Tag Archives: eats

Of Yum

1 Jun

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Friend over making amazing eats.

He has a degree in it. 

This always blows my mind. 

That people can “degree” in something so delicious.

Infused shallot butters, and brown-sugar ribs, pepper-bacon and cheddar cheese topped baked potatoes, and this amazing wonderment which turns out to be brown sugar in sour cream with strawberries and honey crisp apples.

…Yes, we will be eating around midnight.

…But we are midnight people. 

Plus I hiked around a lot today.

…And this is a very special occasion, called: “Someone wants to come over and cook delicious things in my kitchen and leave awesome left-overs for free.”

I try my best to always be accommodating on such occasions.

I’m “giving” that way.

~D

You Can’t Do That On Television

26 Apr

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Tonight: The BFF’s fella and “Aunt Lily” from Children’s Hour were in the audience.

…The Fella was heard immediately, with his totally specific gufaw-laugh.

Post-show hang had us locked out of two pubs before we finally found a place still open that would eat and drink us.

(P.S. It’s Friday.  What fucking pub closes at 11pm on a FRIDAY?!!?!)

…So without other casties, we made due with cheese sticks, n sliders, n potato skins, n’ generously poured Long Islands.

Yummers.

…Naughty.

…So, even better.

Theatre, moving, house-pimping, Dr. Who, kids, food, and theatre again…were on the docket.

…Also this HIGHLY appropriate/inappropriate French condom commercial, that “Aunt Lil” pulled out, in show-and-tell. 

(Bless European non-sensor standards.)

We were HOWLING and talking back at the screen, non-freakin-stop.

…And you will too.

But first, I’d like to dedicate it to a missing family member tonight:

Dear Karen/(Marty),

Aunt Lily thought I should see this for educational purposes. 

If anything, it only salted the wound of irony. 

Here

…I thought you should have it.

Just because Joe’s gone forever, doesn’t mean you’ll die all alone: A spinster/virgin/nun.

…(But you prob’ly will anyway.)

…So hey, at least you have one less thing to worry about. 

…And until now, you had no idea that a dancing, possibly-diseased-penis, was something you needed to actually “worry about.”

So: you’re welcome.

Love (to my death),

Martha.

~D

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