gravy.

did you guys hear those wet smacking noises last night?

no,

it wasn't what you think;

those were open-mouthed mannerless supper sounds.

chomp, chomp, chomp, an' that...

chicken-fried tempeh has been perfected.

believe it.

and seriously, kids,

whomever it was what decided to combine hot and potato together

is a mutha-lickin' genius.

i'm sayin',

they're like little cubes of roasted amazing.

and i eat 'em so hard.

oh,

and what do you duders know about broccolini?

hahaha.

it's barely even a broccoli plant, it's actually closer to mustard!

psych!!

it is delicioso, however,

and served an important purpose as a dynamic dark green delight;

necessary color, ya'll, in with all that beige.

of course,

all those different flavors and textures are really

just an excuse to use epic quantities of gravy.

i never get tired of gravy.

it's like the solution salve they used to pry out william howard taft.

it's like jabba the hutt's loads.

(oh man, that is just not okay)

it's like distended-python-jaw sauce.

it's like salty shark glutton throat lube.

why chew when a gravified globbet will glide down your gobbet?

chomp, chomp, chomp, gone.

three plates of that action,

and it was early lie-down time.

lethargic metabolism and early-darkness hibernation tendencies.

brought to you by 'tatoes and gravy.

yum4tum.

***********

can i see my breath inside the house?

i sure can.

and not because of my internal combustion engines either.

that's right, it isn't because i spit such hot fire.

it's crazy stupid arctic tundra cold up here;

...and windy, too.

that's always worse.

it's so cold the mudroom has ice on the inside.

it's so cold and drafty that the fuego mas caliente in the stove

seems much more like a 60 watt easy bake bulb.

it's so cold and drafty and windy that it sounds just like

a herd of carnivorous caribou are stampeding through the upstairs.

it's pretty rad.

i mean it.

berserker barbarians get down with that nordic lappland fury.

am i going to kickstart the furnace?

c'mon.

what am i?

not the A-hole you must think i am.

furnace?

i've got a bed of hot coals nestled in the shadows of my chest, ninjas.

that's a bevvy of balrogs breakdancing on my ribcage, even.

cold hands mean warm hearts, yeah?

then my frozen pink tarantula icicles imply a raging orpheum oven in there.

if i made snow angels right now,

they'd look like bare-lawn demons.

too much hottness, y'feel me?

never quiet, never soft.....