No beans with that one.

binko July 22, 2011 at 5:47 pm

Well, I have tried three : The Krispy Kreme donut warm-up, the Escalloped Cabbage, and now the Sour Cream Enchiladas. I guess all I can really say is that it ain’t what I’m used to eating…


binko July 22, 2011 at 5:47 pm

and my poor belly doesn’t recognize any of it as FOOD!


MyReeHurts July 22, 2011 at 9:21 pm

You have a smart belly.


Kristina July 22, 2011 at 7:52 pm

I’m forbidden to make any PW food either; I think it was either the aptly named “Dump Cake” or the Asian Steak Salad that did it.


MyReeHurts July 22, 2011 at 9:25 pm

It sounds like Mr. Heehaw dodged a bullet. I can’t believe all the women excited to feed the “cowboy” food to their husbands. I don’t want to be managing my husband’s diabetes or heart disease in another 10 years.


Binko July 23, 2011 at 1:56 pm

Hell, I wouldn’t want to see any potential husbands in chaps!


Charlie July 23, 2011 at 8:15 pm

Now, I’d like to see Josh in chaps. I’m surprised she doesn’t show more of *him*.


Melissa July 25, 2011 at 2:40 am

The ridiculous part is, her food is in no way “cowboy” food. I have relatives who have a real working steer ranch. We eat steak, beans, and garlic bread, with green salad, and then some kind of cake for dessert if it’s for a fancy meal there. They don’t eat a bunch of processed crap. Granted we all like our doritos, and boxed mac and cheese like the next person, but her version of “ranch cooking” is ludicrous.


badpopeep July 22, 2011 at 4:07 pm

Binko! Guess what I found out today… If you leave cooked cabbage in a Tupperware bowl too long in the fridge or elsewhere, it will explode. I had some rather delicious German-style red cabbage that I’d forgotten about in the back of my fridge. It reached it’s breaking point today. Evidently, cooked cabbage puts off noxious fumes whether being consumed by humans, bacteria or mold… It’s a stink that Fabreeze can’t even handle.


Paula S. July 22, 2011 at 4:22 pm

Yes, cabbage ferments, even raw. The older women in my family used to put up their own sauerkraut with the cabbage from their gardens. The way you do it is put the ingredients in a tall crock and just put a piece of cheese cloth over it and set a plate on top of that. If you put it in a container with a sealed or screwed on lid, it would eventually explode.


binko July 22, 2011 at 5:48 pm

OMG. Should I warn Mr. Romero?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!


Kristina July 23, 2011 at 8:05 am

It makes something called carbon disulfide gas…(That rotten egg edge is the sulfur….) I check it out on the net is to put out bowls of plain white vinegar in the affected rooms. You can even spray white vinegar, if you are in a hurry.


badpopeep July 23, 2011 at 9:11 am

OMG… the cops did a well person check. No, I’m not dead–it just smells like someone died.


Kristina July 23, 2011 at 9:30 am

It would seem I don’t write in English before my am coffee.


badpopeep July 24, 2011 at 8:24 am

Kristina–your tip with the vinegar worked!

Kristina July 24, 2011 at 12:45 pm

Glad to hear the vinegar worked! The internets is very wise. I also learned that you shouldn’t cover cabbage tightly–it ferments in the absence of oxygen, so cover it with wax paper and a plate. I’m going try it the next time we make cabbage.

Mary Beth July 22, 2011 at 5:33 pm

I watched a rerun of the Golden Girls recently and they were talking about eating cabbage. Sophia made the remark that she had eaten so much cabbage she could be a sky writer. Binko may have just solved the fuel crisis. This recipe could be substituted for jet fuel.


binko July 22, 2011 at 5:48 pm

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Binko Goes Green.


binko July 22, 2011 at 5:48 pm

and by green I mean my complexion due to the smell of the escalloped cabbage!!!!


MyReeHurts July 22, 2011 at 9:20 pm

Sophia always had the best lines! She always makes me laugh.


EJS July 22, 2011 at 6:51 pm

Thank you Binko for sharing your accounts and for taking the time to prove that Ree’s recipes are just crap!! Your dedication to all of us here at PWSux…is just priceless!!


binko July 24, 2011 at 4:59 am

One large cabbage: $1.97
One can of Cream of Chix soup: $2.09
One jar of Cheez Whiz: $4.68
Indigestion for two weeks straight: Priceless


EJS July 24, 2011 at 8:41 am

🙂 lol


Mary Beth July 22, 2011 at 7:16 pm

I have spent more time on this site today than I intended, but it has been highly entertaining. I discovered one more thing I wanted to share today.

