AMORE.

i love red tomato sauce.
i guess it's some predominant DNA-type jauns?
i mean, probably, right?
nature wins, after all,
and i AM made out of bloppity woppity italian scallions.
so when it's time to deal with a meal worthy of all the
old school grandma-style pastafarian power?
i get it poppin', extra hard.
sandwich week accepts no weakness.
so you can be guaranteed i'm not reppin' that jar sauce, jerks.
crushed tomatoes and white wine vinegar and nootch and g.p.o.p.,
and all the specially blended herbs,
and a few family secrets from the future and the past,
and after a slow simmer?
boom!
that's amore!
and i'd like-a some a-more!
believe it.
if i was dressin' up to start messin' up,
i'd wear marinara mascara and linguini lipstick.
i LOVE that stuff.
therefore,
when i grab up on a fresh-baked loaf of roasted garlic bread,
i'll cut it in half, and double it.
real talk.
and once it's opened up,
i'll make all my moves matter with masterstroke machinations of
heat and treats and everything i want to eat.
mmmmmmmmm.
...and that's exactly what happened last night. neighbors.
check the a-spicy-meat-a-ball-type teleport:

oh hell yeah!!!!!
i got SO expert with those truly hyper-activated wheatball meatballs, y'all.
i make them a little moister than you might expect.
why?
because when i bake them, covered in foil, they get a little steamy,
and that keeps them from drying out in the hot convectional battle-box...
then, because they aren't carcass blops of ground flesh,
and therefore don't drip fat from their flayed and flensed tissue
(which is SO F*-ING GROSS, btw),
i drizzled that too-live olive oil all over 'em,
and left them in there a little bit longer to fry up,
uncovered, in the superhot pan they're already in, down at the bottom of the oven.
baked-steamed-and-fried, that's the way to doo-doo those perfect balls of awesome.
-
but,
let's get back to the bread for a second........
what do you duders know about double cheesin' it?
huh?
oh, yeah,
it's definitely a thing, for sure.
homemade custom rinotta-be-kidding-me underchee' on the bottom slice,
and a hollowed out cave, loaded with daiya(rrhea) on the top,
steady toastin'  and meltin' at 450 fahrenheit?
yuuuuuuuup.
and, as if that wasn't somehow sexy enough for you,
that marinara drenched wheatball business had nootch sprankles,
and a finishing move of caramelized vidalia onion strips for the win.
mmmmmhmmmmmm.
you like it.
i love it.
i ate it.
that's expert.
hmm?
well, yes,
those are crispy-edged steak fries.
obvi.
but,
what's really really special about 'em isn't their perfect golden skins.
nope.
it's the smoked cayenne-paprika vegenaise dippin' sauce on the side!
c'mon.
it was preposterously fresh-to-death.
more flavor than a manly man can handle.
luckily, i'm a worthy woodsly goodsly warrior poet,
and i've got more than enough low-end battle-beastliness
to power down a whole order of those excellent wedges in no time flat.
yup.
that's real.
*
sandwich week continues.
i'm pretty pleased with my menu so far.
however,
i'm one sandwich short of a meal, so to speak.
i mean,
i'm not at all sure of what i will be making myself tonight.
what's that?
well, yes.
of course it'll be on a bun, b!tches.
don't get sassy.
it's just that i don't know the plan yet.
i haven't made it, and i'm drawing a blank on another big deal super-elite one.
the whole evening is up in the air-
and that means: what-what say-what-say-what??
yes.
anything can happen.
...and it isn't even snowing!
i'm too cold to imagine anything other than blanket forts,
and you can't eat those.
i suppose we'll all find out what happens later;
never quiet, never soft.....