Almost one year ago, I posted this. Oh, fine, lazy asses, I'll give you the Cliff Notes. I wrote "...I want to be culinarily fertile. I want to leaven a lasagna, birth a moist banana nut bread, souse a Succotash."
I still feel that way, even though the memories of this and this still haunt me. So last night, I put on my big girl pants and ventured into the Land of Meatloaf.
But instead of Julia Childing a meatloaf, I ended up with something that resembled...oh, shoot, are you trying to eat breakfast? I should probably be offering you a puke pan instead of descriptive analogies.
What happened? Was the meatloaf scared of the edge? Why did it recoil so?
Seriously, if that damn chunky blob of wretch is not the most compelling argument for becoming a vegetarian, I don't know what is. You fellas at the National Cattlemen's Beef Association better watch out. I'm single-handedly (and, albeit, unintentionally) bringing you bad boys down.
I'm hoping the Apron Goddess can whip me up a flowery one of these. I'd like mine in extra small: all this nauseating food means Mama Mullet's shrinkin as fast as her meatpile.
The silver lining to this debacle is that Chuck has agreed to take a cooking class with me! Isn't that sweet? Now I just need to find one through the Mulletville Continuing Education Department. Shudder. One whose menu doesn't include possum dumplings or fried muskrat. Mmmyah, maybe now you'll take this post a little more seriously.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.