I ran across this link today. Ree is going to tell how she did it. At the BlogHer Conference in August in San Diego on a special Pathfinders Day she will be one of the speakers on the topic My Blog as Media Company. I just know she wants to tell everyone about how to hire the teachers to home school her children, the people who write her blog, the sources for her recipes, etc., etc.



badpopeep July 23, 2011 at 1:47 am

Perhaps the truth is going to come out….


PWSux July 23, 2011 at 8:08 am

That is REALLY interesting. Not only that but look at every. single. one. of those women’s headshots – they’re, you know headshots but the one Ree submits is some weird “looking at my hunky MM” or something.


Suz July 23, 2011 at 5:13 pm

That pic is odd. I believe it’s a shot from one of her many book signings. But I could be wrong.


PWSux July 23, 2011 at 10:05 pm

Oh I’m sure it is – there’s nothing wrong with the picture per se, it’s just completely different than every. other. picture that the other ladies submitted. You know, *different* in a short of attention-grabbing-desperate-drunken-slut kind of way.


Cat, Chaps and Emma July 23, 2011 at 11:11 pm

Like the suck the chrome off a trailer hitch kind of way?


Kristina July 24, 2011 at 11:06 am



Lily July 22, 2011 at 7:37 pm

Very excited about this new post. Crazy busy till Sunday night. Can’t wait to read it then. Thanks PWSux and Binko. Love y’all PWSux buddies 🙂


Kristina July 23, 2011 at 12:45 pm

Looking toward the new PW Confessions:
1) She prominently used the term “ad nauseam”; this was a feature on MW’s blog yesterday
2) There are several prominent pictures of cowboy’s derrieres. Only it’s her boys’ derrieres. Is this just me? Or can I say eeeeeeyeeeewwww!
3) The whole post seems to be an answer/apologia to the last three PWS blogs… (Sorry Binko– no cabbage barf today…


Binko July 23, 2011 at 2:00 pm

I guess I could dress my sons up in chaps and take photos…..



SAL July 24, 2011 at 11:39 am

No, no, Kristina, remember she teaches her kids Latin, so she’s fully conversant with phrases like ad nauseam. And who says MW didn’t steal it from PW? Does MW teach her kids Latin? Who spoke Latin first, PW or MW? I bet you’re speachlessy speachlersson now…
—— This is actually rather scary, joking aside.
Agree with point 2. Bum blogs – ewwww.


Kristina July 24, 2011 at 12:49 pm

too funny. I think she thinks she knows latin because she figured out how to run a “lorem ipsum” generator. This is latin, right? Latiny latin with latin sauce!



Binko July 23, 2011 at 1:59 pm

OK I have to figure out if I am going to tell you what happened to the cabbage and Mr. Romero here in comments or make an entire new post. Decisions, decisions…


Kristina July 23, 2011 at 3:15 pm

New post!!


a real farm girl July 23, 2011 at 5:49 pm

Okay, I have to say, lovin’ binko and everything, but PWS, missing YOU. Where’s my weekend guilty pleasure?


Susan July 23, 2011 at 8:50 pm

Word. I’m certainly enjoying Blinko like crazy but there’s nothing quite as satisfying as PWS snark. Must. Have.


PWSux July 23, 2011 at 10:03 pm

I’m around, just hauling kids and finishing up a busy workweek so that I *should* be able to have a few days off this week. 🙂


binko July 24, 2011 at 5:20 am

I’m missing PWS, too! I’m sure whatever she comes up with next will be awesome.


mollys July 23, 2011 at 9:11 pm

Off the subject but in the tulsa world yesterday and today 2 things, one about the mega money windfarm about to be put in west of paaahuska, will be on the Kane ranch, now isnt pw friend married to a Kane? her like best friend forever, lovin life with matching luggage… now the story is clear she was set up with mm not a chance meeting as she says, money runs with money. and a reporter stated that she looks at rees site for inspiration *gag* and gardening advice *small hurl*


The Marlboro Woman July 24, 2011 at 5:05 pm

Is that the George Kane clan?


help_me_ree*son July 25, 2011 at 8:19 am

This is the family of Hyacinth – her husband is John Kane. His brother is Paul Kane. John Kane is the judge for Osage County. It seems as though Hyacinth also homeschools but not sure if she lives in the the country or if in Pawhuska but they have a cattle ranch in the country. Scroll down on this page and you can get a picture of the family situation: http://www.pawhuska.com/home/news.php?default.0.135

More on the wind farm: http://www.tulsaworld.com/news/article.aspx?subjectid=11&articleid=20110322_12_A9_PAWHUS968884

How about all the traffic on the Food Network site – fur has been flying!!!!!! Up to 450 comments and counting.


mollys July 23, 2011 at 9:14 pm

oh yea, lovin readin all PWS, MW, PieNear, Binko good thing i am unemployed right now gives me something to do..


