Er, welcome breakfast fans?

I guess my first post is a fancy place for folks to talk about breakfast so that’s a thing.

Fun fact: This is a meal that I rarely if ever consume.  And this phenomenon is the strangest thing ever to happen to me on the internet.



breakfast breakfast.

So the Nerds Atomic  (butts how do I add a link well look them up yourself I am not your mom (oh hey there is the clickity button!)) have done more to sic the internet on me.  Cue up some stone cold web-based stage fright.  Also Falicia, though she’s not done anything but begin stalking me herself.  No idea of what her linkity thing is, but hey, I’ll figure it out eventually.

Hopefully no one came here with a lech for hot button topics or intellectual pursuits.  If I’m already nervous talking about things like how I am nervous talking about things, you can use your playmagination to discern how well I deal with revealing the fact that, yes Virginia, I do have a brain.  It’s just mostly tied up with how much I want to pet Kodos and Kang and Tank forever (including their ears, tails) and that woopers are pretty great.

Since I’m a total trend follower, I’ve been playing Skyrim.  Don’t worry, that’s the last that I’ll talk about it save for my desire to have a whole moat full of gemstones and dead bodies.


On Cooking

Alright, so, like most of the artsy denizens of this fantastic creature called Internet, I cook. I’m good at it, though lack the means to really stretch my wings.
Somewhere along the way, making food became this ADOOOORABLE thing for girls to do. Teehee, lookit her, making twee little cuppiecakes awww (cupcakes on sticks are totally unsatisfying, by the by. The wrapper is half the fun!). Sadly I blow goats at baking. Not enough hands on treatment.
Cooking is nourishment. Cooking is something you learn by watching people do it. It’s something I learned hanging out in the kitchen growing up, or watching my great aunt bitch her stove out as she threw together the world’s greatest red eye gravy. Cooking is beastial and bloody and full of cusses, a labor of love for people where you risk immolation and the blade so you can make that ham Just So. According to my friend James, I get straight up Old Black Woman in the face of people when trying to instruct them on how to make the gravy.
I still can’t make it. Mom still has only just started making it sort of like my great aunt. Not quite, but it’s getting there. Mine turned out like fucking tomato soup and I scraped the HELL out of the ham drippings. I scraped and then melted butter in the pan and used that in the gravy. There were almost tweezers involved before I decided I’d done enough, or rather Eric made me sit down and it STILL didn’t work. James and Eric both told me to stop apologizing for what was a perfectly good dinner, but I still feel cheated somehow.
On this, T-a few days to Thanksgiving, actually watching TV made me furious. “OH THANKSGIVING IS SO EASY YOU CAN JUST DO STUFF AHEAD OF TIME AND FREEZE IT”. Fuck you, no you can’t. Thanksgiving is the most brutal of all things. The first time I fully made my own turkey and all the fixins for an apartment full of nerds, I cried. A lot. I raged on the phone to mom, who laughed her ass off at me. Arri, too. I ran the whole damn gamut of emotions there. But I got it perfect.
Is it unamerican that I never, ever want to do that again?