First off, I didn't. Put the blintzes in the George Forman grill. But I wanted to. I almost did.
I didn't really eat all day, except a cup of coffee in the morning and the crumbs at the bottom of the potato chip bag in the afternoon. So I wanted some nice comfort food. And what's more comforting than what your Grandma gave you when you were little? Especially when you remembered to pick some up at the supermarket yesterday.
(Yes, yes, Grandma Sadie made her blintzes from scratch. It was a fascinating process. But Grandma Ida couldn't cook, although she liked to think she could, so her blintzes came right from the freezer, just like mine.)
And I love the George, since it means I can actually sometimes cook a piece of fish or meat. It's so easy to clean, too. Why not use it for everything? And then the whole scenario played out in my head, like one of those expedia.com commercials, where the hotel sounds good at first and then the guy at the computer realizes what a disaster it could be. I heat up the George. I pop in the frozen blintzes. I turn my back for 30 seconds, and then as the blintzes defrost, the weight of the George lid presses down on their soft goodness and blows the cheese filling out and all over the kitchen. Perhaps not the George after all. I made them the old-fashioned way: defrost in the microwave, then saute in a skillet with margarine.
And I ate them the old-fashioned way too, dammit, despite the fact that I weighed myself this morning on the real scale at my sister's house, so now I know what I really weigh. I ate the blintzes smothered in sour cream. With sugar on top. Just the way Ida put them down in front of me 45 years ago.
Yum.
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