eleven.

we took broccoli bread to eleven.

SO much mutha-uckin' broccoli,
it blew it's own guts inside out.
like a floret-headed alien outburst,
for your face.
i should've known humidity makes for some
seriously compromised dough, neighbors.
wet and sticky an' that.
luckily,
it still tasted top-flippin'-notch.
traditions become obligations
which in turn become responsibilities.
we ate responsibly....relax.
but we also ate a lot.
rock blocks for dessert?
c'mon.
it's the dang eleventh, duders.
you know this.
and,
the kids have earned themselves another 'nother day
in the woodsly mutha-lickin' goodness.
yuuuuup.
it's still all really happening.
for extra hours and hours;
never quiet, never soft.....