Writing this blog has been more fun than I could have imagined, so far at least. I really need to thank Laura for getting me started on it, as well as for being a good sport about me making fun of her cooking.
(Oh, BTW, guess what I caught her doing NOW? Using lemon juice from a bottle. You know, the concentrated, stale, shelf-stable stuff that never goes bad? Can you guess what I think about that? I would never deny myself the pleasure of reaming a lemon up the behind and smelling its fresh scent as I pour it into or onto whatever it is I am cooking. I LOVE lemons. Remember what Martha Stewart said she missed while in prison? Lemons. Not her family. Lemons. Five days a month, I'm sure I would give the same answer, unless I wasn't properly medicated with large amounts of wine and chocolate.)
All that aside, here is my dilemma: my friends are becoming afraid of me. Prissie and Laura are the only ones about whom I can write with impunity. Within the last two weeks, I ran into the same friend three times at the grocery store. I know this friend doesn't like to cook; she has a great career, and she doesn't have time. I don't care if she doesn't cook, I love her. I love having friends that worship my kitchen abilities. It gives me a way to feel slightly superior. (kidding) So I do my best not to look in her cart. But, inevitably, I can't help but seeing what is in her cart. And I don't say ANYTHING. Nothing. No comment. But she goes pale, and says, "My husband really likes this. You can't use his real name." As if I would skewer him for LIKING some disgusting, pre-packaged dinner. Not so. There is no accounting for taste. Okay, I might skewer someone for liking that stuff, but only if I knew them intimately and knew they could take my (sometimes) good-natured ribbing.
And then there is another good friend. I have been friends with her for years. She is a decent cook. She makes some really good things. I have eaten them. She even invented a meal herself that her husband absolutely loves. He asks for it regularly. And the only reason I would make fun of it is because she calls it "fajitas" although it bears no resemblance to fajitas. Whatsoever. But hey, her family likes it, so what the heck? Anyway, I asked her if I could write a description of it and she said, "No!" Next time, I won't ask first.
You guys gotta loosen up. It is all in good fun. At least until you start making fun of my cooking. But then, there's nothing really to make fun of, is there?