Oh, Lord!īut you know what? For almost every Southern casserole worth its salt, you have to venture into the dangerous territory known as the “center aisles” of the supermarket. And then I head over to the soup section to pick up a can of cream of mushroom soup. “Cheez” that is, for the ages, in liquified form and whose “sell by” date is sometime in the next millennium. ![]() “Cheez” in a jar, a product so alien to cheese that the manufacturer changed the spelling. They know I am using Cheez Whiz, I think. I am embarrassed to ask a clerk for its location. I don’t know where the Cheez Whiz is and B. And I realize I have reached some kind of tragic milestone in my life because I am embarrassed that A. And I am going high-brow with grilled lamb chops and low-brow with Bunny’s famous broccoli rice casserole. So I am at my beloved Publix the other day, shopping for King Daddy’s Father’s Day meal.
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