MisaLawliet July 23, 2011 at 9:42 pm

I tried the apple cake. As I made it, I thought to myself, “Is it really ok for humans to consume this much butter?” Yeah, that amount of butter WILL NOT brown on low heat. Ever. The cake itself would have been ok if it hadn’t been drowned in butter. Couldn’t eat it.

I tried the white chili. Bland. Bland. Bland.

I haven’t gotten around to the cheese whiz cabbage….don’t know why….


Paula S. July 23, 2011 at 10:20 pm

Thanks for that information. I visited the TW site and found the wind farm story, but could not find the one about PW. Can you post a link, please?


Shay in NZ July 23, 2011 at 10:07 pm

I would just like to point out that PWSux and Binko are now averaging more comments per post than PFlub (exception being giveaways, but its early days yet) .

I’m just waiting for PWSux invite to speak at a Blogher Conf – how awesome would that be?. For that, I’d hop on a sixteen hour flight over!!

Shay : )


Cat, Chaps and Emma July 23, 2011 at 10:51 pm

And PWS and Binko’s are real comments. I firmly believe that gREEd pads all of her non give away comments. This is just my opinion but I think the folks she hires to delete comments also add comments to her postings.


mollys July 24, 2011 at 9:22 am
Paula S. July 24, 2011 at 12:06 pm

Thank you. I must have misunderstood; I thought one of the articles offered printed proof that PW was introduced to MM.


Kathryn July 24, 2011 at 8:55 pm

Well, you AREN’T supposed to cook it in a crock pot.


badpopeep July 24, 2011 at 11:41 pm

…and how does cooking it in an oven vs. cooking it in an oven going to change the taste???


Melissa July 25, 2011 at 2:47 am

I sincerely doubt that cooking cabbage with a crapton of cheez whiz and chicken soup would somehow magically taste better in the oven. But PLEASE make it and let us know how it turns out.
It’s true that for a real test run of the recipe, it should be followed how it’s presented. Crock pots aren’t really the same as ovens.
I feel bad for the people who ruin a perfectly good cabbage making that “recipe” though. I have to really wonder if her grandma actually made that, because I would feel bad bagging on it if that were the case.


TheRealKaren July 25, 2011 at 12:13 pm

I cook with my slow cooker a lot. Honestly, there are very few recipes I haven’t been able to translate from oven/stovetop to slow cooker. Maybe you need to reduce the liquid or increase it (depending), but most good slow cooker cookbooks have a section on how to make an oven recipe into a slow cooker.

I’ve made fried rice in my slow cooker, for instance. You wouldn’t think it would turn out nicely, but it does and is so much easier than trying to cook it on the stove–where I usually make a huge mess and have bits of rice flying everywhere. I have a gorgeous chicken and rice casserole that I make in the oven, and I’ve made it successfully in my slow cooker, even though the original recipe specified “bake in oven.”

The only thing I can’t make to my own liking in the slow cooker is a roasted chicken or turkey–and that’s because I really like the crispy skin you get in the oven, which you don’t in the slow cooker. But! If I’m just looking for nicely cooked meat, I can get that just fine in the slow cooker.

I find it hard to believe that simply using a slow cooker would make Cheez Whiz and cream of-mystery soup and boiled cabbage taste like anything but what it was destined to taste like–hell in a dish.


Trisha July 25, 2011 at 8:04 am

Waaaaiiit a minute. “Slice cabbage into six to eight pie shaped slices. Remove hard inner core. Parboil slices until nearly done but still slightly firm.”

Do you know what you have when you slice cabbage and remove the inner core? You no longer have slices. You now have shreds. And you know how long it takes cabbage to go from raw to way-less-than-slightly firm? A lot less time than it takes to “parboil” it.

I’ve never bothered to cook a PW recipe (Cheez Whiz?) but a lightbulb just went on over my head.


angela July 25, 2011 at 9:01 am

i want to smack this FN commenter in the face for this ignorant comparison:

“Yes, PW SUX is obsessed with destroying Ree and the Drummond Family. PWSUX isn’t about enlightening society —-she’s fixated on Ree and only seeks to cyber-bully, stalk and disparage Ree’s children, husband, and inlaws. PW SUX and fellow blog-brutes work like a plague. The purpose of those blogs is to HAUNT Ree day after day after day after day after day after day. It’s a form of waterboarding —— the sensation of drowning. Sensational, isn’t it?”

i’m so offended, not because i think she’s misguided (*yawn* i’m so over their bizarro defensive attitudes) but because she is so completely fucking clueless about torture and makes light of it. disgusting.


badpopeep July 25, 2011 at 10:58 am

Someone forgot to take their Estrogen.


TheRealKaren July 25, 2011 at 12:14 pm

OMG, they compared this website to WATERBOARDING? That’s either the funniest or most ignorant thing I’ve read today. Maybe both.


angela July 25, 2011 at 12:31 pm

right?? i couldn’t believe it!


