Chris loves popovers. So much so that he will get up hours early just to make them. I introduced popovers to him five years ago and he has perfected them to the point where I no longer dare attempt to make them myself. Which is fine because this morning I got up to the wonderful smell of popovers. Sundays (and husbands) are great like that.
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So, I wasn't going to share this story, but I decided to anyway. :)
Our first trip to NYC, we had breakfast one morning at the famous Popover Cafe (on Amsterdam and 86th). People were raving about their popovers. I break mine open to butter it with their almost equally famous strawberry butter. What do I find inside? A crispy dried up little fly, IN the popover! He was baked to death and was falling apart inside as we moved it around. It was gross. They offered me another one, but I couldn't get the image of fly out of my head.
That is my only experience with popovers. I kind of want to make them so I can see what the fuss is about, because I will not be going back to the Popover Cafe.
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