I hate The Food Network.
Hate the grocery store, with all it's conveniently placed baked goods on pretty tables at the store's entrance.
I hate my son for making toast, creating toast smells and scraping butter on his toast louder than he should.
My husband wants to quit our juice fast today. I pressured him into not quitting earlier. He's pressuring me by tuning into Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. The chef just fried potatoes, piled slow roasted pork loin on top of that, then peppers, and then because there isn't enough solid food on that plate, threw on an egg covered in parmesan cheese.
I hate that chef.
I hate YOU Guy Fieri. Except I love you...but I hate you. But I must love you because I want to lick bacon grease off your fingers.
Moments ago I was apologizing to Justin for chastising him because he hit a wall in the afternoon. Seems I hit mine three hours later than he did. As I type it's passing, and I'm not especially hungry, but digestion feels...unsatisfactory. You know what I mean. When you sit down to comfort food, and not even have to overeat, but swallowing down a meal that makes your tummy say "ahhhh" and then you want to nuzzle all things soft and furry.
My nuzzle deprived tummy is beginning to suffer from neurosis. There is no "ahh"...there is only Woody Allen styled whining and then a reference to premature ejaculation.
I juiced kale. Kale. What the hell?
...and now I have to pee. I wasn't warned about the diuretic effects of leafy greens.
Which for some reason made me think of Alton Brown.
Sorry Alton. Let me look at your fingers.
Monday, July 25, 2011
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