Taking a leaf from Trillador's book

[ersatzhaderach]

On Sunday night I cooked, and it was kind of an...experiment. Hopeless Romantic is a near flawless boyfriend in many capacities, with one major exception being his cooking. Namely, that he's a really, really good cook. Of really, really bad food. I'm pretty sure he could metabolize a deep-fried car tire as long as he took a nice nap after it, and

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[plasticity]

the hilarious part about the furrier-Paula-Deen reminded me of this blog: Georgia On My Thighs, which contains delightful passages like this part about grits: Until I prepared Paula Deen's sausage grits, I had thought of blandness as a timid trait, one easily overcome with seasoning or spice. But grits taught me that blandness could be aggressive: It could stalk, it could engulf.