Mary Beth July 25, 2011 at 4:34 pm

After your post, I had to go take a peek. It is fierce and feisty over at FN comments. I was glad to see Paula (making assumption that it is Paula who posts here) was more than holding her own.


Paula S. July 25, 2011 at 5:51 pm



Catherine July 25, 2011 at 4:35 pm

Really sounds like one of her friends or relatives…..


Mary Beth July 25, 2011 at 9:48 am

Wind farms are another subsidy for the rich. The electricity generated cannot be joined to the existing power grid. The maintenance on them is constant and expensive. The average initial payout is around $60,000. And the conservationists should be listened to. The map shows how close to the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve the wind farm would be located. It would be an incredible danger to the birds as most wind farms are.


Kristina July 25, 2011 at 1:23 pm

OMG. the Entertainment site has landed. As someone who teaches Cinema Studies in a Pretty Darn Good Easter University… I’m trying to prepare to read the damn thing.

Send good thoughts.


Kristina July 25, 2011 at 1:24 pm

Eastern University.
We are open other days than Easter. Really.

But you can sense my discomposure.


Susan July 25, 2011 at 3:05 pm

Kristina, If I had been drinking wine when I read that I would snorted it thru my nose. Too funny!


help_me_ree*son July 25, 2011 at 3:02 pm

I want to throw up – this is just another way to troll for more clicks and $$$$$. Is there no end to the gREEd?

Her adoring fans are saying things like:
“How fun! Although, now I know you must be certifiable – how in the world do you get everything done?” How does she get everything done?

If you read the first post for the Entertainment section – almost sounds as though it was written by someone else. That’s not really how she writes – IMO. She’s entitled to do what she wants but it hurts sometimes to think that so many people are duped. They truly think that she is a real friend because they have virtual conversations – mostly one sided – with her – that’s part of the whole reason why they get so up in arms about sites like this. She kind of makes fun of that when she has her post about how she felt like she was “friends” with a Portugese cookbook author. She knows exactly what she’s doing and it’s whipping up the masses and aiming at the lowest common demoninator – all the way to the bank.

FN site – over 500 comments now.


d July 25, 2011 at 3:20 pm

Anyone have any thoughts on why she brought back the “Plowing through life in the country…one calf nut at a time” line?


Susan July 25, 2011 at 8:55 pm

GAH! I *had* the FN link and now I can’t *find* the FN link, and now I hear there are 500 unfiltered, uncensored comments over there and I can’t read them. Can somebody puhleeeese help a sister out and give me the FN link again?


Euphoria July 25, 2011 at 9:22 pm
Kara July 26, 2011 at 10:39 am

“You can buy them blanched if you live in a cool, urban area and wear scarves with tank tops. ” she says this in her post on white gazpacho when talking about blanched almonds… Coincidence or a flounce? Discuss


Kait July 26, 2011 at 5:32 pm

I am sorry, I don’t speak idiot. The woman is a fool.


poppy July 26, 2011 at 2:34 pm

Well, Carlos Castaneda, I am enlightened. Thank you for the most glorious OdeToCabbage I have ever read! Will creative boobage for the next installment consist of tortillas or sour cream lids?


Rebecca July 26, 2011 at 3:22 pm

I made the mistake of making her “My Favorite Meatloaf” recipe. http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2010/09/my-favorite-meatloaf/
OMG! My husband who will eat practically ANYTHING would not eat this! It was AWFUL. I followed the directions to a T! My daughter wouldn’t eat it either plus I didn’t like it either although I ate some ‘just because I made it’. So I thought my dog is going to be soooo happy getting meatloaf with his dry food this week! My DOG (who licks his you-know-what!) would NOT eat this meatloaf!!! It was the worst thing I’ve ever tried to eat!!! Ha.


EJS August 4, 2011 at 4:53 pm

You’re cracking me up!!


Lily July 28, 2011 at 4:07 pm

Thanks, Binko! LOVE your writing, stories, and the humaness you capture.


make roux August 3, 2011 at 10:48 pm

Holy crap! I am dying over here. I actually love cabbage (raw, sauteed, kraut), but DAMN… that does not look right. Apparently, it didn’t smell right.

Hope your knee is better. Thank you for your sacrifice!


Jill August 4, 2011 at 1:50 pm

Sorry to say this, but (loud buzzer sound effect): pw parody FAIL.

1) too well written
2) too funny and insightful
3) not nearly enough photographs of the same exact thing
4) too true. A real person shines through, with actual history and personality.

I want to see some really bad stupid writing and moronic observations next time. Don’t think about yourself – think about how you think you can make others like you and envy you. Maybe try a Pottery Barn catalog for a little inspiration? Or the International Male catalogue?


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